Brook Calhoun poured himself another brandy before settling into his favorite chair in the library, his thoughts as dark and cold as the fireless hearth.
Five days. Five days had passed since the night of the disastrous dinner party. Five days since Diana’s husband’s return had destroyed his carefully laid plans. Curse Tyson Applegate! Brook had done everything right. He’d befriended Diana soon after she moved from Nampa to Boise with her mother. He’d been kind and consoling. He’d been the soul of discretion these many months. He’d never let her see how desperate he was to get his hands on the great wealth she would inherit once her missing husband was declared dead.
He lifted the brandy snifter and threw the liquid to the back of his throat, enjoying the burn on the way down.
Diana was supposed to have been his. Her money was supposed to have been his. He’d had plans for it. Diana and her wealth would have been his ticket into the upper echelons of Boise society—and beyond Boise too. He wasn’t meant to remain one of the middle class. He was born for greater things.
And now?
He’d had no choice but to call off their unofficial engagement. To do otherwise would have been to endanger his reputation. And since he’d been living beyond his means while courting the lovely Mrs. Applegate, he couldn’t afford to offend his more affluent and influential friends.
Anger surged inside him, and he swore as he slammed the snifter onto the side table, so hard he snapped its stem. He cursed again. He cursed God. He cursed Diana. And above all, he cursed Tyson Applegate.
Heads turned as Diana and Tyson followed the maître d’ to their table. Tyson couldn’t blame the men for craning their necks for a better look at his wife. She seemed to grow more beautiful by the hour. One would not believe she’d moved to a new home this very day, with scarcely enough time to unpack her trunks, and had prepared for this evening without benefit of a maid.
The gown she wore was the color of the sea off a tropical island he’d spent a number of months on early in his adventures. Although he suspected it wasn’t the latest fashion—due to his father’s miserly control over her income—she made it look new. Not to mention that the design accented her curves in the way it was supposed to. The square décolleté revealed the pale skin across her breastbone and the long stretch of her neck. Her hair was done up on her head with fiery ringlets curling at her nape. The music from a string ensemble—playing somewhere out of his view—kept time to the sway of her hips. Mesmerizing. Too bad they weren’t attending a ball somewhere. Dancing would have allowed him to take her into his arms, hold her close, breathe in that earthy cologne she favored.
The maître d’ held out a chair for her, and with a practiced sweep of one arm, she held the train of her skirt out of the way as she settled onto the seat. Tyson sat across from her.
“I’ve never dined in this restaurant before.” Diana looked around the room with its high ceilings and sumptuous decor.
Tyson wondered why Brook Calhoun hadn’t brought her here. From what he’d been able to learn about the man in a short period of time, Calhoun was all about moving in the right circles. Chez Les Bois was just the sort of place in which that man would want to be seen with a beautiful woman. But he already knew the answer to his own question: Brook Calhoun, it had been reported to Tyson, was short on income and had probably failed to pay his bill at Chez Les Bois one time too many.
Hadn’t Diana ever suspected her erstwhile fiancé wanted to marry a wealthy widow? Or had she been so in love with Calhoun she hadn’t cared about his motives?
Loathing rose in Tyson’s throat. He disliked the idea that Diana might love Brook Calhoun. Loathed it more than he cared to admit.
“Is something wrong, Tyson?”
He met her gaze. “No. Why?”
“You were frowning at me.”
“Must be the dim lighting.”
She gave him a little smile that said she didn’t believe him.
Thankfully, the waiter arrived at that moment. Dinner was ordered and an appropriate wine selected, and soon they were alone at the table once again.
“About tomorrow,” Diana said.
“Yes?”
“Do you have a budget for me to keep within when I’m buying furnishings for your house?”
“Our house.”
There was that arched eyebrow again, the look she gave him cool and aloof.
“And the answer is no, Diana. Spend what needs to be spent to furnish and decorate it appropriately.”
If he’d expected her to show pleasure at the idea of shopping without limits, he was sorely mistaken. She was all business. “Would you like a desk in the library?”
“Yes. And lots of books on the shelves too.”
“Do you want beds and dressers and wardrobes in the unused chambers upstairs?”
“Yes.”
“Paintings and sculptures?”
He felt himself growing impatient. “Whatever you wish.”
A smile tweaked the corners of her mouth, and he could see it pleased her that she’d gotten under his skin.
“I might be the ruin of you, Tyson. I’ve never managed a large household or had an unlimited amount of money to spend. I’ve never bought sofas and chairs or draperies or paintings for a home like yours.”
“Ours.”
She ignored his assertion a second time. “You may be making a very poor bargain, asking me to do all of this.”
“A worse bargain than Mr. Calhoun would have made?” He was sorry the instant the words left his mouth, yet he said more. “Wouldn’t he have wanted you to decorate and manage his home as well?”
How was it that green eyes could make him think of ice? The look she gave him now made him want to shiver.
“As I said, Diana, it is our house—”
“For the next six months. Only for the next six months.”
He released a breath, determined not to let her rile him. “As you wish. But for those six months, please remember it is your home as well as mine. You should furnish it accordingly. Decorate it to please yourself. If you know nothing about such matters, I know even less. I’ve spent a great deal of time in recent years living in a tent, often without any civilized company to be found.”
“My goodness. It’s surprising you knew enough to put on shoes or wear a tie tonight.”
Tyson leaned back in his chair. He didn’t remember her having a gift for sarcasm. Was it an acquired trait or had he ignored it years ago? To his shame, he couldn’t say for sure.
Looking at her husband, Diana felt a small catch in her chest as memories filled her mind. Memories of the Idaho lake party where she and Tyson first met. Memories of their whirlwind courtship in Montana. Memories of their wedding day. It seemed she could taste them on her tongue. Sweet … and then sour. Bitter. So bitter. She must remember the bitter. It was the only thing that would protect her from getting hurt again.
She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t you think it’s time you tell me where you were and what you were doing?”
“If you wish. I got the feeling you didn’t want to know. You never asked.”
He could be right. She might not want to know. But she still needed to know. “At least tell me why you allowed me to think you were dead. And explain how you managed to keep it a secret that you were alive. Especially from your father.”
“I’m not sure I can explain any of it well.”
“Try.”
“All right.” He nodded. “I’ll try.”
The appetizer—oysters, béchamel style—arrived. Diana half expected Tyson to use the interruption to change the course of their conversation. But he didn’t. After the server left the table, Tyson took a sip from his wine glass and then began.
“You already know I was in Cuba with the Rough Riders. There was an explosion on the battlefield. The last thing I remember was running up a hill, yelling and firing my rifle. Suddenly I was airborne and then everything went dark. Doctors told me later that I suffered a traumatic concussion. I didn’t come around for a number of days, and when I did, I had no memory and was unable to speak. Because of the brain injury, the doctors say. By then I’d been separated from my men and my identification had been lost. That’s how I came to be presumed dead.”
Could she believe him? Had he been badly injured, so much so that he’d lost his memory for a time?
“I was eventually sent to a hospital in Washington, DC. That’s where I was when I began to remember.”
“So why wasn’t I notified once you were identified?”
Tyson set down his fork and leaned back in his chair. “Because I didn’t tell them who I was. I pretended I still had no memory. I … I didn’t want Father to learn I was alive.” He shook his head slowly. “It’s a poor excuse, but at the time I thought it was my chance to escape the past, once and for all. I could start a new life as someone else. As someone better than the person I’d been for too many years.”
“You hated us that much? That you would let us think you dead.”
“I didn’t hate you, Diana.”
“No?”
“No. And I didn’t hate Father either. Not really. I hated the way he tried to control me and force me to his will. I resented the power he wielded over me, even after I was an adult. And I hated what I’d allowed him to make me.”
An unexpected and unwelcome sea of emotions welled up inside of Diana, and she wished she’d never asked him to tell her why and how. What did it matter anyway? Knowing wouldn’t change the past. Or her future.
“Ah, here comes our waiter.” Tyson gave her a small smile. “Perhaps we should continue this discussion later and enjoy our dinner now.”
She couldn’t help but appreciate how artfully he steered the conversation away from anything unpleasant for the remainder of the meal. As they dined—the entrée was Bouchée Columbia with French peas and potato salad, the dessert a fancy ice called Argentine Glacé—they spoke of horses and the new businesses springing up in the capital city and articles that had made the front page of the newspaper in recent weeks and even some of the new fashions. Before Diana realized it, almost two hours had passed.
“Mother will wonder what’s happened to us,” she said when she realized the time.
Tyson stood and eased back her chair from the table. “It was a long and exhausting day. I suspect she is already sound asleep in her bed.” He offered his hand to help her rise.
“You are probably right.”
He motioned for her to lead the way toward the front door. Tables that had been filled with people earlier in the evening were now empty, the snow-white linens swept clean of crumbs. But there were still enough late diners to create a soft hum of conversation around them as they left.
Diana was grateful she didn’t see anyone she knew. It would have been too exhausting to answer questions or pretend she was happy about her husband’s return to the living. She would have to do both of those things soon enough. It was, after all, part of the bargain. But thankfully, not tonight.
Outside Chez Les Bois, the air was crisp, making her wish she’d brought a wrap. But she didn’t own one nice enough to wear with this gown. Hopefully, their carriage would arrive soon.
“Tyson Applegate!” a deep male voice exclaimed.
Tyson and Diana looked behind them.
The man—a distinguished-looking fellow with a close-cropped gray beard—stuck out his right hand. “So you’re here at last.”
“Justice Waverley.” Tyson shook the man’s hand. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Indeed.” Mr. Waverley’s gaze flicked to Diana and back again.
Tyson took hold of her arm above the elbow and gently drew her one step closer. “Justice Waverley, may I introduce my wife, Diana Applegate. Diana, this is Samuel Waverley. He sits on our state’s supreme court.”
“Mrs. Applegate.” The judge bowed. “What a very great pleasure to meet you at last.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“It was my privilege to spend a good deal of time with your husband when I was in Washington last year. He has a fine mind and a good moral compass. One does not often find that in a younger man.”
A fine moral compass? Those were not words she would use to describe Tyson. Such a man wouldn’t desert his wife and traipse around the world with little thought for the family he’d left behind.
The judge returned his attention to Tyson, and when he spoke his voice was much lower. “I understand an announcement of your candidacy will be forthcoming. Very soon, I hope.”
“Yes, soon.”
“Good. Good. Our country needs men like you. Well, I imagine this is your carriage, so I won’t keep you. I’ll ask my wife to arrange a dinner party for you and Mrs. Applegate. I have a number of friends you should meet.”
“That would be appreciated, sir.”
“Good night, Tyson. Mrs. Applegate.” The judge turned and walked away.
But Diana’s thoughts were on the man standing at her side. She could tell herself all she wanted that she didn’t care what Tyson had done or where he’d been or how he’d managed to hide these past two years, but the truth was her curiosity had been piqued again. After all, Justice Waverley was a man of no small influence in this state. She hadn’t met him before tonight, but she knew his name. Everyone did. Now she’d learned he was a friend of her husband. That he admired Tyson. That he thought him a man of integrity.
The swirling confusion was giving her a headache, and she was thankful when Tyson helped her into the carriage so they could start for their home.
No. For his home. Not theirs, no matter what he said to the contrary. Never hers. No matter how confused she got, she mustn’t forget that.
February 1893
They buried Tyson’s maternal grandmother in the family plot on a Monday. Three days later Tyson was summoned to his father’s study. When he entered the room, his father looked up from papers on the desk and motioned to a chair opposite him. “Sit down, boy. We have matters to discuss.”
Boy. How he hated the way his father used that word. Tyson had celebrated his twenty-sixth birthday last month, but he still wasn’t a man in the eyes of Jeremiah Applegate. Might never be a man in his eyes, no matter what Tyson did, no matter what he accomplished.
His father leaned back in his chair. “How long has it been since you returned from Missouri?”
“Your legal work on behalf of the mines is more than satisfactory.”
It wasn’t a question, so Tyson said nothing.
“Other mine owners have taken note of you, as well. It’s time we widen your circle of acquaintances. I believe you and I should make a trip down to the capital later this spring.”
Resentment rose like bile in his throat. Tyson understood the reason for this proposed trip. To realize his father’s ambitions for him. Would he ever get out from under his father’s control? Would he ever be allowed to live his own life instead of the one Jeremiah had chosen for him?
As if in answer to Tyson’s silent questions, his father said, “But that isn’t why I sent for you. It seems your grandmother has left you the bulk of her estate in her will.”
Excitement thrummed in Tyson’s brain—his maternal grandmother had been as rich as his father—and it took every fiber of resolve not to let the elation show in his expression.
Clearly disapproving of the inheritance, his father continued, “You won’t receive the money immediately.”
Tyson cleared his throat. “What are the conditions?” He tried to sound like a serious attorney and not an eager beneficiary.
“Her estate will come to you on your thirtieth birthday or upon your marriage. Whichever comes first.”
Thirty. A month shy of four years from now. It seemed an eternity. Could he wait that long?