“You can tell her yourself, Drew.”
“No.” A shadow of a smile touched Drew’s lips as he said, “Tricia won’t take no for an answer. Last night proved that to me. Last night also proved that I have trouble maintaining my convictions under her persuasion, and I can’t let her distract me from what I need to do.”
“She won’t like it, Drew.”
“But she’ll be safe.”
Chantalle did not respond. Her expression of sad acceptance touched him deeply. Leaning forward impulsively, Drew kissed her pale, lined cheek. He said simply, “Thank you . . . for everything.”
Then he limped out the doorway and headed for the street.
“Drew isn’t in his room. Where is he?
Tricia had awakened at mid-morning after a mostly sleepless night. Still lying motionless, she had recalled the terrifying attempt on Drew’s life in the wee hours that same morning, and a cold chill traveled down her spine. Drew had insisted that they return to Chantalle’s house to assure Chantalle that Tricia was all right. She had agreed, aware that news traveled with lightning speed in a bordello, and that Chantalle might become aware of the attack before the local authorities were informed. She had not taken into account that Chantalle would accompany her to her room afterwards, or that Drew would retire to his former room at the end of the hallway.
She had gone to that bedroom as soon as she’d awoken this morning—only to find the bed made up as if no one had been there.
Panic still pervaded her senses as she presently faced Chantalle in the confines of her office and asked again, “Where is he, Chantalle?”
Dressed in a surprisingly conservative gown, Chantalle replied, “He’s fine, Tricia. I don’t know where he is right now, but he’s fine.”
“When is he coming back?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I don’t know when he’s coming back here.”
“What are you saying?”
“Drew has a lot to mull over, Tricia . . . and he’s worried about you.”
“About me?”
“He said he couldn’t bear the thought that you might’ve been hurt during the attempt on his life.”
“But I wasn’t. Drew took care of it. I’d put my life in his hands anytime. He knows that.”
“He knows it . . . but the danger to you was more than he could bear.”
“Was . . . ?” Tricia’s blood ran cold. “Say what you mean . . . please.”
Her expression strained, Chantalle whispered, “I don’t know when he’ll be back . . . maybe not until this whole situation has been cleared up.”
“But if someone wants to kill Drew, he’s the one who is in danger. I need to be with him so I can—”
“He doesn’t want that.”
“How do you know what he wants?”
“Because he told me.” Chantalle continued softly, “You said there were dark spots in Drew’s past that he kept secret from you. They’ve come back to haunt him, and he doesn’t want you to be a casualty of the circumstances.”
“I don’t understand.”
“And I wouldn’t want to be the person to explain it all to you, even if I could.” Pausing, Chantalle then said, “I have only one question to ask. Do you love him?”
Unaware of the tear that spilled down her cheek, Tricia replied, “Yes, I do.”
“Then trust him. Believe in him. Let him work all this out.”
Tricia shrugged uncertainly as she asked, “And in the meantime?”
Tears overflowed Chantalle’s darkly kohled orbs. Silent, appearing unable to reply, she closed the distance between them and gathered Tricia into her motherly arms.
“Why didn’t someone inform me about this sooner?”
The report of the attempt on Drew Collins’s life lay on his desk as Colonel Clay Madison stood up and faced Sergeant Walker. The stiffness of his military posture betrayed his annoyance as he said, “My investigation into Willie Childers’s death is common knowledge in this office, and the link between these two attempted robberies is plain to see.”
“Sir, Lieutenant McMasters received notification of the crime during the early morning hours. He didn’t note a relationship to the Childers investigation at that time and he—”
“He didn’t? Not even when he went to the scene of an apparent robbery attempt and saw that Drew Collins was wearing Confederate Army pants and boots just like Willie Childers? He must have realized that Collins was probably a former Confederate soldier, which should have led him to connect last night’s attack to the murder at Madame Chantalle’s—which I am very publicly investigating. If he had read the notification I passed around in order to keep all officers abreast of the situation, he also would have realized that I had actually interviewed Drew Collins in connection with the Childers case. Collins was the fellow who accompanied Willie Childers into Galveston. He also should have realized that this attempt on Collins’s life could change the whole direction of my investigation.”
“Sir, it wasn’t until this morning that this report from Lieutenant McMasters came across my desk.”
“Two days after the fact?”
“There’s been a change in personnel down the line, sir. Some miscellaneous paperwork has been held up for even longer periods than this.”
“Is that so? We’ll take care of that situation later.” His expression angry, Colonel Madison continued, “In the meantime, have Lieutenant McMasters report to me immediately. I want to know everything he’s done so far in his investigation. I don’t intend to embarrass the Adjutant General’s Office any further with my ignorance of the affair.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want to see all that ‘miscellaneous paperwork’ you mentioned that’s been held up ‘down the line,’ too, and I want to see it immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Make sure Lieutenant McMasters reports to me within the hour. I’ve already lost two days in this investigation. I don’t want Galveston’s confidence in Yankee justice to erode any further.”
“Yes, sir.”
Leaving with a solemn salute, Sergeant Walker returned minutes later, carrying a thick file.
His brows drawing into a knot, Colonel Madison asked, “What’s that?”
“This is the miscellaneous paperwork that was held up, sir. It was also forwarded to me this morning.”
Colonel Madison’s lips twitched with annoyance as he accepted the file and ordered, “Find McMasters!”
Hardly aware that Sergeant Walker had left his office, Colonel Madison opened the file and started reading.
Simon was beside himself. He paced his spacious office, unable to concentrate on the forms Billy had placed on his desk for him to sign hours earlier. He walked to the window as he had done countless times, his thoughts in turmoil as he stood staring out blindly at the expanse of sea beyond.
Two days had passed since Bruce had been killed in Drew Hawk’s hotel room. The authorities had shown no interest in Simon beyond notification and a few questions that first day, but he had received reports from his informants in the city that Drew had been everywhere, making inquiries about him. Simon didn’t like it. The man’s questions were raising eyebrows, and Simon was uncertain what answers had been secretly given to Drew in the more common quarters of the city. He needed to find out more, but with Bruce gone and Angie no longer making any attempt to contact him, his sources were limited.
The thought enraged him. Time was growing short. He needed to convince the Galveston consortium to sign the agreement that would eliminate any change to the present conformation of the port by committing the only available funds elsewhere. Individual investors in Houston would secure his future there when their own futures were assured. Everything hinged on his ability to positively affect the signing of that agreement. He could not afford to have Whit Hawk return just now for fear of the complications that might result, but he sensed that Drew Hawk’s questions were part of the reason that
agreement was not yet signed.
It irritated him that Drew Hawk had not come to him for information so he, Simon, could claim his innocence. Instead, the bastard seemed content to stick his nose into every past venture he had ever been involved in. He was unsure how much the fellow knew or what his intentions were. He was virtually in the dark.
Yes . . . he needed to know more about what was happening.
Despising the need, Simon knew Angie was the only person he could depend on to get him the information he wanted. He would have to visit her again on the pretext of seeking out her sexual expertise. He would appeal to her lascivious nature. It would not be difficult to make her hungry for what only he could offer her, and once they were on familiar footing, he would put her on Drew Hawk’s trail.
Yes, he would do that.
His body reacting predictably to the picture he had created in his mind, Simon gave a low snort and turned toward the door. It occurred to him that he might actually enjoy himself while putting that sultry tart in her place again.
The thought amusing him, Simon walked through the outer office with a mumbled word to Billy as he headed for the exit.
Chantalle greeted Barry Potts effusively as he entered the house and closed the door behind him. Barry was thin and balding, an elderly gentleman who was one of her regular customers. She knew he had often experienced embarrassing difficulties during solitary times with her girls. Mavis had been particularly patient with him, and he had expressed his gratitude for her kindness in the most generous of ways. But Chantalle knew that even if he had not been in a financial position to express his appreciation, she would not have refused him entrance to her house. She liked him and understood his situation, and that was enough.
Chantalle summoned Mavis with a wave of her finger. She watched as the smiling prostitute took Barry’s arm and led him inside. Mavis was particularly gentle with him. She seemed to realize that conversation was almost as important a part of their relationship as sexual favors, and that the elderly man needed to believe that Mavis’s interest in him went beyond—
Loud, angry voices on the upstairs landing interrupted Chantalle’s thoughts. She didn’t abide that type of behavior in her establishment. Her thoughts stopped cold when she glimpsed Simon Gault. A moment later, he slipped out of sight, dragging Angie with him.
Her face flushing hot red, Chantalle ascended the staircase in a rush. She reached the upstairs corridor just as Simon attempted to open the door to his special room. His expression rabid, he turned toward her and demanded, “Is this door locked? If it is, I demand a key.”
“Do you?” Sparing a short glance for Angie, Chantalle noted that the sultry brunette appeared terrified. She replied, “In answer to your question, yes, the door is locked. It will remain locked until I decide when and for whom to unlock it.”
“Is that so?” Maintaining his grip on Angie’s arm, Simon said with a poisonous glance, “May I remind you that your ability to do business in Galveston is dependent on the goodwill of the city, and that I am in a position to affect that goodwill any time I choose.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Oh, you don’t!” Simon released Angie’s arm. Chantalle noted that Angie took the opportunity to slip back down the staircase as Simon turned his full attention toward her, continuing, “You have a very short memory, Chantalle. If not for me, you would not have reached the station you have attained in this city.”
“That’s what you’ve always told me.”
“It’s the truth, and I suggest that you heed it. It is only my friendship with you that has allowed you to—”
Chantalle interrupted hotly, “Don’t waste your breath, Simon. You and I have never been friends, nor will we ever be. We have been business associates, and the time has come for me to sever that relationship. To put it plainly, you’re no longer welcome in this house. Please leave.”
Were she a lesser woman, Chantalle knew she would have been cowed by the fury that transformed Simon’s features before he said in a measured tone, “I will give you time to rescind that request, Chantalle. I understand that you may have become upset at the attempt on the life of your daughter’s lover, but I—”
Rage flushed Chantalle’s senses at his hypocritical tone, and she interrupted, “That’s it. You’ve said enough! Get out of here and don’t come back—and you may rest assured that there is not a single person in this household who will lament your departure.”
Seeming to swell with wrath, Simon took a threatening step toward her. “Harlot! Take that back or I’ll make you take it back.”
“Is something wrong, Chantalle?”
Chantalle glanced at the stairs as Jake stepped up onto the landing. She saw Simon’s eyes narrow as the big man with the full white mustache approached them, his fists balled. She saw Angie duck out of sight at the base of the staircase as she responded, “Nothing is wrong now, Jake. Mr. Gault was just leaving.”
Simon glanced at Jake as the big barkeep neared. He took a backward step and said in a voice throbbing with promise, “You win this time, Chantalle. I’ll leave. I have no desire to make a scene, but you’ll regret this day. I promise you that.”
Inwardly quaking, Chantalle did not reply as Simon turned abruptly toward the rear staircase.
When Simon had disappeared from sight, Chantalle looked gratefully at Jake. His tone was gruff when he said, “You shouldn’t have talked him into leaving, Chantalle. I’ve been wanting to throw that fella out since the first time I saw him here.”
Chantalle’s smile belied the tremor in her voice as she said, “I’m sorry to have deprived you of that privilege, Jake. I doubt very much if Simon will return.” Slipping her arm through his, she said more softly, “Come on. Let’s go downstairs so you can pour us both a drink. I don’t know if you need one, but I sure do.”
Her continuing smile masking her concern, Chantalle started down the stairs with the memory of Simon’s threat lingering in her mind.
Colonel Clay Madison looked up from the folder on his desk. His brows tight, he read the official notification again, more slowly. He glanced at the date on the top of the sheet and mumbled brusquely before standing up, snatching his hat, and turning toward the door.
In the outer office, he told Sergeant Walker, “I’m going out for a while. I’ll be back shortly.”
“Sir, Lieutenant McMasters has been located. He’ll be here soon.”
“Tell him to wait here for me.”
Closing his office door behind him with more emphasis than necessary, Clay untied his horse from the hitching post and spurred him into motion. Arriving at the small house where he and Jenna Leigh resided while their new home was being renovated, he dismounted and approached the door. He paused for a breath as he pushed it open.
Jenna Leigh emerged from the kitchen, obviously surprised to see him there, and he was momentarily silent. He supposed he would never become fully accustomed to his wife’s extravagant natural beauty; to the glorious blond hair that spilled free of her normally upswept coiffure, and the mesmerizing, ambereyed gaze that revealed her quick mind. He attempted a smile when she said, “What are you doing home this time of day, Clay? I was just cleaning up and I—”
Her voice abruptly stilled. A shadow passed over her face as she said, “What happened?” She took a breath. “It’s not Whit. He hasn’t been hurt, has he?”
“No, it’s nothing like that.” Closing the distance between them, Clay slid his arms around Jenna Leigh and drew her close. Inwardly marveling at the multitude of emotions that simple intimacy stirred inside him, he whispered reassuringly, “As far as I know, Whit’s fine.” He went on, “I just read something in a file of military papers that crossed my desk, and I figured you’d want to know.”
“What is it?”
Knowing that Jenna Leigh’s keen mind would quickly sort fact from fiction, he said, “I received a memorandum this morning that was passed down through military channels months earlier but was somehow held up along the w
ay. It stated that the Union Army is conducting a search for a former Confederate Army officer who led a raid on a Union Army payroll just days before the war ended. It said that although the Confederate commander responsible for the raid surrendered, the money was not found. The commander claimed that the officer who headed the raid never made a full report to him, that he has no record of the payroll ever reaching the hands of the Confederate Army, and that the payroll was probably stolen by the men conducting the raid.”
“Yes . . . so?”
“The name of the officer in charge of that raid is Drew Hawk.”
Jenna Leigh gasped. Clay felt the tremor that shook her as her eyes widened and she strove to catch her breath. He said in the hope of lessening her shock, “We can’t be sure he’s your brother. We don’t know if this fellow just happened to have the same name or—”
“What does he look like?”
“The report describes him as approximately six feet two inches tall; black hair; hazel eyes. His birth year is recorded as 1840.”
Jenna Leigh swallowed. Her eyes filled as she said in a breathlessly hopeful tone, “1840—the year our Drew was born. Can it be, Clay? Can I possibly be fortunate enough, after all these years of suffering their loss, to find both my brothers?”
“I don’t know.” His expression solemn, Clay continued softly, “I’m especially uncertain because this Drew Hawk appears to be on the run. He could be anywhere in the country, especially if he knows where that payroll went—or if he kept part of it.”
“My brother wouldn’t do that! My brother was honest and high-minded. He’d never steal anything that didn’t belong to him.”
“Jenna Leigh . . . this Drew Hawk did.”
“But that was during the war! Whether this Drew Hawk is my brother or not, he was merely following military orders.”
“That would be true if the payroll had ever been turned over to his superiors.”
“There could be a hundred reasons why it wasn’t!”
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