Willie frowned at that thought. He knew Drew well enough to realize that there was more to the relationship between the beauteous Tricia Shepherd and him than he was ready to let on. He also knew that Drew did not form attachments easily. His friend had demonstrated that fact clearly during the time they had spent together during the war. Willie knew most clearly of all that however Drew wanted to handle the situation, he needed time alone with her before they left Galveston. He’d done his best to make sure Drew had that opportunity. He hoped Drew would take advantage of it—
Willie’s thoughts were interrupted by a sound behind him. He turned around.
No one.
Willie paused and searched the shadows for long moments before becoming amused at his own behavior. Sometimes it was hard to forget that the war was over and threats against Confederates had ceased.
Turning back to the dimly lit trail ahead, Willie continued on toward the stables. Thunder would welcome him. The old fella would stand patiently while he tended to his injured hoof. He had no doubt that he would—
That sound again.
Once more, Willie stopped. A sixth sense turned him toward the shifting shadows nearby.
The silence between them was strained to the point of discomfort as Tricia looked at Drew, lying in the satin-covered bed. She said awkwardly, “I suppose Willie is taking care of your needs and you don’t want anything from me right now.”
Drew looked up at her, but he did not reply. Tricia stammered, “I mean, you seem to be as comfortable as he could make you.”
Drew’s look darkened.
Tricia took a breath and said in a rush, “You seem to be recuperating well. You should be encouraged by Dr. Wesley’s assessment of your condition. He thinks you’ll be able to get back on your feet soon.”
“I’ll be back on my feet sooner than he thinks.”
Tricia took a wary step toward him. “I don’t think that would be wise. Dr. Wesley knows what he’s doing and he says your wound needs more time to heal.”
“More time isn’t what I need.”
Tricia swallowed. Somehow the next logical question stuck in her throat.
Breaking the silence between them, Drew said, “Why aren’t you asking me what I do need?” He paused, his gaze locking with hers as he questioned, “Afraid?”
“I’m not afraid,” Tricia responded with more confidence than she felt. “I know you’ve been ill—very ill—and that I was the first, and occasionally the only face you saw. I know you feel an attachment to me because of it.”
“Right.” He mumbled more softly, “My angel.”
“What did you say?”
“I said you’re right, I suppose. I do owe you for the time you spent with me those first few nights, even though Dr. Wesley more or less said you’d be wasting your time.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
Drew replied unexpectedly, “I figure that’s true, too, especially since you did the same for men who might have put me in this bed in the first place.”
“I don’t think that’s the right way to look at things, either.”
“No? What is the right way?”
“You were sick. I did what I could to help you.”
“You would have done the same for any man.”
“That’s right.”
Drew’s expression tightened. “Thanks.”
“F-for what?”
“For making it clear to me exactly how you feel.”
Tricia did not respond, and Drew smiled stiffly. “I guess that says it all.”
She realized that all his smile really meant was that it was the beginning of the end.
“Who’s there?”
Willie stood motionless on the rough trail, his question sounding loud in the nighttime silence broken only by the chirping of night creatures, an occasional whinny, and echoes of frivolity from the brightly lit bordello behind him. He frowned and reached for his gun, then realized with a mumbled curse that he had removed his gunbelt days earlier and had left it in Drew’s room.
Standing stiffly, he called out again, “Who’s there? You might as well come out, because I can hear you.”
Still no response.
Willie waited a few minutes longer and then glanced at the stable, some distance away. The hair on the back of his neck stood up straight, an indication that danger was closer than he realized. Making a swift decision, he turned toward the stable and took his first step, only to halt abruptly when a sharp, searing pain pierced his back.
Gasping, Willie turned, his eyes widening when a shadowed figure stepped into view and struck another piercing blow to his chest.
Willie struggled for breath. He could feel himself falling. He heard the harsh thud as his body struck the ground, but strangely he felt no pain. The acrid taste of blood filled his mouth, and he struggled for breath as he looked up at the man leaning over him.
He strained to make out the shadowed figure’s features as the fellow struck a third time.
He wanted to speak.
He wanted to ask why.
He wanted to say that he wasn’t ready to die . . . but it was too late for him to say anything at all.
The small bordello room had grown incredibly warm and the silence between Tricia and Drew became more awkward with each passing moment. Drew kicked off the satin coverlet that had lain across his legs, grateful that he had insisted upon wearing his trousers so he would feel less of an invalid. She avoided his eyes and looked straight ahead as she sat on the upholstered chair nearby. She hadn’t said a word since their brief, sharp conversation, and regret welled inside him.
He wasn’t sure what had gotten into him when he had spoken to her so gruffly. That had not been his intention when she had entered the room, but she had come in wearing that simple blue dress that made him ache with longing. The tendrils of hair hanging loose at the back of her neck had tempted his touch. The wary gaze of her incredible eyes had knotted his stomach up tight. The slight nervous twitch of her lips had raised a desire in him to soothe her anxiety in the only way that would ease the need building inside him as well. In that moment, he had wanted to get out of that bed and prove to her that he could make her feel what he was feeling . . . but he did not.
Instead, he had spoken to her harshly, out of frustration.
The minutes ticked by painfully. He was aware how much he owed her—a debt he dared not express. He knew that speaking those words would be the first step in a direction he could not afford to go.
But there was one thing he needed to do. He needed to talk to her without the bitterness that had tinged his former comments. He needed to say that he—
A banging on the door raised Drew’s head. A moment later Jake’s pale face appeared. Jake glanced around the room and then stepped aside to allow Chantalle to enter. Her face was equally pale underneath the paint of her profession. Chantalle glanced at Tricia in a way that brought Tricia to her feet. Then she looked back at Drew and said, “I have something to tell you, Drew.”
Drew’s heart pounded as Chantalle advanced toward him with tears bright in her eyes. His breathing seemed to stop when she said, “One of my stable hands just found your friend Willie lying on the path behind the house. He was stabbed. He’s dead.”
Incredulous, Drew blinked. He couldn’t have heard her correctly. He shook his head as if to clear his mind. He saw the tear that slid down Chantalle’s brightly painted cheek as Doc Wesley entered the room and moved soundlessly toward him.
Chantalle whispered, “I’m so sorry. I don’t know how it could have happened.”
Hardly aware of the sharp prick of the needle Dr. Wesley plunged into his arm, Drew said hoarsely, “But why . . . how . . . ?” He took a breath. “I need to see him.”
“He’s not here anymore. Doc Wesley told some fellas to take his body to the funeral parlor.” Chantalle continued in a rush, “It was a robbery. At least, it looks that way because Willie’s pockets were turned inside out.”
“No.” D
rew shook his head. “Nobody with any sense would rob a down-and-out Confederate when there are fellas with full pockets walking the street. I have to see him.” Drew tried to get up, but his legs refused to obey him. His gaze was clouding, and voices were beginning to echo from a distance as he tried again and failed. Still struggling, he felt Tricia’s hand on his arm. He saw the tears that she brushed away as she said, “Relax, Drew. There’s nothing you can do.”
He said thickly, “It’s my fault. Willie came back to Galveston because of me.”
“It’s nobody’s fault except for the person who killed him, but that person won’t get away with it. They’ll find him.”
“They?” Drew’s eyes were drooping closed as he heard himself say, “Not they. I’ll find him.”
“Drew . . .”
Drew heard Tricia whisper his name. He saw tears streaking her cheeks. The world was going dark around him as he repeated, “I’ll find him.”
Chapter Seven
Drew awakened gradually, with a sense of foreboding heavy on his mind. He opened his eyes, uncertain of the reason for his reluctance to start the day. He glanced around the bordello room, at the sunlight beginning to filter through the heavy satin curtains, his sense of apprehension growing. He looked at the upholstered chair nearby and saw Tricia dozing with her head resting against the curved back. He was surprised. He had expected to see Willie there and he—
Drew came to full consciousness with a start. Reacting to his sudden movement, Tricia was suddenly awake. She stared at him silently for a few moments, then moved to his bedside and said, “Are you all right, Drew?”
She brushed away the single tear that trailed down her cheek, and he knew it was true. Willie was dead.
“Why?”
He was unaware he had spoken aloud when Tricia responded, “I don’t know. The stableman found Willie on the path to the stable. It appears to have been a robbery.”
“No. That doesn’t make sense.”
“What other reason could there be? Willie was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Whoever did it was probably lying in wait for anybody who happened to walk up that path.”
In strict control of his emotions, Drew threw his legs over the side of the bed as he prepared to stand. He pinned Tricia with his gaze. “Nobody goes back to the stables except Will and Carlos. Do you mean to tell me somebody was hoping to rob either one of them? It wouldn’t be worth the effort.”
“Willie’s money pouch was gone.”
“Willie’s money pouch never had much in it. Anybody with any sense could tell that just by looking at him.”
When Tricia had no response, Drew asked, “Where is he? Where did they take his body?”
“It’s still at the funeral home. Nobody knows where his family is located. They figured—”
“I know where his family is.”
Drew reached for his boots.
“Where are you doing?”
“I’m going to the funeral parlor first, and then I’m going to tell Willie’s family what happened. They need to know.”
“Drew, please . . .” Tricia attempted to stay his hands. “You’re not ready for all that traveling yet. Just tell Chantalle where his family home is, and she’ll arrange for somebody to go there and notify them. Willie’s gone. You can’t do anything about his murder right now, and you might end up hurting yourself if you get up too soon.”
“I’m fine.” The deadening ache inside Drew swelled.
“Drew—”
“I need to see him.” Drew’s voice grew hoarse. “We had a pact. We made a promise to each other that I intend to keep.”
“I know. Willie told me you promised each other you’d make it out of the war alive. He said it wasn’t a realistic promise, but it was a promise you both managed to keep. You kept that promise, Drew. It’s over and done.”
“He didn’t tell you the rest of it, then.” Staring intently into her eyes, Drew continued, “We also said if one of us didn’t make it, the one who was left would get even. I’m going to keep that part of the promise, too.”
Not waiting for Tricia’s response, Drew shook off her restraining hand and reached for his boots. He sucked in his breath, ignoring the pain when he straightened out his wounded leg and stood up.
“I’m going with you.”
Drew looked down at Tricia as she stood beside him. He frowned.
“No.”
Tricia’s response was equally succinct.
“Try to stop me.”
Colonel Clay Madison stood up angrily behind his desk and stared at Sergeant Walker. Assigned to the Adjutant General’s Office in Galveston with orders to restore order in a city that had suffered greatly during an extended blockade by Yankee ships, Clay had not expected that his duty there would be so difficult. A Northerner by birth, he’d had little experience with Southern pride, and he had not realistically estimated the resentment he would encounter from the former Confederate supporters who seemed to fill the city. He had learned the hard way that in Galveston, the term “Yankee” was faint praise indeed, and although soldiers wearing Federal blue walked the street freely, an undercurrent of resentment flowed beneath surface smiles.
He’d had good days and bad days during the course of his assignment. Bad days had included periods of unrest and incidents that had caused several riots in the city. Yet it was in Galveston where he had met the young, bright, extremely feisty and beautiful young Southern woman who had eventually become his bride.
That had been a good day.
This day, however, was a bad one.
Addressing Sergeant Walker with carefully suppressed agitation, Clay said, “You’re telling me a man wearing Confederate Army trousers was found murdered behind Chantalle Beauchamp’s bordello?”
“Yes, sir.”
“This isn’t the first incident reported there.”
“Yes, sir, but no robbery to date.”
“What was the victim’s name?”
“Wilson Childers, sir. He was a former Confederate soldier who had just returned from the war. He had . . . umm . . . business to conduct at Madame Chantalle’s, and he was on his way home. He was found with his pockets turned inside out.”
“You’re certain he’s a former Confederate soldier, or are you just making that assumption because he was wearing the trousers from a Confederate Army uniform?”
“Madame Chantalle confirmed the information. She knew him.”
“He was a friend of hers?”
“I don’t know, but she reported his death.”
“Has the news of his death been reported to his family yet?”
“Nobody seems to be sure where they’re located.”
“Has his death become common knowledge in the city?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
Clay hoped not. He was intensely aware that if his wife, the former J. L. Rebel, were still reporting on a daily basis in her former position on the local newspaper, the news would have spawned another riot like the one that had rocked the city shortly after she started working there. He was silently grateful that Jenna Leigh had learned that the power of the press could be a dangerous weapon if not used wisely. He was also grateful that marriage had mellowed his wife’s former antagonism toward the Yankees.
The death of a former Confederate . . . a young soldier on his way home. Clay winced at the thought. Rabble-rousers in the city who supported rebellion against Federal martial law would not be satisfied that his death was the result of a robbery. Nor would they believe that a “Yankee” officer would make an honest effort to apprehend his killer. He could not afford to allow those rabble-rousers any leeway. Serious repercussions could follow. He hated to think that the murder of a poor soldier returning from the war could become the incident that ignited a smoldering truce into flames.
There was only one way to prevent it.
Clay ordered, “I want a military detail ready to travel with me to Madame Chantalle’s within five minutes. We need to make sure th
e citizens of Galveston realize that the Adjutant General’s Office will not sanction the killing of a former soldier—no matter the color of the uniform he wore.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want our investigation to be visible, Sergeant . . . very visible.”
“Yes, sir.”
Clay watched as Sergeant Walker left to follow his orders. The sobering truth was that no matter how visible his actions, only one thing could save the situation. He needed to find the poor fellow’s killer fast.
A late morning sun shone brilliantly and the heat of the day was building as Drew took a deep breath and stood still momentarily on the paved walk outside the funeral parlor. Outwardly stoic, he rigidly controlled the agonizing pain that tore at his innards. He had just viewed Willie’s body. At his side, Tricia brushed away her tears and raised her chin. It occurred to him as she stood silently beside him that her presence was a comfort and a source of strength that he had not expected.
She had been equally silent as they’d entered the room where Willie’s body lay. She had not made a sound as they’d viewed Willie’s motionless form. Looking down at his friend, Drew had felt a sense of unreality envelop him, and he had been momentarily disconcerted. Willie looked so strange. Willie’s eyes, formerly sparkling with a joy he seemed to find every day under any circumstances, were closed; his mouth, formerly smiling broadly at the slightest provocation, was colorless and still. Accepting fully for the first time that Willie was dead, Drew had struggled to suppress his grief.
It was at that moment when Tricia had slid her small hand into his. He had looked down to see that she shared his pain, and the knowledge had consoled him. Borrowing her strength, he had taken a deep breath and reaffirmed his determination.
Willie was gone.
But he was not forgotten.
Drew took Tricia’s arm as he limped toward their horses.
“Where are we going now?” she asked.
Drew was only too aware that his leg had not returned to full strength. Struggling to hide his physical pain, he replied, “I’m going to see Willie’s parents. It shouldn’t take too long, maybe a day or so.”
“I’ll be ready whenever you are.”
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