Running Wild Read online

  After fetching their supper, the group pulled two tables together to accommodate all of them. They were starting to eat when the doors opened wide and everybody else filed in.

  “Haven’t seen the Hathaways all night,” Thompson said, watching the crowd. “Other than the elders, that is.”

  Lee shrugged. “Michael’s due for a visit, but business in Frisco delayed him. Vi ’n Cy are staying out of trouble, or anything else interesting, in England this summer. Vi’s visiting Drew and his new wife, while Cy tours Oxford.”

  Nick flashed a befuddled grin at Star. “Viansi?”

  She let loose the deep, gurgling laugh that always touched his funny bone. “Yes, Viola and Cyrus. Twins. We always called them Vi ’n Cy. Sometimes sigh, as in a breath, depending upon how irritating Vi was being at the time.”

  “On the surface,” Huntington said, “that’s the most interesting thing about them. Uncle Ro is constantly lording his children’s pristine conduct over Father and Uncle Ward. If they knew the truth—”

  “Which we shall keep within the family circle,” Jane interrupted primly. “I should tell you, Mr. McGraw, that Mr. Price grew up out West like you, even though his mother is from Boston.”

  Huntington scowled at her, and then turned to wave down a waiter walking by with a tray of filled crystal goblets. Out of the corner of his eye, Nick saw Lee, on his right, smirk. “That so?” Nick asked. Price sure didn’t look like he was from the West. “Whereabouts?”

  “Chicago, which is not the West, to be sure,” Price said. “As Mrs. Huntington pointed out, my grandmother lives in Boston, and I spent many summers with her in Nahant.”

  “And naturally attended Harvard,” Jane added.

  “Highly overrated,” Huntington interjected, as he helped the waiter pass around the goblets. The yellow liquid fizzled. Champagne, Nick guessed. “Now the University of Pennsylvania, that’s a college. Jane, my dear, I’ve scarcely seen you all evening. Have you been enjoying yourself?”

  “Why, of course,” she said, taking a glass from him. “The Hathaways are known for their balls, are they not?”

  “Very kind of you sir,” Huntington said to the waiter, whose tray was now empty. He tucked something into his palm and the waiter left. Huntington sat next to Jess. “Why yes, Jane, perhaps here the Hathaways are known for their balls, in this little New England backwater, but for the best parties and balls one, must, of course, travel to Philadelphia.”

  “Philadelphia?” Thompson said with a derisive laugh. “No sir. True Society resides in New York.”

  “Madness is what resides in New York,” Star said. “Tea parties for dolls and dinners attended on horseback. I daresay you New Yorkers have lost your heads.”

  “Tea parties for dolls?” Nick asked.

  “All in perfect jest, McGraw, I assure you!” Thompson said.

  “Yes, for dolls!” Star said, and proceeded to tell him the story of one New York heiress who gave a party for her doll. For the next half hour, as they ate and drank, the group laughed and teased and jostled each other, merrily including Nick in the camaraderie. He couldn’t keep up with the gossip, true, but after years of reading, he understood most of the other references. By and by, an unfamiliar warmth settled in his chest. Ranching life well-nigh guaranteed camaraderie, but this was easier in some aspects. For once in his life, Nick didn’t have to conceal his intelligence. For once in his life, people actually liked him because he of what he knew, not in spite of it.

  “And so, Nick,” Lee said at length, “now that you’ve gotten to know Boston, tell us what you’ve enjoyed most.”

  “Easy. The Beaneaters game.”

  Lee burst into laughter. Star chuckled, as Huntington shook his head in disgust. “The Beaneaters? Baseball? Surely you’re joking.”

  “Oh don’t be absurd, Del,” Jane said crossly. “Of course he’s joking.”

  “No, ma’am, I’m not. I loved it, except for the name. Beaneaters is a stupid name.”

  “Oh, but the parties. . . ” Jane objected.

  Jess grinned, her eyes sparkling with lightly mocking laughter. “Yes, and the dinners!”

  “And the lectures,” Lee piped in laughing.

  “Or the clubs,” Price said.

  “Lee must have gotten you a temporary subscription to one of them,” Huntington added. “Surely they’re better than baseball!”

  “Nice enough places, I reckon, but except for the tie, the play’s not a whole lot different than it is out West.”

  “Card playing,” Huntington sputtered. “Why, there are more to clubs than cards!”

  “They are wretched places,” Star growled, “from which women are excluded. Where men discuss issues that affect women’s—”

  “You’ve got a point, Nick,” Lee interjected hastily. “How about trying your hand at something you don’t get as much out West? Horse racing, perhaps?”

  “Don’t interrupt me, Lee,” Star said severely. “I have a point to make!”

  “Capital idea!” Huntington replied. “Saratoga Springs. Now there’s a place you must visit while you’re here. There’s the track and Morrissey’s Club House. A casino, McGraw.”

  “Oh and the waters as well! They are ever so invigorating. Yes, let us take him there, by all means,” Jane piped in.

  “Casinos don’t—” Star started.

  “Races don’t start until July,” Thompson interrupted hastily, “but I’ve got some connections with the track. Might be able to get something going a little early, just for show.”

  Saratoga Springs, a vacation spot for the elite, complete with restorative waters, only this spa had a racetrack. Excitement galloped over Nick’s muscles. “Saratoga? Sure, I’ve heard of it. I’d like to see it.”

  “Excellent,” Lee said. “For it appears that my intrepid sister has gotten herself a speaking engagement there, which my father has asked me to attend to protect her lest she be pelted to death with rotten fruit. Or Bibles. What do you say, Del? Will you join us? We’ll show Nick around and get a head start on summer before retiring to Newport. What’s the date again, Star?”

  “Newport?” Jess exclaimed, her eyes widening in dread.

  “Yes, sweetheart,” Lee answered. “I told you that, didn’t I?”

  “Bibles?” Nick asked.

  “June twelfth,” Star quickly. “Oh come, Del! You, more than anybody else, need to hear of our beliefs.”

  Thompson rolled his eyes and let out a disgusted sigh.

  “No, you did not, Lee!” Jess grumbled. “I would have remembered that.”

  “The Montgomerys always spend part of the summer in Newport,” Jane said smugly. “And as is custom, Uncle Ward has invited the Huntingtons to summer with them as well.”

  “I must return to Philadelphia tomorrow,” Huntington answered, “and I have no need, sugar,” he said pointedly to Star, “to hear more than you have already told me on every possible occasion. I suppose, however, that I might escape long enough to save McGraw from your harping.”

  “Why would someone throw Bibles?” Nick persisted.

  “Our detractors are forever quoting it to silence us. And it is far too late for that, Del,” Star said. “Have you forgotten that Nicholas is our guest? He can scarcely learn more at my speech than I have already taught him.”

  Nick frowned at Lee, silently requesting further information. Lee shrugged, but Nick had the uneasy suspicion that Romeo had something to do with the Bible throwing reference. Well, Nick thought, swallowing frustration, at least Ward was taking the man seriously.

  “That’s for sure, ma’am,” Nick said to Star. “Still, I wouldn’t miss it for all the world, though. June twelfth it is.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Should the whole frame of Nature round him break,

  In ruin and confusion hurled,

  He, unconcerned would hear the mighty crack,

  And stand secure amidst a falling world

  Joseph Addison, Horace

  Saratoga
Springs

  After tipping the bellman for delivering her trunk, Star sank down on the edge of the bed of her hotel room and sighed dreamily. It was a pretty room, fashionably decorated in tan, yellow and green, with a thick carpet and a four-poster bed. An occasional summer breeze lifted delicate lace curtains, promising a comfortable night’s sleep and, due to the room’s location at the back of the hotel, the noise of Broadway was just a distant murmur. Beautiful room, marvelous, marvelous day.

  Who, Star wondered happily, would ever have thought that seven hours on a train could be so remarkable? Always before the ride between Boston and Saratoga had felt interminable, but this time, with Nicholas accompanying her, the hours fairly flew by. Seven hours of drinking in his leather and gun smoke aroma, seven hours with his thigh pressed against hers. Lovely, lovely hours of listening to his husky voice, talking and arguing and laughing. Nothing could lessen her euphoria, not even Lee backing out at the last minute, leaving Del as her “protector.” Not the silent animosity brewing between Jane and Del, the latter of which was sporting a cut and bruised cheek after a brawl the previous night. Not the fact that Del left them for a couple of hours and came back smelling of liquor. She’d had Nicholas with her, and she would gladly have stayed on the train for ten hours, twenty.

  She was in love, oh head over heels in love. Not, she knew, a smart love, nor a rational love for what good could possibly come of such a connection? For all their flirtation and conversation, for all her attempts at enticement, he’d shown little physical interest in her since he’d kissed her on the streets of Boston. A man could not love a woman for whom he felt no lasting passion.

  Ah, she thought with a sad little sigh as she pulled out the pins of her hat and tossed it on the bed, but she loved him all the same. She could at least revel in his company. Next, dinner with Del, Jane and Nicholas. She’d wear her turquoise brocade gown, she decided, rising. It set her eyes off beautifully and had a low enough bodice to attract any man’s attention. Just the thought of Nicholas’s eyes on her breasts set her senses reeling. Falling to her knees in front of her trunk, she lifted the lid.

  Pieces of torn up paper. She frowned. Who had thrown trash in her trunk?

  It wasn’t trash. It was her speech. And her notes. Ripped into black and white pieces.

  A chill rushed over her skin.

  Underneath the paper were her clothes. Or what had been her clothes. She’d packed a midnight blue skirt and shirtwaist for the rally. Cool and conservative, it possessed a starched white collar and cuffs. Only now it was blue and white confetti. Someone had cut it up. Into small pieces, roughly the size of a quarter.

  With one shaking hand, she dug into her trunk for her other clothes: three more gowns. They’d been treated in the same manner, along with her petticoats, hats, stockings and drawers. Even her shoes had been destroyed, although in larger pieces. Not however, she noted distractedly, mixed up, but each item cut up separately and laid on top of the next. Her mind created the picture—a nameless, faceless man sitting on a stool, coldly and deliberately cutting up each item, the pieces floating gently into the trunk. . .

  With a sharp cry, she jumped up and took several steps backward, staring wide-eyed at the trunk. Oh God, oh God . . . she pushed her knuckles against her mouth to smother another cry. Of fear. Of rage. Of panic.

  Breathing heavily she stumbled backward until her thighs met the mattress of her bed. She sat upon it, her gaze frozen on the trunk.

  Who? How? Easily. She hadn’t locked it. She’d no reason to lock a trunk of clothing and papers, for neither were of great value. She kept her jewelry on her person. It was simple to open the trunk and just as simple to take a pair of sheers and cut her clothing, her notes, her privacy, to shreds.

  It would have taken time. A great deal of time. Wouldn’t it? And patience, and . . . oh God, premeditation. Finding her. Following her. Bringing the scissors. A cold, calculated destruction of her personal effects.

  She couldn’t breathe, her brain frozen on that image of the man on the stool . . . . The world grew fuzzy. With a tiny screech, she covered her eyes with her hands. Stop looking—she had to stop looking.

  Compose yourself, Star.

  She shoved her palms hard against her eyes to eradicate the picture. Heart hammering, she forced her thoughts away from the trunk. To beaches. To ocean water lapping the shore. And mountains. Clear mountain air, snow in the distance. Nicholas. Yes Nicholas. Calm, sensible Nicholas.

  The panic subsided. By and by, she dropped her hands, rose, and with a bang, dropped the lid of the trunk over the demolition of her person. Because, she thought as she sank into the bed again, that’s how it felt, like a personal assault.

  Who?

  Romeo.

  No.

  He’d threatened. He’d sent those Bible passages. Father had been disturbed enough to assign Lee’s, then Del’s, protection.

  No. Romeo would have left a letter.

  Perhaps he meant to send it to the hotel, she thought with another terrified chill. Or present himself at her door.

  No. No, it wasn’t Romeo. He merely threatened and lectured. It was far more likely that enemies of the movement had done it. Possibly they’d learned of her journey here and of her fellow reformers’ decision to speak to the wealthiest citizens, whom they hoped would donate money, voices and influence to the cause. Especially after their husbands went off to the casino, which barred entrance to women, and risked squandering fortunes, leaving wives with the consequences. Possibly many men had worked together against all the speakers, expecting that with no gowns, there’d be no speeches.

  Her shaking eased into a gentler tremble.

  Not an attack against her person, then, but against the cause. As if that would stop her!

  A shudder ran down her spine . . . perhaps it ought to . . . .

  Minnie . . . tears welling in her blackened eye . . . her raw, ulcerated private parts. . .

  The recollection set Star’s back. No, she would not succumb to bullying. She would fight to the bitter end as she had pledged to do every day for the past six years. She would rise above this.

  What to do first, then? Why first she must wash off the day’s travel. A woman could not fight while sweaty and smudged in soot. She rose and went to a corner washstand. After pouring water into the basin, she splashed cool water on her equally cold face, still bloodless from fear.

  It might still be Romeo.

  Her hands shook as she wiped her face with a towel.

  No. That was ridiculous. He loved her.

  A knock rang out.

  Romeo . . . come to finish what he’d started! Her panicked eyes fell upon the pitcher—a thick, heavy weapon. She grabbed it and started for the door.

  ***

  Nick leaned against the wall of the busy, marble-floored lobby. Huge mirrors threw his image back at him as the noise of traffic and music from the bandstand in the park down the road wafted in through open windows. Where was Star? Frowning, he pulled out a gleaming gold pocket watch, care of Melinda, from his vest. He flipped it open. Twenty past six. She was twenty minutes late. She was generally punctual. Had Huntington confused the time and place? Nick wondered shoving the watch back into his pocket. He’d looked pale and befuddled when Nick had knocked on his door. Maybe he’d told Star half past six and not six o’clock.

  A gaggle of women came down the curved stairway that led to the guest rooms. Nick watched, hoping that Star had gotten stuck following them. They turned left toward the desk. . .

  No luck. His shoulders sank.

  He missed her.

  How could he miss a woman he’d seen just forty minutes earlier?

  Because, he thought, his heart warming with recollection, those seven hours on the train had been some of the best hours of his whole damned life. Which either said a lot about Miz Montgomery, or a lot about his life. His life couldn’t be that empty, could it? The alternative was little better—being a puppet on Star’s string, like Thompson and Hunting
ton and half a dozen others. For several agonizing minutes, he calculated the futility of a Colorado rancher’s courtship of a wealthy high-society debutante, when men like Thompson had failed.

  At length, Nick shook it from his head and pulled out his watch. Half past six. Maybe Del had gotten it wrong, or maybe Nick had, but he wasn’t going to spend another second loitering in this lobby like a jilted lover. A man had his pride.

  ***

  Star stopped about two feet from the door, raising her pitcher as her hands shook. “Who is it?”

  Silence. Then a deep, husky voice. “It’s Nick McGraw.”

  Her shoulders relaxed. Nicholas. Oh, of course it was Nicholas!

  She opened the door. “Come in.”

  He frowned down at her, and then glanced up and down the hall. He stepped inside, shutting the door with a tiny click. “You O.K.?”

  “Yes, of course. Why do you ask?” She turned and crossed the room to replace the pitcher in the washstand. She missed. It fell to the floor and broke into as many pieces as her clothing. Only, she thought leaning over to pick them up, not quite so neatly.

  Footsteps behind her. “You’re not O.K.,” Nicholas said as one big, strong hand, encased in white gloves so tight they looked like the seams would tear, reached down. “No, don’t do that,” he said grasping her elbow. “We’ll get somebody else to clean it up. Look, you’ve cut yourself.”

  A small line of blood trickled from a cut along the crease of her finger and into her palm. “It’s nothing,” she said, staring at it in fascination.