Susan Johnson by Silver Flame (Braddock Black) Page A

humor and heated passion that had shone lambently from their depths. Complex emotions surrounded her practical, debt-ridden fight to save his life, Byzantine reasons that also dwelt on a man’s tenderness, the quirked curve of his mouth when he smiled, the arrogant assurance that he would find her flowers in January snowed-in mountain country.
    Hazard had risen when Empress woke and gone to the windows facing east. He lifted the dark drapery aside. The first gray light of dawn was rimming the snowy mountain landscape,coloring the darkness of the sky with a fringed, pale border. “It’s morning,” he said quietly, throwing back the heavy material.
    His voice woke Blaze and, silently walking to his side, she leaned her head into the solidness of his shoulder.
    Empress echoed the softly spoken words in her own mind with a rush of hope.
    Each of them, in their own way, saw victory in the light.
    Trey Braddock-Black had not died during the night.
    It was a triumph.
    Very early, Blue and Fox came in to help while Empress, Hazard, and Blaze left briefly to wash and change.
    Empress was shown into a bedroom suite larger than her entire cabin home, with sunlight streaming through large windows facing the mountain view. Golden light also illuminated, through stained glass windows, the adjoining bathroom where she had the luxury of a bathtub large enough for her to stretch out in. But the room’s decor received only a cursory glance as she hurriedly bathed and dressed. Her bedroll had been carried in and set out on the bed, her second pair of worn trousers and shirt hung in the grand armoire, a silk robe thoughtfully added to the emptiness of the wardrobe interior. The three garments looked woefully insignificant in the cavernous mahogany closet. A search of the several bureau drawers eventually located her change of underclothes. She was dressed in minutes, her feet slipped into her old comfortable boots, dried now and polished to a burnished sheen. Her newly washed hair would take too long to dry, although a warm fire burned in the fireplace, so she toweled it dry and combed it with an ivory comb set conveniently on the dresser top next to a matching brush and hand mirror. Then, drawing it back from her temples, she held its shiny length in place with two tortoiseshell combs found near the toilette set. Fingering the gilded ornament on the small combs briefly, a sudden nostalgia for her former life inundated her senses. Then, resolutely, she shook away the melancholy images, recalling with a demonstrable lift of her chin her brothers and sisters back home, needing her, and jabbed the combs into place.Without another glance into the mirror she strode out of the room.
    In all the terror and apprehension of the long night nursing Trey, she had momentarily lost sight of her reasons for being here. He had to live, not just for the personal satisfaction saving him would bring but because her bank draft must be honored if her family was to survive. Trey’s father had said last night: “Whatever I have is yours if he lives.” She wasn’t greedy; gold in the amount of her bank draft would be more than sufficient reward.
    Now to see that Trey Braddock-Black continued to breathe through another day. And then another night.
    If infection could be curtailed, if gangrene could be thwarted, if his temperature could be kept down—any number of problems could still arise. He’d lived through the night, but the battle for his life was far from over. But it was, Empress thought, striding down the hall, allowing herself the smallest smile, a very propitious beginning.
    By evening, Trey could swallow from a spoon; at midnight he opened his eyes for the first time and said faintly, “Mama,” to his mother, who was standing beside him. His glance moved the short distance to where his father stood. “Papa.” His mouth turned up in a small smile. Then his gaze drifted to Empress, and his eyes widened in an abrupt reflex of startlement.