Page 43 of The Last Warrior

“Yes. I think the Denver officials might enjoy the performance.”

“I am sure they will.”

Irena eyed her granddaughter. “Would you like to sing after I do? It would be easy to arrange.”

“Oh, no,” said Suzette at once. “I am unprepared for it, and I think I am attached to the idea that no one here knows I am a prima donna in my real life.”

“In your real life…” Irena’s expression took on a dreamlike appeal. “How strange those words sound. We have not been here in Colorado very long, and yet England seems so far away.”

“But it is far away.”

“I was not speaking about the distance in miles.”

“I knew you weren’t. It is different here, I will admit. Do you miss England, then?”

“No. Do you?”

Suzette thought for a moment. “No,” she said carefully. “When I first set out to join you, I believed I would miss my home, but oddly, I do not. There is an enchantment about this place. Here, one is allowed to…breathe, and one is not expected to rush through life with little attention given to anything but the need for wealth, power and position. One is simply let to…well, to live. I think the people here call it freedom. And I, too, seem to favor it. Very much, I should say.”

“Yes.” Irena nodded. “Quite. Ah, look there, dear. Mr. Cody approaches, and I do have a need to speak to him alone. Would you mind?”

“Of course not.”

“Hello, Mr. Cody,” cooed Irena, as soon as the man came within hearing distance. She smiled and offered him her gloved hand.

“Lady Irena,” he responded in his deep voice, as he took hold of her hand. Bowing low over it, he pressed a kiss to it. He turned to Suzette. “And here’s the pretty little miss who decorated the Deadwood stagecoach so beautifully today.”

Suzette smiled. “Mr. Cody,” she acknowledged, offering him her white-gloved hand as well, which he accepted at once. “How much I enjoyed being rescued.”

“My pleasure, ma’am. My pleasure. I hear you might have had trouble today when⁠—”

“Mr. Cody,” interrupted Irena. “Do you have a moment?”

Cody grinned at her. “I have many of them which I should like to spend with you, if this is what you are suggesting.”

Irena’s smile deepened. “Ah, this would be very agreeable, indeed. Suzette, will you excuse us?”

“By all means.” Suzette beamed at them both. “And, Mr. Cody? There was no trouble. None at all.”

“Glad to hear it, ma’am. Glad to hear it.” With a parting smile at her, Cody guided Irena away.

Sighing, Suzette glanced around the room, taking in the assembled company. There were few here she recognized, fewer yet she wished to speak to, though she supposed it would be to her advantage to mingle with the cowboys and cowgirls. However, the brisk cold of the evening outside Cody’s welcome tent seemed inviting to her.

In England, one would not dare to venture into the night alone for fear of ruining one’s reputation. But here in the American West, considerations were not so inflexible. Besides, it wasn’t as though she would be alone. It seemed to her that the people who populated the Wild West Show never slept; indeed, someone was always nearby regardless of the hour of the day.

She drifted toward the entryway as inconspicuously as possible. She might have stepped outside as well, but directly across the short midway between the two areas was the Indian encampment, and now that the orchestra music was distant from her, the Indian drums from their camp rang out their distinctive beat.

What was it, which was drawing her irresistibly toward those tepees. She could not explain the attraction to the camp, for she had never been there. Unless the allure was because of him.

Was it? She supposed it could be.

Whatever the reason, Suzette determined to ignore the enticement and take a walk instead. The air was fresh, though cold in this place, and it invited a person to partake of it. Placing her cloak around her shoulders, she stepped out into the darkened black of the night.

As she strolled over the lush, snow-wet grass cushioning her feet, the familiar sound of gunshots rang out in the distance. Perhaps Annie Oakley or some other sharpshooter was practicing. A sprinkling of frosty moisture touched the night air, its humidity enveloping her like a mantle. It felt good, and with pleasure, she inhaled.

The scent of smoke from the Indian encampment wafted to her on a gentle breeze, carrying with it the smell of roasting meat. Suzette’s stomach churned in response.

“Are you hungry?” she asked the little one she carried, and she patted her stomach.