Snowfall Read online

  He smiled widely then, and she decided that was the first true smile she'd seen on his face. The others had been for show. But now she had amused him. There was something bewitching about that smile. "You do have nerve after all," he said. "I dislike a weak woman almost as much as I dislike an argumentative one."

  He said that without a hint of irony in his voice, as if his opinion on the matter was the only one that could be valid. She wasn't sure whether that came from self-assurance or narcissism. "Are you married, Mr. Finnegan?"

  "Not yet." His warm brown eyes conveyed a clear message that he was willing, should she be interested in dalliance herself.

  She was a widow, and it was widely assumed that widows were open to seduction. She'd been importuned enough times during the three years since Diego's death that she knew a blameless reputation wouldn't protect her from it. Not that she had any reputation in this town. "The woman with you at the auction today. Is she your betrothed?"

  His dark brows rose. "Brighid? No, she is not."

  The brittle-sounding name suited that red-haired woman, Lourdes decided. "You said you were not married yet," she pointed out. "That makes me think you do intend to marry her eventually."

  He leaned back in his chair, eyeing her critically. "I am required to marry by the end of the week. Brighid would not be my choice."

  Required? That was a strange way to phrase it. "Required by whom?"

  He shrugged one shoulder, as if it were inconsequential. "I promised my mother I would marry."

  She was tempted to laugh. He sounded like a child caught with an empanada stolen from the kitchen in his hand, who denied it anyway. He was defiant. "It's wise to obey one's mother," she told him.

  "A woman would say that." He took a sip of wine, his eyes surveying her once more. "Do you have children, Mrs. Medina?"

  "No," she admitted, feeling the customary twinge of pain when she said it. She wondered if she would ever get used to that. Some part of her hoped she didn't. "Not any longer."

  He set his wine glass to one side. "I am sorry. Have I brought up a delicate subject?"

  "No." By now, she'd had time to grow accustomed to explaining. "My daughter passed three years ago. She contracted infantile paralysis in the summer heat."

  Mr. Finnegan looked truly regretful. "I am sorry," he repeated.

  Rosa had only been five, and watching her daughter gasp her life away had been the most painful thing Lourdes had ever endured. She had prayed endlessly, only to be crushed when God didn't grant her petitions. But her father and husband had fallen ill as well, and she'd had to move on to nursing them. With his weak lungs, Diego had swiftly followed their daughter into the grave. But her father had lingered on for two more years, weakened but still lucid. Talking with him had been the only thing that had kept Lourdes sane in those first days.

  She expected Mr. Finnegan to follow up his statement with some conventional remark, but he didn't. He simply regarded her across the table while other voices chattered on about them, while dishes and silver clattered, and the world spun past. It was a relief not to have to listen to all those well-intentioned words.

  The waiter approached with the fish course, a Gumbo Filet Bresilienne served with Anchovies a l'Italienne. He set a plate in front of her and one for Mr. Finnegan before retreating.

  "I don't know what it would be like to lose my daughter," Mr. Finnegan said. "I imagine I would be very angry."

  She had never had someone say that to her. God willed, and it wasn't her place to question God's will. She must accept it. That was how she'd been raised. "I was angry," she admitted.

  "Ah." He picked up his fork and toyed with the fish on his plate.

  Lourdes flushed. She'd never said that aloud before, even to her father. She fingered the Saint Anne's medallion on its chain about her wrist, reminding herself to control her tongue. "You have a daughter?" she asked Mr. Finnegan to change the topic. "Are you a widower?"

  He picked up his fork and smiled secretively. "Mrs. Medina, I'm sure you understand that one does not have to be married to have a child."

  She felt a flush heating her cheeks. That was true, but most respectable men would never confess such a thing. "And what is her name, Mr. Finnegan?"

  "Imogen," he said. "She would like you, I think."

  Imogen Finnegan had an unfortunate near-rhyme to it, but Lourdes forbore from saying so. Hopefully the little girl would marry someone with a more suitable surname when she grew up. "Does her mother live here?"

  He rolled his eyes. "No, she passed away years and years ago."

  Years and years ago? Lourdes poked at the fish on her plate, calculating. The daughter must not be as young as she'd guessed, or Mr. Finnegan was older. A glance at his face reaffirmed her belief that he was near her own age, thirty or so. "Does your daughter live with you?"

  And then he appeared to recall something, perhaps that an illegitimate child should not be discussed on one's first meeting. "No," he said shortly. "Now, Mrs. Medina, how do you like the gumbo?"

  What had been a curious but interesting conversation turned mundane at that point, a discussion of the town and its attractions. They worked their way through the courses of the meal, during which she learned that Mr. Finnegan was also a newcomer, having been in Saratoga Springs not much longer than a year. He owned a farm outside town where he was currently raising quarter horses, an unusual choice since most of Saratoga Springs thrived on the thoroughbred trade. That explained why he'd purchased the lot of quarter horse mares among which her Nevada had been hidden.

  The waiter removed the plates and brought a course of cheese…along with a second bottle of wine at Mr. Finnegan's request. Lourdes accepted another glass when he offered to pour her one. It was more than she'd had to drink in some time, and she was beginning to feel a warmth inside that wasn't related to the September evening.

  Under the influence of the wine, Mr. Finnegan seemed to possess a perfect sort of handsomeness. His eyes were particularly attractive, a warm brown that reminded her of a horse's eyes, with thick dark lashes. She couldn't decide if his cream-colored hair looked coarse or soft, but she felt a completely improper desire to touch it. For a moment it seemed as if the crowded dining room faded away, and no one else could see them. Did she dare?

  Lourdes shook her head. She wasn't herself, thinking such things. She wasn't that sort of woman, the sort who lusted after a man she'd just met. But she'd left Texas to start over. This was, in its own way, her grand adventure…only she wasn't young, or as pretty as she'd once been, and she didn't own a single horse now. Horses were all she knew.

  "It must have been the Spanish mare," Mr. Finnegan was saying, his long fingers poised on his wine glass. "She was the one you owned, am I right?"

  She was staring at his hands. "Yes. She was a wedding gift from my husband's family."

  "From Andalusia?" he asked, revealing that he knew something of the breed.

  "Yes. Her name is Nevada sobre Andalusia."

  "Snowfall. Because she's white, like snow?" he asked.

  "You speak Spanish?" Where she came from, most people spoke Spanish, at least a touch. That wasn't the case this far north. She'd expected him to ask if the mare had been named for the American state instead.

  He chuckled. His smile appeared again, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "That name doesn't require translation. Not having seen her. Why you would think I would harm a horse that lovely is quite beyond me, my dear. I should be insulted."

  Yes, she was susceptible to the man's smiles. Lourdes touched the napkin to her lips to stall while she gathered her wits. "As I said, Mr. O'Donnell assured me you would not. Many breeders would see her as the oldest of the lot and nothing more."

  "She's mature, takes herself a bit seriously, but I suspect there might be several more foals in her."

  Lourdes felt her cheeks burn as if he'd made that comment about her, not Nevada. She'd undoubtedly had too much wine. "I'm glad you see that."

  He inclined his head.
"I have to wonder what caused you to part with her."

  "It wasn't my choice. My brother sold her."

  "Ah," he said. "I never had a brother, but I've heard they can be the very devil."

  That was an excellent description of Chuy, at least recently. "Yes."

  "Why?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  He put his hands together and leaned his chin atop them, his warm eyes fixed on her face. "Why would he sell a horse that belongs to you?"

  Nevada had been a wedding gift and thus was her property, but the only judge near Del Rio would never bother to hear her claim against her brother. "My brother was punishing me," Lourdes admitted. "I refused to marry a friend of his."

  "Oh, I do understand that impulse," Mr. Finnegan said. "And you followed the mare here to get her back?"

  It was a simplified version of the truth. Her decision had come after Nevada was sold. But she wouldn't tell Mr. Finnegan of the dream she'd had when she'd asked for guidance, or of the angel who'd told her to follow the horse. He would think her insane. It would sound insane to her if she hadn't had the dream herself. "More or less."

  Mr. Finnegan sat back in his chair, continuing to gaze at Lourdes until she thought her ears must be red. "Spend the night with me."

  If she thought she'd been flushed before, she was wrong. Heat blossomed throughout her body. Embarrassment? Anger? She was too surprised to answer him.

  "And I'll give you the horse," he added.

  Part 2

  Lourdes stared at her dinner companion. She was attractive, but there were far more beautiful women in this very room. Did he think her a harlot? Had he made that assumption because she was a widow? It wasn't as if she'd never been out in society before, despite the cloistering of the last three years of mourning. It wasn't proper for a gentleman to suggest such a thing, especially not to a woman he'd just met.

  Mr. Finnegan seemed unflinching, though, as if he made that sort of request daily. Perhaps he did. She had no way of knowing. Just because he wouldn't butcher a horse past her prime, that didn't attribute any other form of goodness to him.

  A smile touched his well-shaped lips. "I've shocked you."

  "Yes." She could hardly deny that. His face was smooth, no trace yet of a beard, despite the late hour. She didn't know why she'd suddenly noticed that. Only the wine could be responsible for her thinking such things. She felt over-warm.

  "I didn't imply anything beyond the time, Mrs. Medina," he said calmly. "I enjoy your company, and I don't like to gamble alone."

  He was offering to return Nevada to her for the simple pleasure of her company? She wasn't certain this offer was any better than the one he'd suggested before--no, she'd inferred that he wanted to bed her, he hadn't actually said so. But just for the pleasure of her company? That she could live with. She'd been in a casino before when she and Diego were on their wedding tour through Spain and the surrounding countries. It had been fascinating, watching the wealthy Europeans. With her frontier upbringing, she had been hard-pressed not to stare at their opulence.

  "Do you spend a great deal of time gambling?" she asked, trying to get a better feel for what he wanted of her.

  "Not much," he said. "I've horses to keep, so that means early mornings and few late nights. But I'm lucky, and it never hurts to bring in some cash."

  Most wealthy men made their money by hanging on to it tightly. Gambling was a quick way to lose it instead. "Lucky?"

  "I am…from Ireland, Mrs. Medina," he said, as if that made everything clear.

  She had heard that the Irish were also Catholic, that many had worked the railroad, and that they'd come to America to escape the aristocratic ways of Europe, but she didn't recall much past that. His foreign origin did explain his accent, though. "Ah, you're Irish."

  His lips twisted at that comment. "I'm not Irish, Mrs. Medina. I'm from Ireland, which is not precisely the same thing."

  She wondered what sort of distinction he was making, perhaps a matter of heredity, similar to the fact that she was Spanish yet didn't come from Spain. "Then what are you, sir?"

  "I am myself," he said dismissively, as if there was no one group with whom he belonged. He sounded…lonely.

  Lourdes pursed her lips. A man like Mr. Finnegan could not be lonely. He had a daughter and a mother, at the least. Then again, she had a brother, and that last scrap of family wasn't any comfort to her. "I'll go with you," she told him.

  "Is it a deal?" he asked with a sudden narrowing of his eyes. He leaned forward, hinting that her answer was important to him.

  "With the understanding that you only seek my company," she said, "yes."

  His face lit again with another true smile. "Good. I like to be clear about my bargains."

  ***

  Gambling had been forbidden in the town this summer. Lourdes had heard complaints about that almost as soon as she arrived in Saratoga Springs. The casinos hadn't opened, and the hotels had kept their gaming rooms closed. Supposedly the town council would prosecute anyone caught gambling privately as well. But it didn't surprise Lourdes that secret parties were still being held, or that Finn knew exactly whose house to visit to find that private gambling.

  He walked with her along Broadway and down a side street to an elegant house, introduced her to the owner, and led her back to a ballroom. The wood floors gleamed under the light of the elegant chandeliers, but there were no dancers that night. Instead several tables had been set up for gambling. Lourdes was relieved to see a handful of other women there, ones who didn't look to be well-heeled whores. True, most were young and pretty, but some were more mature, possibly wives even.

  She settled in a chair to Mr. Finnegan's right, close enough to catch the scent of his cologne, something with a hint of lime. She could swear she smelled horse on him as well, as if he'd stopped by his stables before he'd gone out for dinner. His profile, easy to see with him sitting next to her, was just as handsome as what she'd seen when sitting across from him. It seemed unfair, as he must see the Roman bend to her nose. It wasn't her most flattering feature.

  The card play was simple--faro. Mr. Finnegan won consistently. Not giant amounts, not anything that would draw the ire of the other players, but enough that she had to be a touch jealous. The others slowly drifted off to other tables, momentarily leaving them alone with the banker.

  "Are you bored with this one yet, Mrs. Medina?" Mr. Finnegan asked, shooting a glance at her.

  Lourdes immediately turned her face toward him so he wouldn't be looking at her profile, and then felt embarrassed that she'd done so. She wasn't seeking to attract this man, was she? "I have no other plans."

  He gestured that they were done, earning a nod from the banker. "Why don't we walk down to the Sturtevant house? I know there are some games there tonight."

  She had no idea why he wanted her around while he was doing this. Perhaps he was simply delaying an attempt at seduction. Given that she'd been sipping another glass of wine since they'd arrived, he might be counting on liquor softening her resolve. But if she spent the whole night with him, he would give Nevada back to her, so she settled for saying, "That sounds fine."

  So after retrieving his hat, they strolled along under the streetlamps. She drew her embroidered shawl up to warm her shoulders, and continued down the street with her hand on his arm in a companionable silence. It was a cool night, the breeze carrying the occasional scent of a cigar. The brassy laughter of a woman attired in garments of questionable propriety stung Lourdes' ear, but the woman and her male companion dashed past them into the darkness of the public park.

  "What made you chose quarter horses?" she asked Mr. Finnegan as they walked. "Most around here raise thoroughbreds, do they not?"

  "I don't feel the need to copy them," he said with a shrug. "I'm not certain the selective breeding practiced among racing stables is good for the horses. And too, times aren't all that good for horse racing now, thanks to Governor Hughes and his like. I arrived here just in time for the puritanical
ban."

  The ban on pari-mutuel betting had to have hit the racing meet hard, although there were other reasons to come to the resort town. "How long will it continue, do you think?"

  Mr. Finnegan snorted. "Long enough to starve all our pocketbooks, Mrs. Medina. Some of the owners are already talking about taking their horses to Europe to race there. Horses can do other things than racing, though."

  They neared the entry of the park, and he moved to her other side, between her and a group of drunken young men stumbling away from the fountain. "We trained ours for the cattle trade," she told him. "For the vaqueros, you understand…the cowboys."

  He gave her an appraising glance. "Did you help with the training?"

  "I did." She hoped she hadn't shocked him. Chuy had scoffed at their father for teaching a girl to ride and rope, but over the years she had proven a far better trainer than her brother. Chuy couldn't rope a steer more than half the times he threw a lariat. For the last decade, Lourdes had been the one to prepare the best horses for working with cattle, riding, and roping. "It's not a skill most gentlewomen learn, I'm afraid."

  "More gentlewomen should," Mr. Finnegan said with a chuckle. "Teach them something useful."

  She inclined her head to acknowledge that. They spoke about her father's--and her own--experience training horses as they passed the park and reached another street. Mr. Finnegan led her toward a rambling Victorian-style house with a completely incongruous stone tower on one corner of the front façade. As they strolled up the walk toward it, Finnegan gazed down at her, his dark eyes narrowed. "Do you prefer..."

  They had almost reached the flagstone steps of the house when he paused. A brief frown of irritation crossed his face. Lourdes glanced up the steps and saw the red-haired woman at the top of them, her tall, slender form limned by the lights of the house's entryway. She wore a dark green dress that bared her pale shoulders. A black choker encircled her neck, giving her a sophisticated elegance.