I remember,” Nicky said with a smile, and kept her mouth shut about what Mr. Christopher had told her.
“They grew up together,” Becky added. “I visited her once. Montana is lovely country, but brutal. It’s frozen a lot of people, but if you want to get away from the world, there’s no better place.”
“I don’t think I want to go.”
“Don’t be silly,” Becky chided. “The big boss is a doll. Winthrop can’t be too horrible.”
But Nicky still wasn’t sure. She went home and got her small apartment in order, still with misgivings. It didn’t take long to pack, because there wasn’t a lot to pack. She had jeans and sweaters, some blouses and a single jersey dress, because she had the feeling that she would be roughing it. She took a thick winter coat as well, and some leather boots left over from the past. Her lips twisted in a thin smile when she surveyed the contents of her suitcase and she thought about the clothes and lifestyle she’d once taken for granted. She missed that easy luxury once in a great while, and when she had to pinch pennies to meet the rent, her principles didn’t help much. But she was a different girl from the arrogant little miss her parents’ financial indulgence and emotional indifference had created. And that meant a lot. She’d learned about reality in the past two years, and about real people, who didn’t put a dollar sign on their friendship. Even though her friend Dana, with whom she’d roomed, had married a year ago, Nicole still had friends like Becky, and they often went to movies or the theater together.
She pulled on a pair of cotton pajamas, washed her face and went to bed. It wouldn’t do any good to worry about the past or the future. It was enough to cope with the present.
A week later, Nicole and Mr. Christopher flew out to Montana in the corporation jet. She wore the gray jersey dress for the flight, along with a minimum of makeup. She looked sweet and young and totally unlike a glamorous socialite. She didn’t want to start off on the wrong foot by deliberately antagonizing the elder Mr. Christopher, who had plenty of reason to dislike that type of woman.
“You don’t mind if I work?” Gerald Christopher asked with a smile, looking up from the papers in front of him.
“Not at all,” she assured him. “I’m not nervous of flying.”
The flight seemed to take a long time, but perhaps that was because Nicole wasn’t reading. She stared out at passing clouds, a little anxious about the welcome she was going to get when they got off the plane.
“Mr. Christopher, your brother does know I’m coming?” she asked him when they were over Butte and about to land.
His dark eyebrows arched. “Of course. Don’t worry, Nicky, everything’s going to be fine.”
Sure it was. She knew that the instant they got off the plane and she got a good look at the expression on Winthrop Christopher’s face.
She recognized him at once. He was a big man. Taller than his brother, broad shouldered and lean hipped. He was wearing work clothing—jeans and dusty boots, with a checked shirt under a massive sheepskin jacket. On his head was a battered black Stetson twisted into an arrogant slant over one dark eye. He looked like a desperado. He hadn’t shaved, and the white line of a scar curved from one cheek into the stubble on his square chin with its faint dimple. His face was rather square, too, and his features severe. He had a straight, rather imposing nose, and his black eyes gleamed with a cold light. In one lean, dark-skinned hand he held a burning cigarette. And the look he was giving Nicky would have curdled fresh milk.
“Hello, Winthrop,” Gerald said, shaking his brother’s hand. He glanced at Nicky with a smile. “In our childhood days, I used to call him Winnie, but I gave it up when he blacked one of my eyes. Despite all that, I know he’d die for me,” he added with a grin, which the older brother didn’t return. He was too busy glaring at Nicole, his dark eyes cutting into her oval face, looking for imperfections, making an unpleasant inventory of what he saw. “Winthrop,” Gerald continued quickly, “this is my private secretary, Nicole White.”
“How do you do, Mr. Christopher,” Nicky said politely and she actually managed to smile, but her knees felt unsteady. This was no welcome at all. Dislike was too mild a word for what she read in those eyes. Wounded man, she thought, even while she wished she could run. She understood the meaning of betrayal, because she knew it intimately. For the first few months of her exile, Chase’s handsome face had imposed itself over every letter she typed, every book she read, every television program she watched.
Winthrop’s dark eyes narrowed. His thin, chiseled lips pursed thoughtfully, but there was no smile to ease the hardness of that rugged, unshaven face. “Yes, I remember you,” he said curtly. His voice was deep and curt. “You’re young.”
“I’m twenty-two,” she said.
“Young.” He turned abruptly, with a care that no physically fit man would have had to take. “I’ve got the pickup. Does your pilot want to come out to the ranch and have something to eat?”
“No, he’s due back to fly one of the other executives over to New York,” Gerald replied, clapping an affectionate hand on Winthrop’s shoulder. Brave man, to touch that walking inferno, Nicky thought as she fell into step behind them.
“I’ll get the luggage.” Winthrop started toward the plane, favoring one leg, and Nicky hesitated, her eyes speaking her thoughts. He gave her a look that stopped her from moving or speaking. He could have stopped a brawl with that glance. Her half-formed offer to help was frozen solid on her lips. With a violent flush, she turned away and followed Gerald.
“Don’t ever offer to help him,” her boss cautioned in a soft, quiet tone. “He’s a little less sensitive about it these days, but soon after it happened, he threw a punch at one of the cowboys just for offering.”
“I’ll remember.” She felt stung. The older brother was going to be hard going, and her first impulse was to ask if she could go back to Chicago.
Gerald Christopher seemed to sense her feelings, because he put an affectionately careless arm around her shoulder. “Don’t panic,” he teased. “He doesn’t bite.”
“Thank God I’ve had all my inoculations.” She sighed, but she smiled back.
Behind them, the older man was watching that exchange of smiles and the arm around Nicky and putting his own connotation on what was going on between his younger brother and his secretary. The look in his eyes was both threatening and disapproving as he picked up the cases and followed them to the cream-colored pickup truck.
It was a long ride to the ranch, down a highway dwarfed by the towering, autumn-hued peaks of the Rockies. Soon Winthrop turned off onto some mountainous dirt roads that didn’t actually seem like roads at all. To Nicky, squashed between the two men, it was a cold and unnerving experience. She could feel Winthrop Christopher’s long, powerful leg come in contact with hers every time he pressed on the accelerator, and her body was reacting to the feel of his shoulder against hers in ways she hadn’t expected. He made her tremble with awakening sensation, made her feel alive as she hadn’t felt since her late teens. She didn’t like that, or him, and her face took on the hardness of stone as the road wound on and on, through fir trees so tall and thick that Nicky stared in fascination at their girth. The forested areas were becoming thick now that they were off the rolling plain that had led to them, down country roads where houses were miles apart and traffic was practically nonexistent. Nicky, who’d read about Montana, hadn’t been prepared for its vastness, or for the glory of orange-tipped aspens with their thin silvery trunks, and cottonwoods fluffy and yellow-hued, and those incredibly big pines. Or for the sheer splendor of the mountains and the crisp, clean coldness of mountain air. She watched, rapt, as the mountains shot up in front of them. Winthrop turned onto a tiny dirt road and they started to go up.
“Not what you expected, Miss White?” Winthrop chided as she stiffened on a sudden hair-raising curve as he gunned the truck up what seemed like a mountainside. “Montana isn’t all pretty little photographs in coffee-table books.”
“It’s