River Magic

by Martha Hix

  One heel at the stallion’s flank, Connor reined around to study the road leading to the depot. The supply wagon turned this way. It would be but moments before he’d see her, and he dreaded it, not trusting his temper. But she was safe.

  As for her brother’s whereabouts, Connor didn’t give a damn, but instinct said Marshall swam for freedom. He’s dead. The Davenport rapids had swallowed better men than Matt Marshall.

  They could have gone free. Both Marshalls could have taken sanctuary aboard the Delta Star. They could steam out, along with the aunties and Jinnings, under Burke O’Brien’s protection. But no.

  Connor welded hardened eyes to the now-parked supply wagon. Coatless, Zeke Pays piled out of the rear, extended a hand to help the lady down, then telescoped an umbrella above her head. A feminine cheek lifted for a kiss. So, the lynx had the old goat in her persuasive paw again.

  The ancient soldier saluted, receded. Good riddance.

  Connor walked Intrepid toward her and the three flanking elderly guards. Zeke’s coat draping across her shoulders, she swung around, looked up. Looked very small, very vulnerable.

  Her bound hands lifted as if in supplication. “Connor.”

  Aunt Phoebe, while being grilled about every word exchanged during her chat with India, had told him she’d dressed young, so he should have been prepared for the sight of India, but he wasn’t. Never had he seen her dressed for her age.

  Hours in custody hadn’t mussed her beauty. Neither did Zeke’s coat. A hatless head gleamed in lamplight embellished by a misty halo. Her fetching hairstyle tried to do damage to his fury, as did the sight of what peeked from beneath the coat: a gown of lavender cut velvet on a lovely and comely young woman.

  No wonder Zeke Pays had surrendered.

  “Board the boxcar.” Connor turned Intrepid. “Don’t make me make you.”

  From the corner of his eye, he spied her taking the lead from her escorts. One of the guards manning the umbrella, she walked the plank with head held high.

  Connor climbed from the saddle, patted Intrepid’s muscled neck, then led the stallion in her path. “Leave,” he bellowed to the guards. The trio clipped salutes, then did as bade. After yanking the door closed, Connor secured a padlock on the inside latch, then hooked the key out of her reach. He, by God, wouldn’t be guilty of letting her get away.

  He led Intrepid to a stall, secured him, while a departure whistle blew, the boxcar lurching as the train pulled out.

  “Connor . . .”

  “Don’t. I don’t want to talk.”

  His uniform stinking of wet wool, he sat upon the straw-strewn, vibrating floor and buttressed his back against the wooden wall, closing bloodshot eyes. The din of wheels turning over, making contact with the rail lines leading eastward, should have lulled him to the sleep lost over the past day. It didn’t.

  Too much aware of India’s movements as she tried to make herself comfortable with manacles on her wrists, he grimaced. Don’t ask her a damned word. If he did, he feared she’d get him back in her clutches. India Marshall would face a tribunal in the capital, and Connor O’Brien was furious enough to let her.

  “Connor, I’m relieved you aren’t in trouble.”

  He didn’t comment.

  “Connor, about Matt—”

  “Save it. It’s too late for talk.”

  Memories of this afternoon were too fresh.

  After Connor’s vain daylight search for a pair of fugitives, Lawrence had cornered him at the stables, where Connor had retreated to feed and water Intrepid. “Say, Pretty Boy, I’ve got your lady friend,” the colonel had announced with a sneer.

  Giving no heed to insubordination, Connor had jumped him, tightened a hand on the colonel’s neck. “Where is she? If you’ve hurt her, by God, I’ll kill you.”

  Lawrence tried to answer; Connor let go for it. “You disobedient bastard, I ought to skin you alive.”

  “Talk, Lawrence.”

  “She turned herself in.”

  The earth seemed to pitch beneath Connor’s feet. Why? Why? Why? He expected fireworks, but not this.

  “Got orders for you.” Lawrence reached inside his coat pocket. “Your buddy Lewis came through. Report to Washington immediately. I’ll dance a jig when you’re gone.”

  Once Connor would have been overjoyed to leave. Not now. Sick from India’s foolishness, he read the orders, a dull ache settling in the front of his head. “I’m not going anywhere, not until I know Miss Marshall will get a fair trial.”

  “Funny you should mention that. She’s getting a trial. In Washington. I’m ordering you to escort her there.”

  Something didn’t add up. Lawrence wasn’t squawking about the hospital, hadn’t ordered his arrest. He’s up to something. Nonetheless, the colonel wasn’t a clever man. His way with anger was blatant; he didn’t wage ingenious wars.

  “Why, Lawrence? Why are you sending me as escort?”

  “You’re going that way, at any rate. Save the government money, not sending you and a guard to the capital. Mostly, ’cause my niece asked me to go easy on you.”

  Connor hadn’t trusted him this afternoon.

  Nor did he trust him now, as the train rolled eastward. He patted the flat leather pouch inside his tunic. Insurance. Security against being double-crossed by Lawrence.

  Seventeen

  Rain sank its teeth. Springtime it might be, but Matt Marshall, garbed in worn-out grays, never recalled being this cold. His bleeding fingers pulsated with pain. Keep moving. He must keep moving. For he was free. Finally free.

  Free, with some unintentional help from Indy: her lost hairpin had come in handy at unlocking his ankle manacles. He didn’t resent her taking off without him. He’d told her to go, and couldn’t have gotten loose if she hadn’t released his wrist irons. But he’d never promised to stay put.

  He had to get to Honoré and their babe, had to get home. He wouldn’t risk dying in a stinking Yankee prison. Dying without holding Honoré in his arms one more time—unthinkable.

  In the shank of the previous night, he’d dug out of Solitary. Lost his gloves. Crawling through the dead-line trench, he’d used bare hands to dislodge a fence board. All day he’d hidden in this place and that, since O’Brien, during daylight, had been ardent in combing the island.

  O’Brien might be Indy’s man, but Matt trusted no one, so he’d used skills learned in the Louisiana swamp to elude capture.

  But he got tired. Too tired. Thus, he hadn’t budged from behind an evergreen bush, hadn’t moved since nightfall tonight. Strength began to creep back into his muscles. Once he got off this island, the rest would be easy enough.

  Matt had an eye on the great steamboat moored at the town wharf, an American standard at her aftcastle. He knew ships, had them in his blood, being the son of a sea captain who’d educated him thusly. Steam power he’d studied on his own, on the southern stretch of this river. Come hell or high water, he would commandeer the vessel.

  No ally in Illinois, he had to use wits to leave the island. He ducked out of the shrub to look up and down the lane that led from the prison, spying a buggy advance from the mansion. A buggy with a single occupant.

  “Yes,” he hissed.

  Just as it started to pass him, Matt jumped into its path to grab the harness. The horse neighed in fright, reared back. A scratchy feminine voice rang out. “Stop!”

  He leapt onto the seat, grabbed her, clamped a bleeding hand over the blonde’s lips. Her flesh was exceedingly warm. “Don’t scream, ma’am. Don’t scream, and I won’t hurt you.”

  Her head shook in answer.

  He lifted his hand fractionally. “Got a job for you.”

  “You’ve a nerve, accosting me. You keep me from Burke—”

  “Ma’am, if you want to live to see the morrow, you will get me on that big, pretty steamship over there.”

  “The Delta Star.” Despite the sickly pitch, she had a musical voice. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Mind the sid
es, ma’am.” A strong yet ravaged hand attached to an emaciated male gripped Antoinette by the upper arm, steadying her. “We don’t want you falling into the water before you and I both can escape.”

  He’d turned nice, gentlemanly—amazing for an escaped convict. But when he’d demanded a blue uniform from Uncle’s house, she’d cried, confessing she couldn’t turn back. They compromised. Johnny Reb now wore stolen garb from an Iowan volunteer. And he knew too much. But she trusted him. Kindred spirits they were, both running away from Roscoe Lawrence.

  The gangway to the Delta Star kept swaying; something in her fevered brain told her, “Not so.” She swayed. Pains lanced her back, her loins. Influenza? Couldn’t be. Too treacherous.

  Her shaking hand clutched the rope runner leading to the black-garbed steamship captain who stood on the first deck. Tall like his brother, Burke O’Brien had even darker hair. ’Twas as black as the britches hugging his narrow hips and muscular legs.

  If only she could fully appreciate him ...

  Her head pounded, her pulse quickening. Would her stomach toss again? Could she take the last steps leading to her dream?

  It had sapped much energy to steal out of her uncle’s clutches. She’d had to leave. Knowing Rosc, if she didn’t flee tonight, he’d keep her from the one man who could save her.

  “Are you all right, ma’am?” A different voice, another Southern one.

  “Gotta get her aboard.” Johnny Reb. “She’s infirm.”

  Powerful arms swept her off her feet. Her eyes hurt mightily, but she forced a close-up look at Burke O’Brien. Splendid. A loose-sleeved white shirt accentuated his darkness, and he more resembled a pirate than a steamboat baron. It was unfashionably tan, yet his skin complemented eyes as green as a dollar bill.

  She’d have settled for warts and webbed feet in the looks area, but Burke O’Brien was just as handsome as his penniless brother. No. More handsome. He had money.

  “Take us away,” she whispered to him. “Save us both.”

  But it would take more than Burke O’Brien to save her.

  From smallpox.

  How much longer would he treat her as if she had leprosy? Unable to abide the silence that reigned above the incessant rhythm of a moving train, bothered from spending many hours with her hands fettered in front of her, and sick to death of the cold shoulder, India wanted conversation. She wanted it now.

  “What did you do with my book?”

  “Screw the book.”

  “What did you do with my book?” she repeated.

  “What book?”

  “Arabian Nights Entertainment. It was a gift, and I treasure it. Did you leave it behind?”

  “The world has turned upside down, and you’re worried about some piece of romantic fluff.”

  “What did you do with my book?”

  “Burned it.”

  “Thanks a lot.” There went her idea that Connor had preserved a memento of their time together. “The least you could have done was put it in your saddlebag. Or returned it to me.” The last was a moot try at laying guilt, since her belongings were still in Rock Island town, and she’d left with nothing but the clothes on her back and Zeke’s largesse.

  Zeke. Benevolent hero, forgiving friend, concerned for her safety. Should she relay his warning about Lawrence? “Connor, there’s something—”

  “Go to sleep,” he growled. Prone on a boxcar bed of straw, he turned over to present his hind side. He’d done a lot of that during the past night and day.

  What would Persia do at a time like this?

  India wouldn’t go so far as to point out the discomfort in having her wrists manacled. At least they weren’t locked behind her, which she could give thanks for, were she in the mood.

  She glanced up at the closed flap that could be considered a window. A lantern swayed from a ceiling hook. Her nose led her eyes below the partition where Intrepid concurrently munched a pail of oats and discharged his previous meal.

  “I can’t sleep on trains,” she stated, very like Persia.

  Connor yanked a woolen blanket over his shoulder. “Then button your mouth so I can sleep.”

  India knew he couldn’t be too pleased that she’d given herself over to the Union authority vested in Roscoe Lawrence, but why was Connor treating her as if she had contagious legions?

  Heaven knew he had no wish to discuss it. She’d tried. More times than she could count without paper and pencil. The first time she’d tried to ask about Matt had been futile enough. The second incident had caused Connor to belch a stream of curse words that would have embarrassed the lowliest of Papa’s sailors.

  If only she could make him understand. “I did it for you. To save your hide. And it worked.”

  “It worked, all right.”

  “Connor . . . I need to use the chamber pot,” she fibbed, determined to keep his attention.

  “This is the second time you’ve asked tonight.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  The train had made but three stops since departing the Rock Island depot. Each time she’d expected Union troops to storm the boxcar. They hadn’t. But those were the only times she’d had any privacy at all, when Connor had mucked out Intrepid’s stall, or when he’d gone for supplies of food and drink.

  She gave Persia-style another try. “It’s not easy managing with my hands bound.”

  “You should’ve thought of that before you surrendered.”

  “Connor, help me.”

  “You’re beyond help.”

  True India surfaced. “I’ll just pee in my britches then.”

  With a very masculine bray of annoyance, he cast off the blanket and surged to bare feet. He stood, brawny legs braced wide on the jiggling planked floor. Even though he’d washed twice—each time giving her a healthy view of muscular arms and torso—his uniform no longer held impeccability.

  “Connor, it’s been hours since you tidied me.” And that had been in the vein of taking a wet rag to an alligator. All slap, dash, and hurry up. “I wouldn’t mind a washing-up.”

  “Too bad. This isn’t a hotel.”

  “I don’t like to stink.”

  “You don’t stink.”

  “I surely don’t care to wet myself,” she kept on.

  “Pee in your britches. See if I care.” His voice roared through the boxcar, sending Intrepid into a tizzy of equine screams and mighty kicks that splintered the stall walls. Connor’s eyes, the bruises having faded to purple, became like hazel rocks. Or hazel-colored minié balls seeking a target. “Pee in your britches, yack all night, drive what’s left of my sanity over the brink.”

  He stomped to her corner of the car. “It wouldn’t take much for me to go over the brink. It wouldn’t take much for me to yank open that door and throw you to the wolves.”

  For the first time India feared his temper. She’d be thrown out the door before she’d show it, though. Anyway, Zeke’s pearl-handled knife, Pearlie May, being stuffed in the side of one calf-high shoe, what did she have to fear? Just exactly how she’d wield it was another proposition altogether.

  “What will you do after we reach Washington?” she asked.

  “Leave.”

  “As soon as the trial is over?”

  “As soon as I turn you over to the War Department.”

  She shouldn’t have expected more, but did. Which hurt. And frightened. Naively, she’d thought he’d stay to put in a good word for her. “Wh-where will you go? Back to Rock Island?”

  “That’s up to my new commanding officer.” The hard planes of his handsome face steered triumphant. “I’ve been assigned to Grant’s army. Stew Lewis asked for my transfer.”

  So, he was going off to war. Something pinched her heart, wouldn’t let go. “Forward the Light Brigade,” she said dully.

  “That’s right. Forward the Light Brigade.”

  No wonder Lawrence hadn’t lowered the boom on Connor. A famed warrior had requested his services. Soon he’d be charging the enemy, as he’
d long wished to do. Odds were he’d be killed.

  The pinching turned to a stabbing. “Congratulations.”

  He shucked his tunic, crushed it into a ball as if to make a comfortable pillow. “Thank you,” he barked.

  “You’ll end up like those idiots of Pickett’s Charge. Shot dead, forever glorious and famed. Or maybe just shot dead.”

  “Thank you for the vote of confidence, Miss Louisiana Marshall.” If looks could shoot dead, she’d be a casualty. “Of course, you’re forgetting I survived Pickett’s Charge. You’re forgetting I was on the other side at Gettysburg.”

  Cold comfort.

  They were both doomed.

  It made her mad, flat mad. “It stinks in here.”

  And not just from the horse—from the climate of bloodshed that he embraced with a passion he could never show India Marshall. “This whole situation stinks.”

  “You’re never satisfied.”

  He stomped to a passenger’s trunk, jerked it open, took up a shovel, scooped up Intrepid’s remainders, and lobbed the excrement inside. The top slammed shut on its own.

  Connor, afterward, charged to the window flap and opened it. The swirling air it let in was both bracing and refreshing.

  “Satisfied?” roared through the boxcar.

  Not hardly. “Tuck yourself back into your little bed, I’ll be fine. I’ll say no more about the chamber pot.”

  He muttered something under his breath that sounded like, “That’ll be the day.”

  Somehow he shoved enough aggravation aside to grab his discarded sash, to roll up her skirts, and to tie them at her waist with the length of gold-hued fabric. Unfortunately for him—while he collected the pot—her skirts fell to the floor, the sash pooling at hems of lavender. “This’d be a lot easier if you unlocked these irons,” she ventured.

  “It would be a lot easier if you forgot the dress, and went about your business in underpinnings.”

  “I agree.”

  “You’ll be cold.”

  “That’s not a great concern.” Her corset may have started out loose, but after all these hours in it, it seemed as if every whale that had lost its life for feminine vanity had come back to haunt her. “The corset goes, too.”