The Fire of Greed by Bill Yenne Page B

my heart is stubborn.”
    â€œI see the wall you have made between you and the world,” Therese continued. “I have seen you with customers . . .”
    â€œI greet them cordially, as I should,” Nicolette insisted. “I am never discourteous, never impolite . . .”
    â€œNo, I did not mean that . . .”
    â€œWould you have me flirt with customers?”
    â€œNo . . .”
    â€œThen what?” Nicolette asked tersely.
    â€œI see your eyes . . . a mother sees . . . I see your eyes when a man you like comes in. There was that cowboy a few days ago. I could tell . . .”
    â€œAnd . . .”
    â€œYou might have allowed yourself a bit of conversation.”
    â€œWell, he’s gone now,” Nicolette said and shrugged. “They come. They go.”
    â€œAnd what of Monsieur Waldron?” Therese asked.
    â€œWhat
of
Monsieur Waldron?” Nicolette said, rolling her eyes.
    â€œHe is a gentleman. He asked me politely whether he could ask you to accompany him to the theater. You
enjoy
the theater.”
    â€œI do,” Nicolette admitted.
    â€œHe is a gentleman, and he is a railway official,” Therese explained. “He has money.”
    â€œIs it about the money? Is
that
what you want?”
    â€œI want what’s best for my daughter,” Therese said sternly. “Someday, you will want a man with a reliable income, and it would be nice to have a prominent man. Compare that to a cowboy or a drifter who comes and goes and is never heard from again.”
    â€œIs it all . . . ?”
    â€œNo. It is
not
all about his money,” Therese said, almost scolding. “You deserve better than these cowboys . . .”
    â€œLike John?” Nicolette asked pointedly.
    â€œLike him . . . like that one last week who caused your cheeks to flush, but who was gone the next day, and who is probably in West Texas by now . . . and who has no intention of settling down and making a home. Another rough-edged drifter who could not afford to provide a proper home even if he were convinced that he should or must.”
    â€œNot a proper gentleman who would provide a proper home,” Nicolette said with disdain and a toss of her head.
    â€œYou should allow someone, some
gentleman
, into your world, if not your heart,” Therese insisted. “Long enough to give the man a chance to win your heart . . . or at least
try . . .
long enough to give him a chance to put some color into your cheeks.”
    â€œMonsieur Waldron?”
    â€œHe is a polite man who happens to have a good income. Is it a crime for a mother to want such a man to be interested in his daughter?”
    â€œNo, Mama.”
    â€œI’m not asking you to
marry
Monsieur Waldron,” Therese pleaded. “Just to go to the theater and allow him to treat you as a lady should be treated . . . as a lady who happens to be my daughter should be treated.”
    â€œBut Mama, he is so old . . .”
    â€œHe is not so
old
,” Therese insisted. “When I was your age . . .”
    â€œYes, Mama, I
know
how old Papa was.”

Chapter 14

    POP.
    Somewhere in the roughly quarter-mile distance, there was a gunshot.
    Pop. Pop.
    More gunshots.
    Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop.
    A fusillade.
    Bladen Cole reined the roan to a stop and listened carefully. There had been an explosion of woodpeckers from the tops of the trees, startled by the first sounds of the shots, but they had glided away. The only nearby sounds were the occasional creak of a branch in the wind.
    It sounded like there had been an ambush somewhere in the woods up ahead, and Cole was anxious not to be the victim of another one in his location.
    Pop.
    Another single shot up ahead was followed by the
pop, pop
of a different gun.
    The four men whom he was following had been