away, but both Luke and Lettie had to concentrate to understand everything the Bansens said because of their strong German accents.
Both the Bansens announced they were holding a grand feast that night for many of their neighbors and friends in the music business. Luke knew it was going to be a difficult evening filled with questions from people who didn't understand one thing about life on a Montana ranch, and he would be glad when everything was over and they could head home.
The Bansens finally left the room for a moment to check with the servants about the evening's banquet, what was to be served, where everyone would sit. Pearl began playing again, and Robbie wandered off to walk through the immense house again and study the paintings and statues and stained-glass windows. Luke drank another glass of wine, and Lettie sat down beside him.
"I just thought of something, Luke," she said, looking a little nervous. "When I mentioned earlier about how we had come all the way back here close to where we started out." She saw the pain in his blue eyes, knew he had thought of it himself.
"No," he said. "I won't go and try to find my father. If he hasn't contacted me in all these years, why should I?"
She put a hand on his arm. "Because it would be for you, not for him. We're only a day from St. Louis by train, and we could take the Union Pacific from there to Colorado and then come back by rail into Montana from the south."
He looked away from her. "No," he repeated. "As far as I'm concerned, my father died twenty-two years ago when I left St. Louis. There's no going back, Lettie. After the wedding we'll send Robbie off to Michigan and we'll go home the way we came. Don't even mention going to St. Louis."
The butler brought another tray of filled wineglasses, and Luke took yet another glass and drank it down. Lettie said nothing more; she had at least planted the idea. She prayed Luke would change his mind, for the sake of his own inner peace. Besides, she dearly wanted to meet Jacques Fontaine herself, and tell him exactly what she thought of him.
Alice dried another dish and set it in the cupboard. She thought how she would enjoy a kitchen like this someday. Her father was not as rich as the Fontaines, but he did own the local bank and the Billings Inn. Their home was at the east end of town, and it was a simple Victorian home, neatly painted white, the elaborate spindlework around the porch gables painted a soft blue. She referred to it as the town's gingerbread house. It was a happy home, except that lately her mother had been sick a lot, so she had been helping more than usual with the housework.
Betty Richards let go of a dish and put a hand to her stomach, obviously in pain. She quickly wiped her hands on her apron and left the kitchen sink to sit down at the table for a moment. "You'll have to finish washing them, Alice. I'm sorry."
Alice frowned with worry. She could not imagine being without her mother. She had no brothers and sisters, and lately, with hardly seeing Ty anymore, she had felt more lonely than ever. Now she had learned her mother was dying, although the woman did not know she had been to the doctor to ask about her condition. A grave look had come over Dr. Banning's face at her question. "I won't lie to you, Alice," he had told her. "It doesn't look good. Your mother has a tumor in her side. I can feel it, but it's in a spot where it would be very hard to operate; and often in these situations, when we operate, the patient just seems to die more quickly. Your mother has chosen against the operation, so she can be with her family longer."
The news had been devastating. She needed Ty's friendship more than ever now, but she had lost it. Only yesterday one of her best friends had told her the rumor she had heard from her father, a horse doctor who had recently visited the Double L. Men there were joking about how they suspected Ty Fontaine was sneaking around with the Indian girl, Ramona, secretly meeting her for more than just talking. Hot jealousy and hurt filled her to an almost painful degree at the news, but what