by Jenna Kernan
“Tell him I am searching for my daughter.” Macey nodded. Hart had told his scout this in New Orleans. “She is with a half-breed scout named Price.”
Macey’s eyebrows lifted, disappearing in the shaggy mane of hair. “Price? Troy Price?”
“You’ve heard of the scoundrel?”
The man gave a shrug. “Everybody’s heard of him. He headed one of the most successful outfits in the Rockies, saved a party of men in the Sierra Nevadas and killed more grizzly than any man I ever knowed.”
“You can add kidnapping to his litany of accomplishments. He’s taken my daughter. I mean to find and kill him. What do you make in a year, Mr. Macey?”
“Reckon in a good season I could bring down five hundred dollars worth of pelts.”
“I’ll pay you seven and give the savage here whatever trinkets and weapons you think appropriate.”
“Reckon Black Feather might prefer cash.”
“Fine, offer him a hundred. I dare say that’s more than he’ll see in a lifetime.”
The little trapper and the Indian began a rapid exchange of gestures so comical he had trouble not snickering. Instead he sipped his brandy, letting the warm liquid scorch the back of his throat.
The fire in his belly burned with the desire to find his errant daughter and drag her back home by her hair. He had known this excursion was a mistake and wondered again how she had ever gained his consent. Women were masters at manipulating men and Eleanor had learned from the best, her mother. The woman cost more to maintain than his house in Newport.
It seemed his daughter had graduated from childhood and already mastered the art of feminine wiles. Now his hunting trip was ruined, for instead of buffalo, he was forced to hunt Eleanor. She’d been damned lucky to survive the outbreak of cholera. He could not conceive why she continued upriver. He never thought he raised a fool. Until this trip, she’d always shown remarkable good judgment, for a woman. Damn that Italian tutor and his box of paints.
What was the matter with the girl? Now a savage had her. If anyone in New York got wind that she had traveled unescorted, he’d never find her a suitable husband.
It was imperative that he bring her back. Then no one need know about this unfortunate episode. Plans could move forward. She would marry and he would have his heir.
Troy returned to camp at dawn to find Lena sitting beside the fire clutching her pistol. What had they done?
He gazed at her, every fiber of his being screamed to run to her side and press himself once more to her sweet body.
But he would not. He should have thought with more than his body the first time. Coupling brought consequences. He moved to her mare and stroked her ribs, considering her belly. Did she carry the Appaloosa’s foal?
Did Lena carry his child?
He told her he’d have it, and he would, but with or without a child, he did not want to lose her. He spent the night trying to think of some way for them to stay together. His only answer was to follow her East or to take her captive.
He did not think his pride could stand living as the male version of a mistress. It would kill everything that made him a man. But if he took her, wouldn’t that kill everything she was?
Would she grow to love him or hate him?
Clutching the grouse he brought for their meal, he stared across the plains. Should he go east or west?
That was when he saw the dust. He focused on the spot and recognized movement far off. Retrieving her spyglass, he saw a party of more than thirty men riding hard in his direction.
He turned to see Lena on her feet, staring at him.
“Company’s coming.”
She blinked at him. “What?”
“A large party heading our way.”
“Who are they?”
“Don’t know. Not trappers, not Indians.”
“Should we hide?” She stared at him with red-rimmed eyes, her expression etched with worry.
He smiled. “Hide? Where? Besides, we ain’t done nothing wrong.”
As soon as he said it he wished he could call the words back. He’d done something very wrong. He had taken a woman, knowing he could never keep her. One look at Lena’s tearstained face forced him to confront the truth. He had hurt her deeply.
“But we don’t know their business. What if they’re after us?”
He lifted the glass again. “Doubtful, but if so, they found us. Running won’t help. They outnumber us fifteen to one and I see no pack animals. They’re traveling light.”
She moved close, wrapping her arms about his waist. “I’m frightened.”
He patted her back. “Get your pistol ready and stay close.”
They stood together watching the riders bear down.
“Troy, I have to tell you something. There is no child.”
He took his gaze from the approaching party and stared down at her as a deep sorrow swelled within him. He would have nothing of her when she left him.
“Truly. I am certain and I am sorry,” she said.
A flame of hope, that he had not even known he harbored, snuffed out.
“Likewise.”
He could hear them now and turned. Their position was a poor place for a fight, him with his back to the stream and the grove being too small to allow them to elude pursuit. Also, their timing made him suspicious, arriving at his camp at daybreak. That was a trick the army used—attack at dawn, before their opponents were awake or armed.
He pushed Lena behind him as the riders thundered into camp. One horse in particular grabbed his notice. It was a small black stallion with the same narrow face and arching neck as Lena’s Arabian. He lifted his gaze to the rider and saw a rotund man dressed in a tailored black suit and silk top hat. He’d never seen a stranger costume. Yes—he had, on Lena. Behind him, she clutched the buckskin at his shoulder.
Her voice rang with urgency. “My father.”
“He looks like an undertaker.”
Lena’s tone was hushed and her words hurried. “He’s found me unescorted.”
“I’m escorting you.”
She bounced up and down, clutching his arm. “Do you not understand? He will kill you.”
At this moment the man in question drew a sword and shouted to his men. “There is the blackguard. Seize him!”
Troy didn’t go quietly. He aimed his rifle at the center of her father’s chest.
“Don’t come no closer,” he advised.
Several of her father’s personal army now trained their guns on Troy, but he kept his hand steady, focusing on the man in charge.
“Release my daughter.”
“I ain’t got a hold of her now.”
Hart’s face burned scarlet. “Eleanor, come here.”
She cowered behind Troy, but did not go to her father.
“If you do not come this instant, I shall shoot him where he stands.”
Troy wondered how he’d manage that, as Hart held only a sword, while he had a bead drawn on the man’s heart. Then fear gripped him as he wondered if the fellow was stupid enough to order his men to shoot with Lena standing right behind him?
Lena clearly believed her father’s threat, for she moved forward. “Promise you will not harm him.”
Spittle flew from his mouth as he shouted. “You dare make conditions to me?”
Lena tried to step before Troy. He blocked her with his body, as both his hands held his rifle.
She stood beside him now and lifted her pistol toward her father. He paled and Eleanor’s hand shook.
“Promise me.”
Hart dismounted and stalked forward, his eyes glittering dangerously.
“You would shoot your own father?”
She hesitated, then dropped her arm, her head hung in defeat. When she lifted her chin, the determination shone like hell’s fire. Her hand, now steady as any scout, pressed the barrel of the pistol to the soft flesh below her chin. Troy’s stomach dropped several inches.
“Promise me,” she shouted.
Har
t blanched and halted.
Lena cocked the trigger. The click echoed in Troy’s soul, sending terror vibrating through him.
Troy lost his aim as he shifted his gaze to Lena in astonishment. The woman he knew would never take her own life.
Taking in the wild look in her eye and her finger constricting the trigger, he registered her grim determination. He thought of her stubbornness and a jolt of panic ripped through him. This was no wild threat.
She glanced at him and spoke through gritted teeth. “You do not know him. He will kill you and take me.”
Troy didn’t care. The only certainty was that Lena must not die. He released his finger from the trigger. He would not watch another woman he loved take her own life.
Her eyes turned to her father. “He goes free or I will shoot.”
“All right,” shouted her father. “I will not kill him.”
Troy’s hand shot out and knocked the barrel of her pistol, sending it flying from her hand.
Her jaw dropped as her astonishment registered and then her gaze flashed forward. He caught the movement from the corner of his vision, lifting his rifle to block the thrust of her father’s saber. The steel of Hart’s blade screeched across the barrel of his Hawkins and the blow missed his heart, cutting instead across his chest and then slicing Troy’s belly.
Lena screamed. An instant later the pain came in a rush like the cold wind before a storm. He thought the man had spilled his innards, but a glance down showed only blood spilling from his middle. The air held no scent of punctured intestine.
He swung his rifle with all his might, sending Hart to the ground, and then Troy dropped to his knees.
Lena reached him. With one hand, he clenched the rifle like a crutch. So much blood. His ears buzzed as if he stood surrounded by a swarm of angry hornets. His fingers tingled, suddenly burning hot as his grip failed. The gun slid from his hand and he fell to his chest in the grass.
Troy now viewed Hart’s boots, as shiny as if they just came from a shop. He probably had as many shoes as Lena. One boot drew back and kicked him in the ribs.
Lena’s hysterical cry lifted the hairs on the back of Troy’s neck.
She gripped his arm. Troy turned his head, shocked at the effort of so simple an act, and saw Lena reaching for him as her father dragged her away.
“Hold her,” he said, thrusting his sobbing daughter to one of his men. “And burn those damn paintings.”
Get up. You have to get up now. Troy closed his eyes.
Hart spoke again. “Cooper, shoot him.”
“You promised not to kill him,” cried Lena as she struggled against the men who gripped her arms.
He had to help her. Troy succeeded only in moving his arms beneath him.
The arrogance of Hart’s tone penetrated the red haze, even as he lay prostrate and bleeding before his enemy.
“No, I promised I would not kill him,” said Hart. “And I will not.”
A second pair of boots stopped before the first. Though still cleaned and polished, this pair showed some use.
“Well?” Hart sounded impatient.
“I’ll not shoot an unarmed man.”
Hart again. “This scoundrel is a kidnapper and a villain. Shoot him.” Silence for a moment and then Hart stamped a boot heel like a child. “Andrews, you do it.”
Troy closed his eyes. The next voice seemed familiar, without the harsh eastern accent.
“I’ll do it.”
He blinked at the moccasins beside the pair of squeaky new boots.
“Help me get him up, Black Feather.”
Black Feather? He knew that name. He gasped at the pain ripping across his middle as two sets of hands dragged him to his feet. He blinked in astonishment at his friends, Jeb Macey and Black Feather.
“Thought you was selling shoes in Philly,” said Troy, frightened by the weakness evident in his voice.
“Hush up now,” said Macey. He grasped Troy’s shirt and twisted, then sliced a hole the size of a silver dollar in the buckskin.
“For God sakes don’t fall down until you hear me shoot.”
Troy nodded. Falling down should be no trouble, but standing proved a challenge that took all his concentration.
Macey stepped away and Troy tipped. Black Feather’s hand steadied. In slow degrees the fingers slipped off and Troy swayed like a blade of grass in the wind.
Ten feet before him, Jeb Macey lifted his rifle and aimed at Troy’s heart.
The black powder exploded and smoke belched from the barrel. Troy clutched his belly and lurched forward.
The last thing he heard was Lena’s high-pitched cry.
Lena screamed as Troy dropped lifelessly to the ground. Her legs failed her and she crumbled to the grass. Her captor released his grip and she crawled on hands and knees to her lover.
“Troy—Troy, please answer me.” She shook his shoulder; his arm flopped like every lifeless carcass she had ever seen. The cry tore from somewhere deep in her soul. “No!”
Her father nudged Troy with his boot. “Is he dead?”
Lena grabbed her sire’s heel and twisted. Her father upended and she tore at him like a wild animal, trying to reach his face, his eyes.
“Pull her off. Eleanor, are you mad?” He lashed out, striking her across the cheek with the pommel of his sword. The blow sent her reeling.
Hands gripped her. Someone shook her shoulders as she swung again at her captors.
“Take her to the horses.”
Her feet never touched the ground as they dragged her from Troy. She kicked and struggled as hands bit cruelly into her upper arms. Her voice failed and still she screamed as the feral cry turned inward, piercing her insides with needle-sharp talons. Her fault, all her fault.
“Laudanum!” cried her father.
He held her nose and forced the thick bitter liquid down her throat. The sky blackened as night fell in a curtain all about her. Alone now, in the dark. Alone and screaming as the horror tore her to pieces.
Chapter 22
The smell of lemon polish and the sound of her mother’s voice finally roused Lena from her stupor.
“My God, John, how long has she been like this?”
“I told you she went mad. I drugged her for her own protection.”
“How long?”
“Nearly three weeks.”
Her mother gasped.
“What happened to her face?”
Her father cleared his throat. “I suppose that half-breed beat her.”
Her mother stroked Lena’s cheek. “My poor angel.”
Eleanor closed her eyes and a tear issued from her eye.
“Has she wept?”
His face appeared before her and she blinked.
“I stopped the laudanum yesterday. Eleanor, can you hear me?”
What was he saying? What savage had beaten her? She lifted a hand to her face, touching the raised scar on her cheek. It curled beneath her left eye like a sickle. The wound left by the pommel of her father’s sword. Why did it not pain her?
Then it came. The steamer, locked in her room as her father poured that vile fluid down her throat to stop her pounding upon the door.
Troy.
The dam burst and images flooded her. She convulsed, as if the bullet that ripped him from her had struck a second time. Her father ordered Troy shot like a rabid dog. She sunk to the plush carpet of the drawing room that she only now recognized.
Her mother tried to collect her. “Eleanor, my dear. Sit here now. There’s my poppet. Mamma’s here.”
Eleanor stared at her father, wanting to condemn him, to strike him down. Betrayer. She saw the scars upon his cheeks. Claw marks at his temple, still shining an angry red. Pride rolled through her.
She had done that.
Her fingers curled into claws as she gathered to open his face again. For him she had been willing to leave her love. For this lying, self-serving tyrant, she had been willing to give herself to any stranger in marriage.
No longer.
Sensing attack, he backed away. “I told you. Snapped like a dry twig. I expected better from my daughter.”
Her mother pressed Eleanor’s head to her breast. “She suffered a terrible ordeal. You obviously upset her. Move away, John, out of her vision if you please.”
“I upset her! I am her own father, her rescuer.”
Eleanor tracked him as her mind flashed the image of Troy falling, shot by one of her father’s minions. He broke his pledge not to harm Troy with a trick of words and then burned her paintings. He had no honor, only wealth and power that he used to do as he pleased.
Her father’s voice disturbed her musings. “How can she make a match looking like this? I mean, a dowry will only go so far. At minimum a man of quality expects a woman fit to bear his children. Look at that scar, for God’s sake.”
“John, dear, it will fade in time. She has lost so much weight. But Cook will fix that. Won’t she dear?”
Eleanor did not answer.
“Lost weight? She looks as appealing as a street urchin.”
“Now, why not take yourself off, John, and leave us to reacquainting ourselves?”
Eleanor glanced up to see her father scowling down at her. She sneered at him, curling her lip like a wild dog. The obligation to him burned with her dreams on the prairie beside Troy. Now there was only ash.
“She looks as if she hates me, when I saved her life,” he said.
“Don’t be silly. Of course she doesn’t hate you, do you Eleanor?” Her mother gazed hopefully at her.
Eleanor turned her head away from them both.
“Come now, dear.” Her mother pulled and Eleanor rose, shocked at her body’s weakness. How she could walk when her heart was broken?
Charlotte drew her along past the huge gilded mirror in the entry.
Eleanor gasped. Her mother held a small, frail female with her.
Her mother’s gaze met hers in the mirror. “Don’t fret, Nora. You have been ill. But you are better now.”
Her father’s image appeared. “Better. Ha. I’ve seen better looking women on the docks.”
“John, have you no compassion?”
“Compassion?” His voice boomed like cannon fire and his wife flinched. “What I have is an empty nursery, thanks to you and your daughter. Well, I’ll not have it. Enough nonsense. She is to marry at once.”