Revenge and the Wild(46)

“I think using this party for your scheme is a terrible idea, but I would do the same if I were you. Just try not to get caught. If Nigel finds out, it will break his heart,” Bena said.

Westie nodded. Though there were a lot of parts to her plan, she was sure they could pull it off.

Bena took Westie’s hand in hers and gave it a maternal squeeze. “If it looks at all like there could be trouble, walk away.”

Westie swallowed hard and nodded.

“We had better get downstairs before Nigel gets suspicious,” Bena said.

Nigel waited for her at the entrance of the ballroom, where a black curtain had been draped to hide Westie from the guests.

Westie asked, “Where’s Alley?”

“He’s parking carriages out front,” Nigel said.

She found it harder to breathe with each passing moment and wished Alistair were there.

Bena said good-bye, leaving Nigel and Westie alone.

Nigel gave her the dance card in his hand. It wasn’t a card at all, but a paper fan with red satin backing lined with copper. A few names had already been scrolled on the flat part of the folds in gold ink calligraphy.

She took a closer look at the names. There were spots for Nigel, the mayor, and Costin. She noticed only one spot for Alistair—she would have to make that dance count.

Nigel gave her the pen to fill out the rest of the names. Next to Nigel’s elegant script, her penmanship looked like someone trying to write with their toes. She wrote James’s name in most of the spaces. Even if he was unaware of the Fairfields’ dastardly hobbies, he might be able to add the missing pieces she needed without him even knowing he was exposing their secrets.

There were places on her dance card for Cain and Hubbard as well, but only one for each. She would have left them off completely, but that would’ve looked suspicious.

“Remember,” Nigel said when she was finished writing. “Not a single drop to drink.”

The mention of alcohol made Westie’s stomach twitch with the acidic pang of vomit. Before she’d tried it herself, she’d doubted the healing ability of the vampire blood, for there had been times when she’d craved the drink so fiercely, she’d rather have died than be without it. The revulsion she felt as she remembered the sting of whiskey down her throat had turned her into a believer.

“Not a drop,” she promised.

“Good. Now, I’ve asked James to escort you, since Alistair is busy with the carriages.”

She nodded.

Nigel went beyond the curtain to announce her arrival. She barely heard his voice as he spoke the common words of one’s coming-out. He told the crowd she was a proper lady now, fit for society and suitors. When Nigel called her name, she took a deep breath and walked into the room, a shaky smile on her lips.





Twenty-Three


It seemed everyone in town had shown up for the ball. Even the sheriff was in attendance. Westie had never seen the sheriff’s family before. He had a pretty young wife and seven daughters. He was younger than Nigel, maybe in his early thirties, but the comfortable way he wore his authority made him seem older. She’d seen him take down men twice his size with his bare hands and had always thought of him as a cowboy, but the tender way he danced with his wife and daughters was enough to melt the stoniest of hearts.

As Westie looked around, her eyes lit up at the sight of several Wintu in the crowd: Grah and Chaoha, and three women whose names she couldn’t remember. Nigel had invited the tribe but hadn’t expected them to show, since no one but her family wanted them there. They probably came in defiance of the mayor, but a part of Westie hoped they were there for her. Either way, she was happy to see them.

James waited for Westie, his arm crooked for the taking. He looked dashing, with tall, fitted boots over his trousers, a black tailcoat, a high-collared white shirt, and his dark hair oiled as it always was. Other than Nigel, she’d never seen someone wear a suit so easily.

“You’re even more beautiful than I remember,” James said when she took his arm. He led her onto the floor just as the band began to play a new song.

She blushed. Not because of the flattery, but because he hesitated before taking hold of her machine. It was only a brief pause, but it was there. When he did take her machine without being crushed, he finally loosened up and settled into the dance.

The music was more modern than anything she’d encountered at other coming-out parties. The singer was a young woman with long knotted hair and filigree tattooed on her face. She plucked and thumped at the strings of her stand-up bass, the gears and cogs spinning and steam coming from small stacks on the side as she played. A frantic banjo solo turned ladies’ skirts into chiffon turbines as their dance partners spun them across the floor.

“You dance wonderfully. Who taught you?” James asked. There was a hint of a black eye still remaining from his fight with Cain in the general store.

“My pa.”

“Nigel?”

They were both looking at Nigel. He was dancing with the widow Myrtle Grey, arms barely able to wrap around her ample waist. At first glance he looked elegant with grace and an exquisite carriage, but south of his waist Nigel was a mess, stampeding all over her feet.

“My real father.”

Her father had loved to dance. Mostly dances made for country folk, but he knew the proper ones too. He could waltz with the best of them.