River Magic

by Martha Hix

  “That’s life.”

  “Why don’t you like him?”

  “I don’t dislike him. I’m angry at him.” Could that be because his kid brother never gave him a chance to say yes or no? Why couldn’t Jon Marc have come to him, his eldest brother, to chew the problem? Why did he feel the need to force a rift by going to their grandfather?

  “Why are you angry at Jon Marc?” she pressed, ever vigilant.

  “It’s a tangled story. One I don’t want to get into.”

  “Does it have to do with your parents’ deaths?”

  “Aunt Phoebe can’t keep her mouth shut.”

  “I like her. Like her a lot.”

  “The feeling’s mutual. When I went to the Gowen, during my abortive attempt to collect you for the voyage south, Aunt Phoebe was your fiercest champion.” While Aunt Tessa expressed a loss to understand why his “bride” ran out on her and Jinnings, she, too, had come to India’s defense. That, he felt certain, all had to do with the magic lamp and his fanciful aunt’s illogical wish upon it. “What all did Aunt Phoebe tell you?”

  India gave a thumbnail sketch of the workings of the fractured O’Brien family, one that caused Connor to frown. No way would he discuss his parents, yet his determination, as usual, faltered under the effect of India. “Did Aunt Phoebe tell you why Jon Marc argued with Fitz?”

  “Because he wanted to take over the family business.”

  “That’s part of it,” Connor admitted. “Jon Marc accused our father of killing our mother before committing suicide.”

  “But I thought her, her whatever-you-call-it killed her.”

  “Her lover. Her paramour. The Lothario. Pick a term. The man killed her, not her husband. I can’t accept any other possibility.” A surge of anger lanced Connor. He was too old to remain hostile toward Daniel for providing such a miserable life for his wife and sons, but he couldn’t help it. As well . . . “I could’ve broken Jon Marc’s neck for splitting our family up a second time. But he did. He can stay gone. I’ll never forgive him for leaving like he did. It eats at me.”

  “I shouldn’t’ve called up your ghosts.” Propping herself up on an elbow, India smoothed tender fingers over his brow. “Forget I said anything about it.” Her voice held sympathy, along with a note from the protective reaches of her heart. “That’s the best way to deal with suffering. Forget it. Don’t think about it. Don’t let it get the better of you. Just get on with it. And make plans for the future.”

  He knew experience had spoken. Tonight, learning about Matt’s probable fate, she’d deviated from detachment. That had been the real India. No poker face. In the past, when she’d occasioned to speak about young Winny, it had been there, but Connor now realized the depth of her pain over losing the first of her two brothers. India felt deeply about everything, everybody, every issue. And Connor, the lousiest of heroes, yearned to assuage her grief, her sorrows.

  “Connor . . .” Her voice came softly, like a feather in the breeze. “I’m not your mother.”

  He couldn’t help but chuckle. “India Marshall, whatever in the world made you say such a thing?”

  “One unhappy army wife doesn’t mean another woman couldn’t make the grade.”

  “This, from the peace dove? You’d be miserable. Just like Georgia Morgan was. But for different reasons. You’re too opinionated for the army life. You’re against war, she was simply weak. I adored her, don’t get me wrong. You might say I was a mama’s boy, hanging on her skirts. Trouble is, I’m too much like my father.”

  “How so?”

  “Selfish. You accused me of it once. Got me to thinking. That was Daniel, selfish. Wanting his own way, never able to concede. When Georgia Morgan forced him to leave the service, he hated her for it. I don’t want to hate you, my darling Squirt.”

  “Why do you call me Squirt?”

  “You said not to use an endearment unless I meant it.”

  She gave a small laugh. “Squirt is an endearment?”

  “Is to me.”

  “Fine, then. I think I like it.” She cuddled closer. “We’re getting away from something I won’t drop. What if I never asked you to give up the Army? What if I promise to smile at frontier forts and marauding Indians?”

  “Man alive, are you ever not like Georgia Morgan,” he said wryly, dryly.

  “Do you think I could ever stand a chance with you?”

  “India. Don’t. Don’t torture us both with such as that. Let’s take one problem at a time. The first being, getting this trial behind us.”

  She got quiet, very quiet. He knew she was falling back on timeworn behavior: forget it, go on.

  The monotonous thump of a train on its way to India’s day in court filled the boxcar. It seemed as if those sounds took on English: Fool, fool, fool. Connor should relent, ought to haul her back into his arms and make love to her until the train pulled into a depot. Then pick the lock and lead her to the first official with the authority to make their lovemaking legal.

  The marriage idea sounded good right now. Wouldn’t Aunt Tessa be tickled to know that? But how would it play in the long run? Promising to smile at Indians and doing it were two separate feats.

  “Connor . . . when this train stops, turn your back and let me escape.”

  “Not no. Hell, no. I’m not leaving you in enemy territory.” Enemy territory? Since when had Union become enemy to him? “I won’t leave you to your own devices.”

  Her hair brushed his lips as she said, “I can handle myself. I must return home.”

  Should he take her there? Remit her to the bosom of a family fragmented by war and untimely deaths, rather than from the O’Brien malaise of discordance from within? Yes, that was the answer. Take her home.

  No.

  He couldn’t. It would mean a charge of desertion for him, would make matters worse for her, once the authorities caught up with her. For the first time in his life, Connor O’Brien, officer and West Point graduate, questioned the road taken. When the hell was the use of a career, if it kept a man from going with his instincts?

  He filed rhetoric away. The Army was his career—for all the lousy officers like Lawrence, for all the crud and crumbs and disasters such as his bad call at Gettysburg. By sworn oath, he must uphold orders given, yet he’d do it for her sake more than anything. She’d never stand a chance, if she didn’t stand up and plead her case.

  “India, you have to go on to Washington. If not, you’ll be a hunted fugitive.”

  “That’s the chance I must take.”

  His words sounding lame, even to Connor, he replied, “We’re locked in. You can’t get out.”

  “You don’t know me. I can free that padlock.”

  “Forget it.” He hated to imagine what was working in her wily brain. His fingers closed around a handful of her hair. “You’ll reach Washington. The tenets of the Constitution guarantees you a fair trial. And you will have one.”

  “Who can guess the outcome? Even if I’m acquitted, it could take months to get back to Pleasant Hill. We need food, clothing, and other necessities.”

  He visualized a grim picture of life on the modest cotton farm. No field hands, no house servants. Property forced idle by a cause of idiocy. Hunger, privation. “India, I’ll telegraph word to my grandfather. Fitz O’Brien can—”

  “For pity’s sake, Connor, how can you get word to him in occupied territory? The message would be intercepted.”

  “No. The O’Briens are Unionists.” Phoebe being the exception. “Word will reach him. Fitz will send enough money to St. Francisville to keep your family going.”

  “That’s charity.”

  “Consider it a loan.”

  “You have no idea how much it takes to run a plantation.”

  “You have no idea how much money Fitz O’Brien has.” Connor had never accepted a dime, but he’d beg whatever amount necessary to benefit India. “Trust me.”

  He clamped his mouth, made a pillow of her soft shoulder. If she knew how deeply sh
e was embedded in his heart, she’d use the knowledge to his disadvantage. She wouldn’t worm another promise out of him. Yet . . . even if it took appealing to Stew Lewis to allow him to stand at her side—even if it took renouncing a return to the battlefield—Connor would make certain the Constitution worked, would see that she gained her freedom in this land of the free.

  Sacrificing his chance at battle would be his gift. For love, he would do it. Love? It had to be love. What else could it be? A tender surge, giving strange peace, filled him. His hand cupped her jaw; he loved the way she felt. India of a thousand facets. Worth any sacrifice. He wouldn’t lose her. Ever.

  Nineteen

  This was her reward. Connor refused to grant the liberty to save her family. That got India’s bristles up, even though reward had been her last consideration upon surrendering in Rock Island. Each bounce of the boxcar intensified her bitterness toward Connor.

  A loan from his richling grandfather. Alms for the poor. How generous. She didn’t need money. She had Zeke’s. Thank you for the loan, Zeke Pays. India may have been proud, but she wasn’t witless. It would take cash to reach home. Traveling funds, however, played a minor role in her concerns.

  Could she take her own advice and forget Connor? No. She’d never forget him. This was the price of giving her heart and soul to an unloving war hawk. But he’d called her a sweet nothing. Squirt? You call Squirt sweet and loving?

  Her gaze lifted to the open window flap. Still dark. Good. “Connor, you’re right.” She coerced an even tone to cover plans. “I should work to clear my name. I will do it.”

  “Thank God.”

  “We should sleep,” she said, feigning a yawn.

  “Yes. Sleep.” He took hold of her earlobe. “India, you’re the finest woman I know, but I don’t trust that scheming brain of yours. I’ve got to cuff your wrists again.”

  What a hero. Her “scheming brain” went to work. “Don’t lock me in those iron manacles.” Persia would be proud of the way she whined, “They hurt.”

  He conceded by tying her wrists with one end of the Union-issue sash usually worn above his hips. But on a wing of grace, he did leave some freedom, since the generous swatch’s reverse end got tied to his own wrist, giving her a chip of working room.

  He pulled her back into the curve of his free arm. Thanks to the many events of the past few days, he fell asleep quickly, but she’d never been more wide-eyed.

  It seemed forever before she felt comfortable making a move. At last, she did. Pearlie May, she fished from her shoe, no mean feat. Nor was it easy to slice the sash, but India did it. She let out bated breath when Connor didn’t awaken, even as a shard of light beamed through the window flap.

  More boldness filled her. Slipping out of Connor’s somnolent grasp, she collected Intrepid’s reins, and put Pearlie May to work making ropes from them. Both pieces of leather went around Connor’s feet, securely. The cropped end of the gold sash found a home on his other wrist. Her hands dusting in satisfaction, she sighed at a truss-job accomplished.

  Eschewing the corset, she dressed and donned Zeke’s coat.

  A flat pouch drew her attention. Sentiment caused her to pick it up. It felt cool in her hand. She lifted it, smelling leather and Connor. He hadn’t been interested in keeping a memento of her, but she wasn’t indifferent. This she would steal. But not the money. Disregarding two slips of paper, she pulled bills out of the pouch, shoved them under his hip.

  The pouch tucked into a pocket, India searched for one of the hairpins that had loosened hours ago, then jabbed it into the padlock to free the door lock. It was time to make her break.

  You can’t jump out of a moving train!

  Oh, yes she could, but waiting for it to slow down seemed the best course. Long minutes passed before the engineer sounded the whistle, announcing the eastbound would pull into some nameless station. The time had come to escape.

  Silly sentiment prevailed anew. She wanted, needed, a last look at her would-be Aladdin. Big, powerful, handsome, he slept secure that he’d won their battle. Guilt rose as she studied his bindings. What choice did she have, save for restraining him?

  “Good-bye, Connor,” she whispered. “Take care, my love. Stay out of the line of fire. All and all, you were a hero.”

  With a jerk that almost wrenched her arm from its socket, she opened the door. Cold air rushed in.

  “What the—India! What’re you doing! Don’t jump!”

  “Forward the Light Brigade!”

  She jumped.

  The earth rushed up. The train may have moved at a slow clip, but nothing prepared her for falling fast and hard. The pouch flew out of her pocket.

  The impact knocked the air from her lungs.

  Somehow she found the strength to shake her head, to shake her faculties clear. Town. She saw a town. The outskirts. A big town. Chicago? She had to get away from here. Quickly. Forcing herself to unsteady feet, she caught sight of a Union soldier in the distance. Go the other way. But the precious pouch was between her and the soldier.

  She would have to leave it.

  It had been four weeks since Roscoe Lawrence returned to Rock Island. Four miserable weeks. “Antoinette run off like a bitch dog in heat—damn her hide. Then yesterday. . .” He crumpled the telegram in his fist. “And now this.”

  His misery was met with off-key humming. Seated at his bedside, vases of get-well daffodils in the background, Opal quit her serenade, put down the mending, and rose to grab the same bowl of chicken soup she’d been trying to pawn off all day. “Eat, dearest. You need your strength.”

  “Get away!” He slapped at her advances like one might fight off an airborne fowl invasion. “Stop clucking, woman!”

  She retreated to her chair and his sock. Her fingers whipped needle and thread through the latter. “Roscoe, I do believe you’re getting well. Your temper has returned.”

  “Do fish have fins?”

  She cupped her ear. “What did you say, dearest?”

  “Goddamn, I’m sick of you and your affliction. Why couldn’t it have been you to catch smallpox? Instead of me.”

  “Sick, oh.” She raised the ear trumpet. “We know you’ve been sick, but we’ll be our old self in no time, won’t we?”

  He yanked a petal edge of the gadget to his mouth. “Quit using ’we.’ Unless you’ve got a fucking mouse in your pocket.”

  Opal’s chin quivered. “Mine was an attempt to cheer you.”

  He shoved the earpiece away. The only thing good about Opal? He could say what he pleased without getting the message across, if he chose, so he let go. “Nothing’ll make me feel better. Anty, gone. The Delta Star under quarantine near Memphis. I heard about it, got a telegram, just this morning. I’ve still got a few friends in this man’s army, yes, I do.”

  Very few. The death ship on top of yesterday’s lousy luck . . . Lawrence punched his pillow in a futile attempt at comfort. “What if Anty’s unwell? What if she’s dead?”

  “What about the bed? Would you like for Doot to carry you outside for fresh air?”

  “No, goddammit, I don’t.” Signals helped get that message across. He next dropped his arms. “How can I catch up with Anty? What can I do about finding La Dee Dah?”

  Doc Hanrahan had told Lawrence to stay abed, since his had been a bad case of variola, near fatal. The drunk, damn him, went a step further, had told the inspector general to grant convalescent leave. “Sick leave—boff!”

  Yesterday, the I.G. signed the leave, but not before giving another directive. The Lawrences must vacate the mansion on the double, to make room for a new post commander. Once Lawrence recovered, he’d be second-in-charge, thanks to his own men turning on him, reporting his past “foul” treatment of those grub-gulping Reb prisoners.

  “Boff.”

  When recovered, he’d take to the chase. He knew Burke O’Brien’s steamship, once it furled its warning flag, couldn’t go farther south than the Mississippi’s mouth, but what had become of Pretty Boy a
nd his Injun-looking piece?

  ’Twas a mixed bag, Roscoe Lawrence’s feelings about those two. Everything had started out good. The morning after O’Brien and the impostor left Rock Island, the telegraphic operator called on Lawrence. “Major O’Brien sent a telegram yesterday,” the Western Union man had said. “But I just got word that the lines are down betwixt here and the East. When they’re up, you want I should send the major’s message again, sir?”

  Of course, he didn’t.

  The telegraph lines were down for a couple of weeks. Thus, Lawrence couldn’t confirm what had, or hadn’t, happened when the train reached Washington. While the lines were useless, he’d gotten too sick to follow up on that Jones fellow’s ideas.

  He did know one thing for damned sure. O’Brien had pardoned one of the grub-gulpers by the name of Marshall. Captain Mathews Marshall. The camp records didn’t give next of kin, nor home address, but it did show Marshall’s old regiment number and place of capture: Port Hudson, Louisiana.

  Could be, the grub-gulper parolee and the fake do-gooder were kinfolk. It was worth looking in to. Lawrence glanced at his wife, who hummed and darned. Again, he pulled the ear trumpet to his mouth. “That message I wrote out ’fore I took sick. The one where I told the brass about La Dee Dah running off. Go to Western Union and send it.”

  “Roscoe dearest, give up on Major O’Brien. You have enough to do, getting your health back.”

  “Don’t give me any lip.”

  “As you wish.” She studied her mending. “What’s most important. Revenge against the major? Or finding our niece?”

  “Don’t you see, Opal? Don’t you see that it’s all tied together? All my trouble comes from those named O’Brien.”

  What had once been mere aggravation over a snot-faced subordinate had now turned to a personal vendetta against Connor O’Brien. If he’d gotten a court-martial when it had first been warranted, after Gettysburg, he’d have never lured his rolling-in-velvet brother up here.

  “Send the message, Opal.”

  Lawrence, meanwhile, would fix on getting some. His nuts drew up. Yep, he’d find Anty, first thing, then bring her back where she belonged. “Hope I won’t be bringing a carcass home.”