A Western Romance: Rob Yancey: Taking the High Road (Book 10) (Western Mystery Romance Series Book 10) Read online

  Taking the High Road

  Book 10: Rob Yancey

  (A Western Romance)

  Morris Fenris

  Western Romance Publications House

  Taking the High Road Book 10: Rob Yancey (A Western Romance)

  Copyright 2015 Morris Fenris, Western Romance Publications House

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the author.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Thank You

  About the Author

  Booklist

  I

  “Yes, sir. What can I get for you?”

  Five minutes’ perusal of the three well-stocked shelves behind the bar, from left to right, had presented quite an array of choices. In any lower-class establishment, the bottles might have stood draped in dust and cobwebs; in this, however, the well-appointed walnut-paneled lounge of San Francisco’s swanky Hotel Blue Sky, each uniquely shaped glass container glowed with gentle, enticing ambiance, from deep rich amber to light golden brown to clear.

  “Cognac. Armagnac, if you please.”

  “Ah. A discerning patron, I see. Right away, sir.”

  The bartender, dressed in the somewhat foppish attire befitting his trade, turned away, expertly withdrew the cork from his selected flagon, and poured a generous amount.

  “Huh. That’s a damn panty-waist drink.”

  No saloon girls circled the room’s fringes, trying to drum up business, nor would any sleazy character dare to frequent such elegant surroundings. No. This was a quiet, decorous lounge, attractive to those who fit easily into its style. In one corner, several customers were engrossed by a game of three-card monte; in another, two men formally dressed in business suits were enjoying the give-and-take of a low-toned conversation; near one of the inside pillars, a single gentleman, glass of Old Forester in hand, was perusing the pages of today’s edition of the San Francisco Bee.

  Through the bat-wing doors and into this sedate atmosphere had breezed someone wearing a battered Stetson, clean but rumpled shirt, and wool work pants, to plop down on a bar stool just two seats away.

  “Panty-waist. Huh. You don’t say.” The young patron, navy blue eyes glinting, shot the newcomer a glance.

  “Yeah, I do say. Prob’ly tastes like mule piss. And it’ll rot your innards, b’sides. Seems like you’d oughta be able t’ get somethin’ a little manlier in this high-falutin’ bar.”

  An indifferent shrug. “You can always ask.”

  “Yep. Think I’ll do just that. Barkeep. You got any Guinness Stout on hand? Ah,” as the bottle was located, opened, and handed over, “thanks a heap. Now, there you go, boy. That’ll put hair on your chest, ’steada that sissy stuff you got.”

  “Got plenty of hair on my chest, thank you very much.” The young man sounded miffed.

  “Couldn’t prove it by me, all gussied up in that fancy outfit. Dude wear.” A sideways look, up and down, with the flash of an impish grin. “You don’t look old enough t’ even sprout a beard.”

  “That’s because, unlike some people,” a return of that sideways look, only more pointed, “I manage to shave every day. When’s the last time you scraped away your whiskers?”

  At that moment the bartender, feeling a trifle discomfited, decided to intervene. “Gentlemen, gentlemen. This is a nice, quiet, refined place to have a drink. I’m not going to see any trouble start here, am I, Mr. Yancey?”

  The newcomer burst into laughter. Then, before anyone could prevent it, he reached over one long arm to ruffle his companion’s unruly black hair. “Naw, Clyde, keep your shirt on. Just givin’ a friendly welcome t’ my nephew, here. How you doin’, son?”

  “Just fine, Uncle Quint. If you give that kind of friendly welcome to everyone who happens by this town, I figure there’d be ten kinds of brawl going on in the street outside.”

  “This isn’t young Rob?” said Clyde in disbelief. “That little boy I remember so well?”

  “Yes, sir.” Rising, out of respect, Rob offered a friendly grin and his hand for a hearty shake. “I spent most of my life here, so likely I’ve run into you a number of times.”

  “Got himself one whale of a good education, back East,” Quinton Yancey explained with a great deal of satisfaction. “Graduated with honors, from one of them fancy schools. Now he’s come home to help run parts of the family business.”

  Brows raised, the bartender glanced around. “Like this one?”

  “This one, exactly. Or so I’m told.”

  As flagship and crown jewel, Blue Sky was the inaugural, and so far largest, of the number of sumptuous hotels planned, constructed, and wholly managed by Yancey Holdings. Locations had been carefully chosen in major cities—and in smaller towns aspiring to become major cities—scattered throughout the west. In this, an imposing three-story red brick building complete with elaborate outside canopy, indoor lounge, and fancy-schmancy ground-floor restaurant, Matthew took almost as much pride as he did in his first-born son.

  Blue Sky had been followed, over the past dozen years or so, with a second lodging-place in San Francisco, the Golden Belle; then, in rapid succession as business prospered, the Turquoise Sea Wind west of San Jose; the Juniper Trail, in what would eventually become the first incorporated city of Tucson, in what would eventually become the 48th state of the union; and, situated as a hacienda-style building in San Juan Capistrano, the Mission Azul.

  The Silver Breeze Hotel, a gray, two-story frame edifice decorated by crisp white railings from top to bottom, had been opened next in Virginia City, Nevada; the city of Sacramento, founded in 1850, now played host to the Feldspar Ridge; and Hotel White Oak West had recently been finished and made ready for business in Carson City, Nevada.

  Last in the chain, due to open later this year, was Stockton, California’s, offering: Hotel Bywater Pine, some hundred miles or so east and slightly north of these corporate offices in San Francisco.

  Coincidentally, each separate inn had been built in a city close to where each of the brothers had already settled and now maintained a residence. Just keeping an eye on business, was Matthew’s shrewd, sharp method of operation, from his Chairman’s seat.

  Given the Yancey family’s propensity for growth, and his aunts’ predilection for choosing appropriate if colorful names, Rob had no doubt that plans were already being considered for a tenth establishment. But where it would be constructed, and when, were open to question.

  “Another bottle, Mr. Yancey?” the bartender invited. “Another small dollop for you, young Master Yancey?”

  Once both had been served, he tactfully withdrew, leaving the two males to catch up on news and discuss whatever corporate dealings lay in the works.

  “So., here y’ are, son, all growed up and lookin’ mighty spruce,” his Uncle Quinton offered the c
ompliment sincerely. “Got yourself a university degree that you can be right proud of. First in the family, by gum, and right special at that.”

  “Don’t expect to be the last, however.” A slow sip of appreciation, and a shrug.

  “True. You were the first of the bunch, the lodestar that everybody else’ll have t’ follow. Now I expect there’ll be a whole passel of Yancey kids makin’ their way east. God knows every brother I got seems t’ be tryin’ to repopulate the earth, by his own self.”

  Rob grinned. In common with his uncles, he had inherited the thick black hair that fought against grooming, the far-seeing dark eyes—navy, for him, rather than the usual coffee color, or bronze—the tall, muscular frame that, at 23, he was still growing into, and an air of competence and capability to handle any situation.

  “Randy genes?” he wanted to know.

  A light, good-humored punch to the boy’s shoulder with one half-clenched fist. “Wouldn’t know, son. I don’t keep track of what those fellers do in the privacy of their bedrooms. So. Ain’t seen much of you the last few years. When you’ve come home, I’ve been off travelin’, and vice versa. Tell me all about your school, and how things went.”

  “How things went. Huh.”

  Quint was a bluff rangy man nearing middle-age, more sensitive to nuance than many realized. Now, he eyed his nephew shrewdly. “That good, eh?”

  “Not my way of living,” admitted Rob. “Too many people, all crammed into too few rooms; too much noise; too much dirt; too much crime. Give me a place to spread out and breathe air not polluted by coal factories and raw sewage. I couldn’t wait to graduate and catch the first train west, Uncle Quint, and that’s the God’s honest truth.”

  In the warmth of a late May afternoon, condensation had begun to bead the outside of Quint’s beer bottle. Thoughtfully he ran one finger down from top to bottom, swirling the moisture into damp circles. “I’m sorry, Robbie. Reckon I didn’t give much thought t’ how hard it musta been for you, goin’ off to a land of strangers for so long a time.”

  “I was damned bloody homesick most of the first year,” said the boy frankly. “God. Guess I wouldn’t have gotten through it if not for one of my professors.”

  “Gave you some support, did he?”

  A brief snort of laughter, and a tug to loosen the black tie wound too tightly under his collar. “Support? Professor Johnson intercepted me every time I ran away, trying to make my way home, and brought me back to his office for a heart-to-heart.”

  “Keepin’ an eye on you. Good for him.”

  “Yeah, he was a good person. The third time the professor caught me, he laid it on the line, Quint. Said I have a bold heart in me, and strong blood in my veins. So I could either give up and leave, and forever regret not facing the challenge, or I could grow up and be a man, and take whatever life handed out to me.”

  “Huh. Sounds like somebody who knew what he was talkin’ about. And I reckon you made the right decision then, growin’ up right fast.”

  “Reckon I did, after that.”

  For a few minutes they sipped convivially in silence, listening to the flap of cards on the corner table as another game began and proceeded, to a low hum of conversation as several newcomers entered the lounge, to the ding of a bell in the lobby that summoned someone to carry the baggage of a newly arrived guest to his room. Homely background sounds, that blended and moved together seamlessly, with a sense of peace.

  “Feels damn splendiferous to be home.” Rob’s speech was already returning to its hometown roots, in an easy-going drawl picked up from his father. “It’s a good idea to travel, Quint, just so you can find out where you don’t wanna be. It wasn’t till I was on that train coming west, leaving New York behind for the last time, that I felt I could finally catch a full breath.”

  “Never really fit in there, huh?”

  “Just not my place. My place is here.”

  Beaming, his uncle clapped a friendly hand along his upper back with the force of a grizzly bear. Rob winced. ”Betcher bottom dollar your place is here, son. And I have no doubt your paw will make that clear t’ you, just as soon as you get settled. What’d he and Star have t’ say about you hightailin’ it outa the house already?”

  “Don’t know.” A roll of the shoulders, a lift of the chest, a twist of the brows.

  Sometimes Quint absent-mindedly forgot his own strength when it came to bestowing physical attention. A featherweight pat often became more of a blow. If Rob had had to choose a favorite uncle, out of the nine available, it would be this one. Growing up, he’d been given the time, consideration, and patience by Quinton that his father, busy with a demanding business and an increasing number of heirs, had occasionally had to forego.

  Favorite or not, that didn’t mean the man should be able to dislocate any number of bones in his nephew’s body.

  “Whatddya mean, you don’t know? Didn’t they see you leave?”

  “Didn’t see me come in. I haven’t been home yet.”

  “Huh.” Disgruntled, Quint looked the boy up and down. “Needin’ some Dutch courage first, were you, b’fore you faced ’em?”

  “Dutch courage? Of course not!” Silence for a moment. Then, “Uh. Well…maybe. Oh, hell, I guess so. Dammit all.”

  Quint offered the typical Yancey smile: slightly crooked, completely heartwarming. “Just b’cause this family ends up becomin’ a circus act for any occasion?”

  “Well, gosh, Quint…there’s just so darned many of ’em!” For only this part of the conversation, he involuntarily cast aside any pretense at adulthood for the petulance of a small boy. “They fill any room and overflow outside. Nine other brothers, nine wives, such a passel of kids I’ve lost count, in-laws and out-laws and family retainers…and everything’s gotta be larger than life.”

  “Well, yeah, I must admit, there’s always a big fooforah when we all get together.”

  “And we all get together so dadblamed often!”

  Rob sounded so aggrieved that his uncle couldn’t help laughing. “You wanna turn into a hermit, son, get away from everybody?”

  “Noooo…”

  “Y’know, that’s all your Uncle Nate ever wanted—peace and quiet, quiet and peace. The man drove us all loopy with his repeatin’ it, over and over. And look at the bedlam he walked into!”

  “I don’t need peace and quiet. Only some time to myself. And maybe the job Pa has for me will be just what I’m looking for.”

  “Ah, yes, checkin’ in at our hotels t’ make sure everything’s runnin’ smooth. You’ll have your own office here, I understand. Sort of a troubleshooter, right? Should be right up your alley.”

  “I liked the sound of it, right away, when Pa wrote to me with the offer,” Rob said eagerly.

  Since his glass was empty, he had turned it upside down on a napkin. No more of that today; his head was already buzzing just a little from the cognac’s effects. Easy to see he wasn’t much of a drinker. Never had been, even at Columbia, when fellow classmates had invited him to share in their largesse.

  “He wants me to take charge of outside operations, which will mean a good deal of travel.”

  “And you like that, doncha?” Quint smiled. “Never could keep you tied down, Rob. You were always on the go, always doin’ somethin’. Well, Matt asked me t’ supervise your supervisin’ for a while, just till you get the hang of things, then you’ll be on your own. All that’s left is t’ find some muckety-muck title t’ make you look important.”

  “Talk to my aunts. I’m sure they can come up with one.”

  “Ahuh. Well, now, son, about them aunts…”

  Fear clutched suddenly at Rob’s middle. As much as he disparaged their good-willed interference in his life, as much as he desired a respite from being constantly fussed over and nagged at, he loved each and every one of his family members and worried about them almost as much as they worried about him.

  “What? Has something happened?”

  “Uh. You might say that. Y�
��know that mention I made about all the fooforah?”

  “Yeah. Wait a minute.” Suspicious, Rob’s eyes narrowed and his mouth took on a tightened, unfriendly set. “Are you telling me—?”

  Quint made a big production of heaving a sigh. “Reckon I am, son. The whole family—every last one of ’em—is gathered at the Golden Belle ballroom right now. They’re waitin’ for you to mosey along before they can start celebratin’.”

  “Celebrating? Celebrating what?”

  “Why, your homecomin’, of course. Reckon the clan needs you there as their star attraction. Got a big cake and plenty of vittles. Prob’ly even killed the fatted calf, just b’cause. And with’ all that, your paw and Star sent me here so’s I could haul your educated Columbia ass on over t’ join ’em.”

  II

  At the doorway of the Golden Belle’s grand ballroom, commotion swooped out to greet them in a swirl of lilting music, the clink of glasses, the noise of boisterous children, muffled laughter, and a hum of light-hearted conversation.

  Rob exchanged an “Oh, Lord, why me?” glance with his uncle, drew in a deep breath, and literally girded his loins to step over the threshold and into the fray.

  “There he is!” “Finally, you got here!” “Rob, so good to see you!” “All growed up, by God, and lookin’ fine!” “C’mon, have a drink; we’re celebratin’!” “About time you dragged your backside home again!” “Not leavin’ again soon, now, are you?” “Didja sample those New York fleshpots whilst you were away?”

  He ran the gauntlet. He had no choice, after all. Back-slapping and shoulder-thumping from the men; hugs and kisses and cooing exclamations from the women; hasty handshakes in passing from the older children, who remembered him, and wary wide-eyed stares from the younger ones, who didn’t.

  “H’lo, Pinkerton man, Aunt Cecelia. Quite a lot going on, as usual, I see.”

  “Rob, son!” Whirling about with a thousand watt grin, John flung one long arm around his nephew’s torso for what would be considered, in male parlance, an embrace.