Straight For The Heart

by Marsha Canham

  Her gaze scanned the faces of the other men seated around the table and her recollections stopped there … crystallized, more to the truth of it, becoming suspended like a pattern of frost on a window pane. The frost, the sparkling pattern seemed to form a glittering halo around the last face she would, in her wildest of dreams or nightmares, have expected to see there.

  He had his back to her. Even so, there was no mistaking the broad, powerful shoulders, the thick chestnut waves of his hair, the slim, inordinately long and fragrant cheroot he held balanced in the square-tipped fingers of his left hand.

  Michael Tarrington was supposed to be halfway to Louisiana by now hunting Ned Sims. He was not supposed to be in Natchez, playing poker on board the Mississippi Queen.

  His expression, when he turned slowly toward her, was equally frosted and liberally laced with fury and disbelief. She was supposed to be safely ensconced behind the walls of Briar Glen, tucked into a feather bed reading bedtime stories to a sleepy, tow-headed four-year-old. She was not supposed to be on a gambling boat, flashing a wad of money and a come-hither smile at men who had already undressed and raped her with their eyes.

  Michael’s eyes were the color of a harsh winter sky, slate gray and threatening a storm of epic proportions. His mouth was a thin slash, so bleak and forbidding it sounded as if he had to squeeze every word through clenched teeth.

  “Montana. This is indeed a surprise. I hadn’t heard you were back in business.”

  She found her voice somewhere and replied, “I hadn’t heard you were back in Natchez.”

  Whitney spread his hands inquiringly. “We here to reminisce about old times … or play cards?”

  Montana’s hand tightened around the wad of money she had partially withdrawn from her reticule. Had Wainright known Michael would be in the game? Was that how he knew Briar Glen was debt-ridden? Because he knew Michael had gambled his way to the brink of ruin?

  She wanted to turn and run. Wainright should have told her. She would have been better prepared if he had told her how truly heavily the odds would be stacked against her.

  At least you’ll know what you’re up against. Ben’s words. The echo of them was still whispering in her ear as she leaned forward and placed the sheaf of money on the table.

  She saw Michael’s eyes flick down and his mouth, if it was possible to do so, became even thinner, speculating, she supposed, on where she had come by such a large amount of cash.

  “Gentlemen,” she said evenly. “Let’s play cards.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  Amanda stood on deck and breathed the luxury of cold crisp night air. She guessed the dawn was not far off; stars were already beginning to fade and melt out of the sky. A thick layer of mist floated across the surface of the water, sending ghostly fingers up the embankment as if in search of some way to escape the river basin. The showboat was dark, quiet, with only dim lamps mounted at the stern and bow to mark its length in the gloom. The crowds on board the Queen had thinned but would never completely go away while the boat was moored to the dock. Even when she sailed, the roulette wheels would still be turning, the faro tables would be working, the hostesses would be hauling their trays and selling their smiles to anyone with the coin to pay.

  Michael had left the ship an hour ago, without a word or a glance in her direction. He had lost heavily, due in no small part to the vast quantity of whiskey he had consumed. He had played recklessly and made foolish bets on hands that held nothing stronger than a pair. To prove a point, perhaps? To prove it didn’t matter? To prove nothing mattered anymore?

  Amanda turned abruptly from the deck rail and walked to the stern, past the monstrous, gleaming paddle wheel. She descended by the crew’s hatchway, feeling her way along the unlit corridor until she came to the captain’s quarters. There was no light showing at the bottom of the cabin door, but there had been no mistaking the look in the captain's eye when she had signaled she was almost finished for the night. She had often met him after a game to settle their account; only once had he been late in joining her.

  There was no answer to her soft knock and she tried the latch. It moved freely, as did the door on its well-oiled hinges.

  “Ben?”

  There was no sound other than her own breathing and the slap and wash of water against the outer skin of the hull. “Ben … are you here?”

  The rocking motion of the huge ship was more pronounced in the dark. Sounds had echoes but no source or direction. There was a lantern somewhere, hanging from the center of the ceiling if she remembered correctly, creaking lightly in its metal cradle.

  Amanda waited for her eyes to become accustomed to the darkness before she tried to search for matches. A chair began to take on shape, a desk, a low beam across the ceiling that must have caused the tall captain a curse or two in passing. A weak, gray light sifted through the small porthole, causing pale reflections from the lights on shore, and as her sight improved the light seemed to strengthen and point the way, like a beacon, to a pair of lamps and a jar of matches on a small table.

  Halfway to her goal, her foot snagged on something and she stumbled awkwardly to her knees. Her hands, spread out to break the fall, skidded farther in a pool of water and the dark silence was startled by the sound of her ripe curse. Feeling doubly foolish, Amanda tugged at her skirts and felt around the area of her feet to locate what had tripped her. She felt a length of rough wool, and something bristly above it … something gaping and wet … teeth …

  Amanda choked back a scream and scrambled away from the body. Her hair stood on end and her spine arched, her fingers burned where they had brushed over the arm, the shoulder, the full bearded jaw. It was Captain Turnbull and she did not have to see him in any stronger light to know he was dead.

  She stumbled to her feet and ran for the door, swinging it open with a crash in her haste to escape. She did not stop to wonder what had happened. She ran along the corridor and up the stairs, then full speed along the deck. She did not even stop to offer an apology when she rammed headfirst into a man and woman locked in a passionate embrace beside the rail. The man swore and shouted after her, the woman only stared, then screamed at the blood that had been left in a smear down her skirt and on her outstretched hands.

  Amanda kept running down the gangway, along the wharf. She was less than a hundred feet from the main thoroughfare when a shadow detached itself from the jumble of dockside crates and stepped directly into her path. She started to veer around him, to push him out of her way, when two strong hands grabbed her and spun her into a heaving, panting halt.

  “Amanda? Hold on up there; what’s the hurry? Good God, you look as if the devil is on your heels.”

  Amanda’s mouth dropped open. For the second time that night she found herself staring into the last face on earth she expected to see.

  “Josh? Josh? Is that you?”

  “In the flesh. Alisha told me everything. She sent me down here to look out for you, but I’d all but given up.”

  “Josh,” she gasped. “I don’t know where you’ve come from and, frankly, I don’t care. Can you help me … please? Can you take me back to my hotel?”

  “I … certainly. Certainly, I can. I have a buggy waiting over—” He stared aghast at her hands, seeing the blood for the first time. “Amanda … are you hurt?”

  “Wh-what?” She looked down and her eyes widened. Her lips trembled apart and her knees weakened, causing her to sag forward into his arms. “Oh … God …”

  “Come,” he said brusquely. “Let’s get you away from here and then you can tell me what has happened.”

  He supported her around the waist as he led her to the waiting carriage. She climbed aboard and pressed herself into the darkest corner while Josh threw the hitching stone on board and cast a wary eye back toward the Queen, alert for any signs of pursuit. He scrambled into the driver’s seat and slashed the reins over the rump of the dozing horse, and in a few moments they were clattering along the thickly misted, sleeping alle
yways, putting a safe distance between themselves and the Mississippi Queen. Josh spoke only once, to ask the name of her hotel, then slapped the reins liberally until they had drawn up out front.

  He draped his long woolen cloak around her shoulders and circled his arm around her waist again.

  “Keep your hands tucked underneath and hold it closed over the hem of your skirt.”

  Amanda did as she was told, hiding the bloodstains.

  “Just keep walking through the lobby, don’t stop for anything. Have you the key?”

  She nodded again and fumbled in her reticule a moment before handing it to him.

  “Good girl,” he said. “Just act as normal as you can; I’m right here beside you.”

  “Josh … thank you.”

  “Thank me later. For now, just walk.”

  She was grateful for his support as they entered the dimly lit lobby. It was not an elegant hotel by any stretch of the imagination, but there was a desk clerk in attendance to discourage vagrants of both the two-and four-legged kind. He was sound asleep behind his stall and there were no other guests venturing in or out this time of night.

  As soon as they were in her room, Amanda let out a small cry and ran for the pitcher and washbowl in the corner. She flung off the cloak and splashed water over her hands, scrubbing them until her flesh stung. She soaked a cloth and rubbed frantically at the emerald-green velvet, but the stains were too widespread. She gave up on the cloth and stripped feverishly out of the gown instead, tossing it along with two layers of petticoats on the floor.

  Left with only her camisole, corset, and a single thickness of petticoat to guard against the chills shivering through her body, she washed her hands again, to the elbows this time, removing every trace of pink she could find before collapsing, weakly, on the side of the bed.

  Josh opened the window and emptied the basin of soap-scummed water. Without being asked, he gathered up the discarded dress and underpinnings and deposited them by the door.

  “I’ll get rid of these properly when I leave. Don’t worry, I’ll find a nice big fire so that nothing will remain but ashes. Are you feeling a little better now? Can you talk about what happened?”

  “It was the captain,” she whispered harshly. “Captain Turnbull. He was dead, in his cabin. I found him.”

  “Dead?”

  “Murdered. Someone murdered him. There was blood everywhere and—” She stared up at him, gritting her teeth as another shiver wracked the length of her body.

  Josh spied the bottle of brandy on the bedstand and poured some into a glass. “Drink this,” he commanded. “All of it.”

  She swallowed a deep, biting mouthful and felt it drop like a fireball into her stomach. A second mouthful sent another shudder rippling through her body but she felt better for it. The shivering stopped and she thought she might be able to talk without her teeth chattering.

  “His neck … I think someone must have cut it. There was … an awful lot of blood … everywhere.”

  Josh tilted the glass up to her lips again. “Try not to think about the blood. Just start at the beginning and try to remember everything the way it happened. What were you doing in his cabin in the first place?”

  “I went to talk to him. I wanted to ask him about booking passage for Verity and me to New Orleans.”

  “Passage? On a gambling ship?”

  Amanda shook her head as she lowered it. “It’s a long story. I knew the captain well; he said he could take us there … discreetly.”

  “So you didn’t trust Wainright to keep his word?”

  Painfully wide blue eyes looked up at him and Josh cursed under his breath. “It’s all right. Alisha told me about the game, about Wainright blackmailing you into playing tonight. She didn’t say anything about the captain helping you leave Natchez.”

  “She didn’t know. No one was going to know.”

  “Not even your husband?”

  “Least of all my husband,” she said tautly, lowering her eyes again.

  Josh released a thoughtful breath through pursed lips. “So. You went down to the cabin and found the captain … what did you do then?”

  “I … just ran. I knew he was dead, there was nothing I could do for him … so I ran. I didn’t think, I just … ran.”

  “When had you last seen him alive?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe an hour earlier. Maybe less.”

  “Then whoever killed him,” Josh speculated, “was either waiting for him in the cabin, or followed him from the salon. Did you see anyone else coming or going from the cabin?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Did anyone see you?”

  “N-no, I don’t think so. Wait … yes! A man and a woman were standing on deck. I bumped into them when I ran past.”

  “Did they see your face? Enough to recognize you if they saw you again?”

  Amanda frowned. “I don’t know. I think they must have; I nearly knocked the woman down.”

  Josh scratched a hand through his hair, looking grim. “Then one or both of them will be able to identify Montana Rose as the woman who ran from the scene of the crime.”

  “Scene of the crime? You make it sound as if they’ll think I did it.”

  When he did not immediately dismiss the notion as foolish, she glanced up sharply.

  “A woman running in a state of obvious panic,” he said gently. “Blood on her hands and clothes. A man dead in his cabin. What would you think?”

  “I think … I would want to hear her side of the story first before I condemned her to a hangman’s noose.”

  “And just who do you propose should tell her side of the story? Montana Rose … or Amanda Tarrington? Either way the odds are not in your favor. Montana would be convicted on her reputation alone, and Amanda … well, what proper young Southern belle rigs herself out like a lady of the evening and plays poker until dawn? Take into account a Yankee judge, a Yankee jury?”

  He did not have to finish. The picture he painted was quite clear.

  She stood and paced to the window, no wiser for the effort. “I was planning to leave Natchez anyway. I guess this just makes it all the more imperative.”

  “Leaving town now would be the very worst thing you could do right now.”

  Amanda glanced over her shoulder and frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “You’re assuming,” Josh said slowly, “all hell will descend on the head of Montana Rose and, in turn, spill over onto Amanda Tarrington. You’re assuming the good citizens of Natchez will make the connection—which they won’t. A riverboat gambler and the wife of a respected plantation owner? My God, no one in their right minds would ever make the association, let alone believe it. There are just too many women living on the waterfront who fit the same description, and that’s where the Yankee authorities will concentrate their search.”

  “So what are you suggesting I do: Go back home and take up my knitting and sewing and hope someone else who ‘fits the description’ will be arrested and hanged in my place?”

  “I’m not suggesting you do anything you don’t want to do. I’m just suggesting you don’t do anything in haste. If Amanda Tarrington vanishes in the middle of a sensationalized murder investigation, people who might normally not take a second look will sit right up and start putting two and two together. Leave Natchez now, leave your husband and create a scandal and you will have the bloodhounds sniffing after you as sure as the sun rises every morning.”

  “I have already left Michael,” she said quietly. “I took Verity to Rosalie yesterday.”

  “Then … you don’t think he’ll help you?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t seem to know anything anymore.”

  Josh saw the sparkle of tears gathering along her lashes and he walked over to the window to stand beside her. He tucked his finger under her chin and gently forced her to look up at him. “I want you to know, I have never forgiven myself for that afternoon in the garden. If there is anything I
can do to make it up to you, anything at all, you know I’ll do it.”

  She smiled weakly. “You’ve already helped me more than you should. You certainly don’t want to be seen in the company of the infamous Montana Rose.”

  “I would be proud to walk down the middle of the street with her,” he insisted, bowing gallantly. When he straightened, her expression was still so forlorn, he wrapped his arms around her and pressed a kiss into the glossy golden crown of her hair. “We’re not all that dissimilar after all, you and I,” he mused. “It appears we have both managed to fall in love with the wrong people.”

  “I didn’t want to fall in love with him, Josh. I really didn’t.”

  “I know. Believe me, I know exactly what you mean.” His jaw tensed as he thought of Alisha, of the months of agony she had put him through and of the times she’d used him coldly, heartlessly, and no doubt laughed at his weakness all the while. No. It wouldn’t do to dwell too long on Alisha’s duplicity. Anger would not help Amanda now.

  “Dry your eyes,” he ordered with stern tenderness. “Blow your nose like a good little sister and … for heaven’s sake, find some clothes to put on before I forget I’m a gentleman.”

  Amanda straightened with a childlike sniffle and realized she was, indeed, wearing only the bare necessities. She went to the armoire where she had hung her gray traveling suit and started to dress.

  “What should I do, Josh?”

  “First, you check out of this hotel. Once you’re safely back at Rosalie, you’ll be all right.”

  “What about Wainright? He will still want his pound of flesh. He said I was to have his money to him by noon tomorrow or else the whole county would know about Alisha’s abortion.”

  She had her back to him, hurriedly pulling on clothes, and did not see the sudden stillness that settled over Josh’s features. She had blurted it out without thinking, without caring to think, assuming, since Josh had said Alisha had told him everything, he meant everything.