I will. I’ll see you later, Papa.”
She took Andrew’s arm and squeezed it comfortingly. “I’ve so looked forward to tonight, Andrew,” she added, smiling up at him. “It’s going to be great fun!”
“Certainly it is,” he agreed. She made him feel lordly. Her eyes were as soft as Noelle’s, looking up at him from a face that would have graced an art gallery.
Terrance Beale watched them go, his eyes narrowed. He couldn’t keep the girl in a glass bottle, but he hated seeing her throw herself away on that tame city boy. She deserved better.
He stuck his hands in his pockets and wandered out to the barn. He had a sick foal and he was worried about it.
Brian Clark, a middle-aged black man with a twisted hand, smiled at him as he approached. Clark had appeared out of the dark one November morning carrying a saddle over one dusty shoulder. He’d asked for a job, and Beale, sizing him up in one long glance, had given it without question. He’d never asked where Clark came from, or why he was on foot. In spite of his handicap, Clark was good with horses and he could gentle the meanest of them. Beale had put him to work taming the remuda to a saddle, and he’d never regretted his snap decision. Clark was kind to Jennifer, too, going out of his way to make sure that her horses were the best kept in the stable.
“How is he?” Beale asked.
The other man ran a lean hand over his short curly hair. There were threads of gray in it, but that scarred face wasn’t as old as the eyes in it were. He glanced at Beale without the subservient attitude that some of his race wore like a garment. Clark was surprisingly well educated, and he had the bearing of a man who’d wielded authority. He was an odd man altogether, but Beale had always respected him.
“The foal is worse,” Clark replied. “He needs more than my poor efforts for a cure. I think you should call the veterinarian.”
Beale nodded. “I’ll have Ben Tatum come out first thing tomorrow. Will that be soon enough?”
Clark nodded. “I’ll sit up with him tonight.”
Beale bent and touched the soft coat of the foal, noting its labored breathing. “You know a lot about horses, Clark.”
“Yes, sir, I do,” Clark replied, with a faint smile.
Beale straightened, eyeing the other man. “Wouldn’t care to tell me how, would you?” he asked, with a gleam in his eyes.
Clark chuckled. “You know I wouldn’t, Mr. Beale.”
“Guess I do, after six years,” came the dry reply. “Keep an eye on him. If he gets worse, come get me.”
“I’ll do that, Mr. Beale.”
Beale nodded. He smiled to himself as he left the barn. He was the only man he’d ever heard Clark address as “sir” or “mister.” Despite the insults he sometimes got from temporary cowboys who hired on for roundup, Clark had an innate dignity that kept him out of brawls. He kept his temper when Beale lost his own. Once Beale had knocked a mean cowboy down for cursing the black man, who’d taken a quirt away from him. Clark had chided Beale for his lack of control, and then laughed at the other man’s outraged expression. They got along well, despite the disparity in their backgrounds. It occurred to Beale that if his foreman ever quit, he’d probably give the job to Clark. The man had the makings of a first-rate boss. Nobody questioned his orders about the remuda. Not even the white cowboys. Well…most of them, anyway. There were a few who didn’t like Clark, especially one bullying middle-aged wrangler named Garmon. He was from Mississippi and he hated blacks. He made remarks that Beale would have decked him for, but Clark simply ignored them. Maybe that was the best way to handle it. Beale tended to be too hot-tempered. He’d led a wild life on the border in his youth, before a pretty young Eastern girl had captured his heart and made him human. He smiled, remembering Allison, Jennifer’s mother.
He whistled softly through his teeth as he walked back toward the elegant house, thinking how far he’d come from the adobe shanty where he’d been born fifty-five years past. His life had been a hard one, but he’d overcome obstacles that other men had fallen behind. He was proud of his accomplishments. Most of all, he was proud of Jennifer. What a tragedy that her mother had been killed years ago, and had missed seeing what an elegant beauty their daughter had become. His eyes shifted to a lone grave on a small rise, protected by a wrought-iron fence. He put flowers on the grave twice a week. Sometimes he just went over there and sat, talking to Allison as if she were still alive. It helped get him through rough times. He’d go tomorrow, he thought, and tell her about this Andrew person. He was sure that she’d be as irritated at Jennifer’s poor choice of suitors as he was himself.
Andrew didn’t relax until he and Jennifer were safely ensconced in the carriage and on their way to the restaurant, where they would have supper before they went on to the dance.
“How lucky I am to have such a pretty companion for the evening,” he said, smiling. “Thank you for coming with me.”
“It’s my pleasure,” she said shyly. She laughed. “Papa is so possessive of me, did you notice? Don’t pay him any mind, Andrew. He’s just old-fashioned—and he worries about me, especially since Mama died.”
“Any man with such a beautiful daughter would worry,” Andrew said gently. He searched her eyes hungrily. “Jennifer, I’ve never met anyone like you.”
“Nor I, anyone like you,” she replied. “When we met at the dry goods store, it was as if I’d known you all my life.”
“If you hadn’t spent the past few years in Europe, you would have.” He chuckled. “My family has been here for two generations. The first Paige came over from England. He was the second son of a duke, but he inherited nothing. He made his own fortune here. How incredible that we’re only just meeting.”
She didn’t tell him that her father would never have sanctioned such an association. He didn’t like Andrew, and he hadn’t liked Andrew’s wealthy father, either. He didn’t like men who were born with all the advantages and did nothing with them. Andrew had been content to lay about and go into and out of three colleges before he finally took a job—having been forced into it by his stepbrother, gossip said—and went to work. Her father considered Andrew a shiftless layabout, leeching on his stepbrother. Jennifer saw him as a man of vision with great potential. It would only take a caring woman to incite him to great acts, she thought romantically, filled with thoughts of idealistic delight. She smiled at him, lost in dreams.
Andrew smiled back. She made him feel that he could accomplish anything. He still couldn’t believe his good fortune in having her accept his invitation to dinner and the dance. God willing, it wouldn’t be the last time he escorted her of an evening.
If Andrew was having a good time, Noelle wasn’t. She was very quiet at supper, avoiding Jared’s curious eyes. She excused herself directly after they ate and went to her room, where she remained for the rest of the night.
The next morning, her withdrawn expression and unusual detachment during breakfast drew more attention from an unexpected quarter. Jared stopped her as she was helping Mrs. Pate clear the table after his grandmother had retired to the drawing room to read.
“You’re as unhappy this morning as you were at supper last evening. Why?” he asked bluntly, although he already knew the answer.
