Saratoga Springs, 1875
“And who is that man? With Hanson,” Lydia asked, her voice rising as the dancers whirled by. “I daresay he looks like a pirate or something. A handsome pirate, though.” Her perfectly arched eyebrows rose in question.
Grateful for something to look at other than the couples on the dance floor and welcoming a chance to move in the stuffy room, Caroline stood up and on tiptoes searched in the direction her stepmother was looking.
It was easy to spot the fair-haired, elegant figure of Hanson Collier making his way through the multitude hugging the sidelines. He always dressed better than the mere lawyer he was. Caroline wouldn’t be surprised to learn Suzanne paid his tailor’s bills. Her friend certainly had the means.
The dark wavy hair and broad shoulders of the towering man following caught her attention. The intriguing stranger was walking through the crowd with an easy gait and a confident air, as if he owned the place. Men were staring and women gawking as they parted to make way, like the Red Sea parting for Moses.
He must be that Texan Suzanne had been chattering about. The prospect of meeting a real live Westerner had been the only bright spot on the dark landscape of the evening. She expected to be disappointed, of course. Her experience with men so far would have predicted it. Besides, who could live up to Kit Carson or Wild Bill Hickcock or Bill Cody, anyway? These were the men whose stories she devoured in every dime novel written about them, fascinated by their daring and frightened by the dangers they faced. No ordinary man could match them. Certainly no man in her acquaintance, shackled as they were to desks all day, slave to the almighty dollar and with pitiful little integrity as she’d come to find out.
“I’m not sure,” Caroline said, unwilling to share her speculation lest Lydia cause the cowboy to suffer the same fate as the clerk.
She watched the pair draw closer as the music swelled and the loud thumping of shoes tapping across polished wood filled the cavernous room. Though the stranger was dressed in the customary attire of a gentleman, the hard planes of his face, the deep set eyes, that square jaw and tanned skin didn’t give him a gentle look. In fact, this tall, lean male specimen looked swarthy in contrast to the pale Hanson. Her stepmother was right. He looked like a pirate. Perhaps a frontier scout? Maybe even an outlaw?
A delicious frisson of anticipation shimmied up her spine. |
