A waiter dressed in impeccable white appeared at the doorway with the chilled bottle of champagne Rob had requested. A pop of the cork, a sizzle of froth, and the contents could be poured into three cut-glass flutes.
Rob pushed back from the burgundy damask cloth, and, glass in hand, rose to his feet. “A toast to our beginning friendship,” he proposed, “and to the lovely lady gracing our table.”
“Hear, hear,” agreed Padraic.
Re-seated, Rob mentioned his expectation for their dinner, because he had engaged the town’s master chef himself, earlier today. “Comes with the highest recommendations. Let’s see how well he does.”
A salad of fresh endive was delivered, with hot crusty rolls, to be expertly served and happily devoured.
“Did you do any shopping for yourself, Miss Brennan?” Rob asked politely, spreading butter with a generous knife.
Interesting to note that she was eating heartily and hungrily, with gusto. Not in the rather simpering, persnickety manner of some women who never seemed to appreciate a truly delicious meal. “Actually, I did. But, since what I bought were unmentionables, perhaps I shouldn’t mention them.” And she laughed.
Well, now. A female blessed with a sense of humor and a tinge of bawdiness, besides. Things were looking up. If nothing else, he could enjoy the evening in good company.
“If I may be permitted to say so,” he cast an approving glance her way, “you’re looking particularly handsome in that dress.”
It was a beautiful gown, of fitted aqua green silk, with jeweled black inserts set into the semi-full skirt and draped from the low-cut bodice. Worn with what he would discover was her usual verve and style, the color proved a perfect foil for her own vibrant coloring.
Which deepened slightly at his words. “I can only regard such a compliment very highly,” she murmured, “spoken in that charming southern accent of yours.”
“Southern accent?” Rob was astonished. “Not a’tall, Miss Brennan. I was born in Charleston, it’s true, but I left that city behind when I was just a small boy. Been living in California ever since.”
“Do you hear it as well, Papa?” she appealed to her father.
He had torn his dinner roll into bits, and finished chewing on a piece before he could answer. “I do, my dear. Nice to listen to, isn’t it? Fascinatin’ how, with some people, you can tell straight off just what part of the world they hail from.”
The waiter had arrived with their second course, whisked into place after clearing away what was finished. “Cumberland ham,” he announced, “with browned potatoes and aspic jelly. Please enjoy.”
Small talk followed, during which Rob asked whether Mr. Brennan had retired from farm work.
“Somewhat, I have.” Employing knife and fork with dexterity, Padraic pronounced his entrée delicious and approved Rob’s choice of chef. “I’ve been in publishing for a number of years. Run my own newspaper chain, up and down the coast, and that keeps me busy and out of mischief.”
“Newspapers? You don’t say. My brother, Paul, is a writer who’s been doing some special articles on his adventures. Think he’s doing a book now, putting all that together. Maybe you’ve heard of him.”
“Paul Yancey? I surely have, young man. Very impressed with his work. In fact, I ran the piece he did a while back on that outlaw he interviewed—Catamount somebody.”
“Clemens, Papa,” Fiona deftly inserted. “Up in the Sierra Nevada Mountains.”
Their lively discussion lasted through the dessert course of assorted fruits in a compote and accompanying cheeses, and the final course that offered a silver urn of Ceylon tea, with sugar lumps and a pitcher of rich thick cream. Topics ranged from the mild earthquake registered in San Francisco, back in February; to the capabilities of the current governor of California, William Irwin; to the fact that Fiona, having grown up on the farm, had learned to milk cows and tend a garden with the best of them; to the advantages and disadvantages of a large family, such as overflowed Rob’s ancestral tree, versus one so limited, such as the Brennans, comprising only father and daughter.
By the end of which everyone had happily agreed to abandon their formal titles for the pleasant and convenient use of first names.
While Rob could appreciate Fiona’s vivacity, good humor, and comeliness, while he could enjoy the sparkle of her conversation as much as the sparkle of her eyes, somewhere deep inside he was feeling disappointed.
Where was the famous Yancey lightning bolt? The zap of a cannonade straight to the gut? The razor-edged glance that matched soulmate to soulmate?
Then this simply must not be the one.
Not that he was looking, mind you. Not that he intended to look. He had, after all, sworn off marriage, forever and ever, amen.
Still, it would have been vastly gratifying had some entity somewhere given him some sign. Point him in the right direction, at least.
Oddly enough, even though Fiona was apparently never meant to be his intended, he couldn’t help thinking, a trifle wistfully, how well she would have gotten along with all his aunts. Similar personalities, and all. “Feisty” was the operative word.
A discreet knock on the door interrupted these rather dispirited musings, and Rob briefly excused himself.
“Sir.” A wary desk clerk called him into the hallway. “Mr. Yancey, sir, you asked me to let you know when Mr. Hadley returned.”
“I did.”
“Yes, sir. Well, he has. Just now, Mr. Yancey. He’s in his room, packing. Rather quickly, I might add.”
“Oh, damn it to hell,” muttered Rob, indignant at the poor timing. His life was being screwed up all the way around by this miscreant. “All right, Farley, thanks.” He turned back into the room with an abject apology. “Folks, much as I’ve enjoyed this, I’m afraid I’ll have to cut our evening short. Business calls.”
“That’s as it should be,” said Padraic, already rising and reaching out for his daughter’s hand. “The hour is getting late, anyway, and I need my beauty sleep. Come along, Fee.”
Just outside the paneled door, she paused to rest her fingers lightly on Rob’s forearm. “Thank you for a lovely dinner, Rob. It’s been quite delightful. Perhaps we might do it again some day.”
Delightful was the picture she presented in her aqua gown, shimmering as sea water in the light from the sconces. And then came the thought, unbidden, of how her appearance reflected the very image he saw for this hotel.
Before his lips could formulate such a romantic notion, however, he spied Walter approaching, with valise in hand, just as the Brennans were exiting toward him.
“Hey, Walt!” he called out, striding forward. “Hold on a minute. Need to have a few words.”
Startled, the man stopped dead. Even in the hall light the myriad of emotions whirling across his features was plainly visible: consternation, fear, rage, and, lastly, determination. The valise came flying to connect full-on with Rob’s knee, in interception, as Walter suddenly swung one arm around the startled girl’s waist and pulled her tight against his side.
Rob let out a groan but kept hobbling forward. “Aw, c’mon, Walt, don’t do this. We can settle things, man to man. No point involving civilians.”
“Halt right there,” Hadley ordered, his voice no more cold or clear than the Colt 45 that abruptly appeared in his hand. Its barrel was aimed straight at Rob’s chest. “You, stop fightin’ me!” he snarled, giving Fiona a furious jerk.
“Let her go!” shouted her father. His back against the wall, he stood helpless and vitriolic. “She’s not mixed up in this. Let her go, and take me instead!”
The Financial Manager sneered. “What call would I have with you, old man? Lots more leverage with a young, pretty hostage. And right now I just need to get away.”
“Get away to where? Just how far will you have to run, Walt? There’s no place you can hide.”
Keep him talking, keep him off balance, and maybe…just maybe…
“So much you know, you high and mighty
Yanceys. Got me a hidey-hole all set up, outa the state and outa the country. Only need to get to it. Lady,” he snarled, with another jerk, “I’m gonna tell you one more time: hold still or I’ll whack you unconscious!”
“You miserable scum!” Fiona railed. Her free fist beat impotently at his imprisoning grip, and her aqua silk skirts flurried around her ankles with the force of one kick, then another.
Folding both arms across his pale blue shirt front, Rob stood unmoving as an implacable Rock of Gibraltar. “Why are you here, anyway, Walt? Thought Quint sent you somewhere holidaying with your wife.”
“Huh. That blonde-headed harpy. Like I’d go off anywhere with her!” He shifted position, tightening his hold, and began to drag his hostage away from any hope of rescue and toward escape.
“Stay outa the way, both of you. Don’t wanna shoot anybody.”
“Don’t wanna be shot,” Rob assured him. “Look, Walt, we’ve been friends too long a time for things to end like this. Let the lady go free, and you and I can sit down and talk it over.”
“There’s nothin’ to talk over. I’m done with you Yanceys, for all and good. Always playin’ almighty king of the manor, lordin’ it over me with my poor upbringin’…”
Hadley might claim no desire to talk, but he was certainly giving every evidence of wanting to provide an excuse for his transgressions. Rob would like to give him enough rope to hang himself. “And Marcella? You’re leaving her behind, to fend for herself?”
Another few steps toward the side door. “Oh, I ain’t worried—your goody two-shoes family will watch out for her. It’s been a helluva ten years with that woman, Rob. Always naggin’ and complainin’—couldn’t take it any longer. Now she’ll be your responsibility. I wash my hands of that whole marriage. Now shut up and stay outa my way.”
A sudden dash for freedom, and they were gone, with Fiona spitting and snapping in his grasp like a wounded mountain lion.
The door had barely slammed shut by the time Rob reached it, right on their heels, with Padraic huffing and puffing along behind. Street lamps showed the carriage that Walter had waiting along the curb, and the tall, strong stallion linked to its traces.
“Get your filthy hands off me, you damned scoundrel!” They could hear Fiona blustering at her abductor. “You have no right to be—oooof!” as she was thrown unceremoniously into the front seat in a welter of shimmering skirts.
Immediately Hadley flung himself in beside her, grabbed the reins, and set the horse off at a gallop.
“Goddammit!” Rob gritted out between his teeth, watching them careen off into the darkness. Only for an instant. Then he had turned in the opposite direction, toward the hotel stables, calling back over his shoulder as he pelted away, “Paddy, headin’ out in pursuit. Get us some reinforcements!”
VIII
Tracking any runaway without the advantage of daylight perception can be a tricky undertaking. A failure, more often than not.
However, this runaway was hampered by several undeniable impediments: his buggy was pounding along a well-used, well-marked dirt road, instead of trailing through remote and desolate woods; he had barely ten minutes’ head start; and a single horse can outrun a four-wheeled carriage any day.
Thus, only some ten miles or so south of San Jose, Rob came thundering upon the vehicle in question. Its draft horse had been unhitched and taken, and its driver was gone, leaving behind the abandoned buggy run off into the weeds.
Rob’s heart caught in his throat. Had Walt taken his hostage along, to wherever he was going, for added insurance? And, if so, what a much dicier prospect for apprehension that would be!
“You can come and rescue me now,” grumbled the buggy’s occupant, as he and his own borrowed stallion approached. “I’m certainly ready to be rescued. I doubt that anyone could be more ready for rescue.”
Halting, he dismounted with a great breath of relief. “Lady, you gave me the scare of my life,” he told her, reaching a hand to help her down.
“You and me, both.” During the terrifying ordeal, Fiona had shed some of her fine manners for her more blunt and primitive self—like the Mardi Gras mask that gets tossed aside to reveal the authentic person underneath. “Rob, I honestly didn’t know if I’d survive it.”
Still no lightning bolt, no fairy dust, no dancing unicorns. Only a deep concern for the girl’s welfare, both physical and mental.
“He didn’t do you any serious damage, did he?”
“Not really. Oh, I think I have some bruises, and my wrist seems to be sprained, where he grabbed me. That foul wretch. I’d like to kick him where it hurts.”
Rob snickered. Then guffawed. “I can understand why you might want to. I’m feeling a mite that way, myself.”
She was fussing with her rumpled dress, straightening this part and putting that part into order. Especially the bodice, Rob noted with interest, whose fragile black inserts had been torn during the scuffle and now bared far more than it covered. Such luck. And he without even a shawl to lend for modesty’s sake.
“Who was that horrible man, anyway, and why did he take me away?”
“Fiona,” Rob drawled, “I’ll explain the whole thing to you and your paw once we get you safe and settled. At the moment, though, we’d better—listen. What’s that?”
That was the distant sound of hoof beats, thumping rhythmically on the soft dirt road, and coming nearer. Rob backed his charge up against the discarded carriage and then took up stance in front of her. No weapon, damn it all. He’d flung himself off in such a hurry he’d given no thought to the possibility of needing a weapon.
“Halloo, things all right here?”
Two riders loomed up in the night, lightened only slightly by a friendly moon halfway to the horizon.
“Mr. Yancey?”
“That’s me.”
“A Mr. Padraic Brennan found his way to our office a bit ago,” said one. “Reported his daughter had been abducted, and asked us to take charge. Is this Miss Brennan?”
“Rangers,” Rob realized then, in a “Thank God!” moment. “Texas Rangers. Yes, this is Miss Brennan, and she seems to be fine. Walter Hadley is somewhere up ahead—probably long gone by now.”
“We’re headed after him right now, Mr. Yancey. Don’t worry; it’s our job to capture the man and bring him back. I’m Sam Blackwell, and this is my partner, Pete Mazursky. We’ll meet up with you back at the Sea Wind when we’re finished.”
A finger to the hat brim in salute, and they were off again, disappearing into the darkness.
“Well,” Fiona said finally.
“Ahuh. Good men to have on our side, believe me. If anybody can catch Walt Hadley, it’ll be the Rangers.”
Another silence, while in the distance some owl hooted its lonely cry, and several frogs hit the water of a nearby pond with a little plop.
“Thank you for—for watching over me,” Fiona said, in a small voice. “I admit to being just a bit frightened.”
Rob chuckled. “Hell, I was damned scared myself. Thought maybe you’d be watching over me, instead. All right, Missy, it’s getting late and all of us have had a lot to deal with tonight. Let’s get you home before your father next hires the U.S. Army to come find us.”
“That would be lovely. Getting home, I mean, not the Army. Who needs that? All noise, and yelling, and cannon fire.”
“You have personal experience with that sort of thing?” Only half-attentive, Rob was adjusting stirrups and cinch on his horse, in preparation for carrying two.
“Well, no. As far as I know, women aren’t allowed to serve in the military. Not yet anyway. But I do read.”
“Ah, a literary—oh-oh.”
Fiona grimaced slightly. “I don’t think I like the sound of that.”
“Nope, me, neither. Ol’ Rum Biscuit here has thrown a shoe.”
“Oh-oh.”
“Yeah. Exactly. Which, me fair beauty,” he straightened to twirl imaginary mustaches, like a stage villain, “means we won’t be
riding anytime soon.”
Sighing, she looked up the road in the northern direction and down the road to the south. ”You know, I’m beginning to question your Good Samaritan credentials.”
“And well you might, Miss Brennan. I never did claim to be any great shakes as anybody’s guardian angel. Meanwhile, what kinda shoes are you wearing?”
With a hand resting on the buggy’s side door, she balanced on one foot to extend the other. Fancy silver shoes, with a cute little buckle and a two-inch heel.
Rob winced. “Huh. And it’s a damned long walk back to town. Well, we’ll take it slow.”
There was slow. And then there was dead slow. As if they had any choice. If she turned her ankle plodding along in that silly footwear, then he’d end up having to throw her over his shoulder and haul her home like a sack of flour. No better off than the slightly lamed piebald horse, good-natured and tolerant, limping behind them.
He did his best to hold up his end of a conversation, if for nothing else than to keep thoughts away from this predicament. Discomfort, some particularly savage mosquitoes, and the possibility of something waiting alongside the road to attack. And no weapon. Not a damned weapon in sight.
“You know,” Fiona mused, somewhere near the nine-mile marker, if one had been posted, “when I suggested we might do this again some day, I meant having dinner.”
“Huh. And here I was trying to provide unusual entertainment.”
“I’d say you did that.”
“Something to write home about,” he suggested brightly.
“Or print in my father’s newspaper. Possibly I could get a quote from you, Mr. Yancey, to include in the article. I’ve written my fair share of those. And your hotel—did you say the full name is Turquoise Sea Wind?”
“Oh, hell, now you’re hitting below the belt.”
In the moonlight, shining benevolently upon the trio, her green eyes crinkled with mirth as she deliberately allowed her gaze to rove down from his bewhiskered face to his admirable torso to what lay below the belt. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” she told him huskily.
Rob gulped. Bold, this girl was. Bold as brass. Not what he had been expecting when he’d first interceded in the hotel lobby, just this very afternoon. Something clutched at his middle, and tightened with an almost painful wrench.
A Western Romance: Rob Yancey: Taking the High Road (Book 10) (Western Mystery Romance Series Book 10) Page 8