Tempest by Beverly Jenkins
“Will do,” Regan promised, and she left the office.
Sitting alone, Portia knew her sister’s gentle chastisement about the long hours she put in at her desk came from her heart, but there were those who thought the Fontaines mad for placing their niece in charge of their hotel—thoughts that never would have risen had Portia been a nephew. She wanted to prove she was as capable of the job as any man and so kept her nose to the grindstone. They were now living in the Arizona Territory in a beautiful, temperate area at the base of the Catalina Mountains a few miles north and east of the town of Tucson. Rhine and Eddy built the hotel from the ground up in ’73 upon a large open swath of land originally owned by a mine president. When the mine went dry, his funds did, too, and her uncle Rhine and aunt Eddy were able to buy it and the hundreds of acres of open range surrounding it from the bank for a pittance. Over the years, the Fontaine Hotel became famous for its fine food and luxurious accommodations. Lately it also served as a magnet for well-to-do Europeans and Easterners wanting a taste of the Wild West; a new phenomenon Uncle Rhine called Dude Ranch Fever. Ranchers from the Rockies to the Mexican border were opening their doors to wealthy guests who wanted to hunt, fish, and ride the open ranges to take in the meadows, lakes, and canyon waterfalls. Some came strictly to view the myriad species of birds while others wanted to tour old silver mines or pretend to pan for gold. The Fontaine Hotel, in partnership with Mr. Blanchard’s ranch, also offered guests the opportunity to watch cattle being branded, take roping lessons, and in the evening gather around a roaring campfire to eat and listen to Buck and Farley tell exaggerated stories of ghost towns, deadly outlaws, and dangerous Indians. The guests could then ride back to the hotel for the night or remain at the Blanchard place to sleep in tents or on bedrolls under the stars. It was a lucrative trade for both establishments, so much so that it was necessary for guests to make reservations a year in advance if they wanted to be accommodated. Coordinating all the details took a clear head and a steady hand, and with so much to do, there was no time for Portia to take leisurely trips to view waterfalls.
A soft knock on the open door broke her reverie and she looked up to see her aunt Eddy standing on the threshold. Like her nieces, Eddy Carmichael Fontaine was a dark-skinned, dark-eyed beauty and she wore her forty-plus years well.
Portia asked, “So are you ready for your grand affair?”
“I suppose. You know how much I dislike all this fuss. I would’ve been content to celebrate with a nice quiet supper, maybe a few musicians and a cake, but your uncle loves fanfare.”
“So you tolerate it.”
“Barely, but only because I love him so much.”
“Regan was spying on you two in the gazebo. Says she wants the kind of love you and Uncle Rhine share.”
“That’s not a bad goal. Although it took me a while to see it.”
Portia knew that when Aunt Eddy and Uncle Rhine first met, he’d still been passing as a White man. Eddy hadn’t wanted to fall in love with him because of the societal dangers tied to such unions. “But you did.”
“Yes, and sometimes, like with this anniversary business, I have to remind myself of that because only for him would I endure the torture of being fitted for a new gown.”
Portia never failed to be amused by her aunt’s aversion to dressmakers. “You have armoires stuffed with gowns yet you always say that.”
“Because it’s the truth. All the pin sticks, measurements, and having to stand still.” She waved a hand dismissively. “A woman should be able to go into a dress shop, find something to her liking, and leave with it.”
“You can.” Ready-to-wear gowns were becoming quite popular.
“But they all seem to be made for someone taller and they’re never the right color. It’s as maddening as the fittings.” She sighed with exasperation and asked, “Is everything ready for the dinner tonight?”
“Yes, so no harassing the staff about what’s being done or not being done.” Her aunt and uncle had run the hotel as a team since its founding, but now Portia mostly held the reins. Although Eddy refused to relinquish control of the hotel’s kitchen, Portia had relieved her of all duties related to the preparation of the anniversary dinner. She’d initially balked of course, then reluctantly agreed.
“Is Janie still baking the cake? Does she have enough eggs, flour?”
“Aunt Eddy,” Portia chided. “Everything is being taken care of.”
“But I feel so useless.”
“I understand, but you aren’t allowed to do anything except get gussied up and enjoy the party.”
Eddy didn’t like it and it showed on her face. She finally sighed audibly in surrender. “Okay, I suppose.”
Portia almost felt sorry for her. Almost. Her aunt was the hardest-working woman she’d ever met and one of the reasons for the hotel’s great success. Not being able to direct this event was threatening to send her around the bend. “If you want to do something, you can go over to the Wilson place and check on your centerpieces.”
“I get to pick the flowers? Oh, be still my heart.”
Portia laughed. “Or I could send Regan.”
“Lord, no. She’d stick a bunch of saguaro on a plate and call it done. I’ll go.”
“Good.”
There was silence for a moment as they viewed each other, and then Eddy asked, “Have I told you how proud I am of all you’ve grown up to be?”
Emotion filled Portia’s throat. “Numerous times.”
“I’m glad Corinne sent you and Regan to me.”
“As are we.” Had she not, both Portia and Regan would’ve had their virginity sold for a pittance and grown to adulthood with little knowledge of the world beyond the walls of their mother’s shack. They most certainly wouldn’t have attended Oberlin to complete their education, nor would Portia have been given the opportunity to hone her bookkeeping skills at the San Francisco bank owned by Uncle Rhine’s half-brother, Andrew. Portia was grateful every day for being given a home by Eddy and Rhine.
“I’ll ride over and check on the flowers in a bit,” her aunt said.
“Okay, and no worrying allowed.”
With a roll of her eyes, Aunt Eddy departed.
By late afternoon, Portia was done with her ledgers. Realizing she’d missed lunch, she pushed her chair back from the desk and left the office for the kitchen. The hotel was spread out over five, white adobe, one-story buildings with red tiled roofs. One housed staff and the business offices. The others held guest rooms, the family quarters, dining spaces, and kitchens. All the buildings were connected by covered breezeways. As she stepped out into the sunshine to walk to the kitchen she was brought up short by the unexpected sight of a brown-skinned cowboy seated on the broad back of a beautiful blue roan stallion. She couldn’t make out the man’s features beneath the black felt hat, so shading her eyes against the bright sunlight, she asked, “May I help you?”
He pushed back the hat. “Is this the Fontaine place?”
“It is.”
For a moment he didn’t say anything else, simply stared down at her from his perch before fluidly dismounting to stand facing her. “Hello, Duchess.”
Portia froze. She scanned the unshaven features, trying to place him. Duchess? Only one person had ever called her that. Suddenly recognition solved the mystery. “Kent Randolph?”
He nodded and a glint of amusement lit his eyes. “How’ve you been?”
She found herself slightly mesmerized by his handsome face and teasing gaze. “I’ve been well. You?”
“Can’t complain. Good seeing you again.”
“Same here.” When she first came to live with Rhine and Eddy in Virginia City, she’d been twelve years old. He been six years older and the bartender at Rhine’s saloon. She hadn’t paid him much attention, except when he called her Duchess, which annoyed her to no end. The passage of fifteen years had turned him into a man taller than she by at least a foot and with shoulders wide enough to block the sun. Her eyes strayed o
“You’ve grown up.” His soft tone grabbed her attention and touched her in a way that made her feel warm, female.
She blinked. “Um, yes.”
“Is your uncle here?”
Realizing she was staring, she shook herself free of whatever his eyes were doing to befuddle her so totally. “Yes. He’s inside. This way, please.”
She waited while he tied the roan to the post and reached for his saddlebag. Tossing it easily over his shoulder, they set out, his heeled boots echoing against the wooden walk. She got the feeling that he was eyeing the sway of her blue skirt, but she was so overwhelmed by the air of maleness he exuded, she kept walking and tried to ignore his effects on her usually unflappable self.
Her uncle’s office was in the same building that housed her own, so she led Kent back to the breezeway and past the giant oaks and flowers enhancing the landscaping.
“Nice place you have here,” he remarked as he looked around.
“Thank you. We like it.”
“When the man in Tucson gave me directions to the hotel, I expected something more like the hotels back East or in Virginia City, not a spread like this. Looks more like a ranch.”
They approached the door. He reached around her to open it. His arm gently grazed her shoulder and Portia jumped nervously.
“Sorry. Not trying to scare you,” he said apologetically. “Just wanted to get the door for you.”
“Thank you,” she said, looking up into his face. She wondered if he remembered how uneasy and fearful she’d been around men when she and her sister first came to Virginia City. Because of Corinne’s way of life, Portia had imagined herself fair game to any man in a pair of trousers, and as a result she’d been as afraid as a tiny mouse in a world filled with large feral cats.
He held the door aside. “After you.”
She inclined her head and entered.
The coolness of the interior’s air always offered relief from the blazing Arizona heat. “My uncle’s office is this way.”
She led him past the large sitting room filled with elegant dark wood furniture. The white adobe walls were adorned with framed brightly hued paintings and plants stood in large colorful floor pots.
“Feels like Mexico,” he said.
“We’re not that far from the border.” She stopped at her uncle’s closed door and knocked.
He called, “Come on in.”
Kent entered behind her and when Rhine, who was seated behind a big fancy desk, saw him, his jaw dropped and he slowly got to his feet. “Where in the hell did you find him?” There was a smile of wonder on his face.
“Outside on a horse,” she said with a grin. “I’ll leave you two to your visit.”
Kent turned to her and said in the same soft tone he’d used earlier, “Thanks, Duchess.”
“You’re welcome.” Forcing herself to break his captivating gaze, she turned and exited.
About the Author
BEVERLY JENKINS is the recipient of the 2017 Romance Writers of America Nora Roberts Lifetime Achievement Award, as well as the 2016 Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Award for historical romance. She has been nominated for the NAACP Image Award in Literature and was featured both in the documentary Love Between the Covers and on CBS Sunday Morning. Since the publication of Night Song in 1994, she has been leading the charge for multicultural romance, and has been a constant darling of reviewers, fans, and her peers alike, garnering accolades for her work from the likes of The Wall Street Journal, People Magazine, and NPR.
To read more about Beverly, visit her at www.beverlyjenkins.net.
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By Beverly Jenkins
Tempest
Breathless
Forbidden
Destiny’s Captive
Destiny’s Surrender
Destiny’s Embrace
Night Hawk
Midnight
Captured
Jewel
A Wild Sweet Love
Winds of the Storm
Something Like Love
Before the Dawn
Always and Forever
The Taming of Jessi Rose
Through the Storm
Topaz
Indigo
Vivid
Night Song
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Excerpt from Forbidden © 2016 by Beverly Jenkins.
Excerpt from Breathless © 2017 by Beverly Jenkins.
tempest. Copyright © 2018 by Beverly Jenkins. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.
Digital Edition FEBRUARY 2018 ISBN: 978-0-06-238905-3
Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-238904-6
Cover illustration by Alan Ayers
Chapter opener illustration copyright © Nikiparonak/Shutterstock, Inc.
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HarperCollins is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Publishers in the United States of America and other countries.
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Beverly Jenkins, Tempest