Breathless(8)

“I appreciate your concern and I love you, too, but I can shoot just as well as you, and besides, everyone knows I only deliver letters and packages. Uncle Rhine won’t let me carry gold or payrolls and neither will the mine owners.”

“And that’s a good thing.”

“I know. I may be unconventional but I’m not irrational. Carrying gold dust can be extremely dangerous.”

A few months ago, there’d been a gang preying on mail carriers. They were finally apprehended and jailed but not before they’d shot a man to death for the mine payroll he’d had on his wagon. Portia brushed out her hair and pinned it low on her neck. After removing her lightweight wrapper, she stepped into her gown and pulled it up over her flowered corset and shift. Once Regan helped fasten the line of small buttons on the back, Portia slipped silver hoops in her ear lobes and assessed herself in the mirror. “I’ll do, I suppose.”

“You’ll more than do, sister mine. We Carmichael women are beauties, and when I find my mail-order husband, I’ll ask if he has a brother.”

Laughing, Portia playfully pushed her towards the door. “Let’s go you silly goose.”

They were still laughing when they stepped into the hallway, but then fell silent when Kent Randolph stepped out of his door at the same time.

“Ladies,” he said.

Regan, never shy, walked up and said, “Hello. I’m Regan Carmichael. Are you Kent?”

“I am. Pleased to see you again, Regan. It’s been a long time.”

“It has indeed.”

Portia’s eyes gave a tiny roll and when they were horizontal again, they were caught by his.

“Duchess.”

“Kent.”

He was wearing a blue, long sleeved, double-breasted shirt that showed his muscular lines with a pair of dark trousers. Both had seen better days but were clean and pressed. His string tie was anchored by a lovely green agate. There was a thin silver bracelet around his wrist and his black leather boots were shined. He’d shaved but enough of a shadow remained to give him the look of a handsome and probably dangerous outlaw.

The silence grew as they assessed each other. Regan raised an eyebrow but Portia ignored it.

Still focused on Portia, he said, “I was hoping somebody would come along and show me the way to dinner.”

“And here we are, right on time,” Regan quipped.

“Much appreciated.” He extended his arm. “Shall we?”

A smiling Regan obliged.

Portia knew instinctively that touching him, no matter how innocently, would not be a good idea. Even though he stood a slight distance away his heady presence was already playing havoc with her self-control. For some reason all she wanted to do was stare at him. Maybe I need to see Doc Finney, too. “We should go. We don’t want to keep the others waiting.”

As if aware he’d rattled her, a slight smile played at the corners of his lips. She ignored that, too, and led the way.

When they entered the ballroom it was filled with the sounds of the musicians and a large number of guests conversing and milling about holding drinks and small china plates piled with food from the large sumptuous buffet. Tonight’s invitation had been extended to just about everyone the Fontaines knew. Portia spotted her aunt and uncle across the room speaking with three people she didn’t know. Most of the other faces were familiar, however: neighbors like Old Man Blanchard and his ranch hands Farley and Buck, some of the local businessmen and their wives. She and Regan nodded greetings to those they knew and made their way with Kent over to Eddy and Rhine.

Upon reaching them and before Portia could apologize for their tardy arrival, Kent said, “Sorry we’re late. The ladies were waiting on me.”

When he flashed Portia a quick conspiratorial wink, she hid her grin. And he’s charming.

Their uncle waved off the apology. “You’re fine.” The strangers were introduced as Albert and Hattie Salt, and their adult son, Edward.

Hattie, a tall skinny woman with thinning, dyed-red hair said, “My, aren’t you girls lovely.”

“Thank you,” they murmured, passing a look between them and waiting to make a graceful exit. Aunt Eddy, dressed in a lovely cream-colored gown, was viewing the Salts with a plastered-on smile. Portia got the impression the Salts had done or said something she’d found displeasing.

Over the musicians and noisy crowd, Rhine added, “Kent Randolph used to work for me when we lived in Virginia City.”

Albert, whose large girth seemed ready to burst the buttons on the black vest beneath his suit coat, asked, “And what do you do now, Randolph?”

“This and that. Ranch work mostly.”

Portia saw the son, Edward, sneer. Ranches couldn’t survive without workers and there was nothing wrong with a man making his livelihood that way. Although she’d just been introduced to Edward Salt, she didn’t care for him. The cold look in her aunt’s eyes seemed to mirror her assessment.

“And what do you do, Edward?” Regan asked pointedly. Apparently she’d seen the sneer, too.

“I’m a teacher,” he replied, his attention moving between the sisters. “Howard educated. I’m thinking of starting a school here.”

If invoking Howard was meant to impress her, it didn’t. Neither did his heavily pomaded hair and soft-looking hands, which appeared to have never done a hard day’s work. She wondered if he rode or preferred travel by carriage. She’d put her money on the latter. “It was nice meeting you,” she lied, and then she and Regan and Kent drifted away. Regan waved at a friend across the ballroom and said to Portia, “I’m going over to speak to Damaris. I’ll see you two later.”