From Runaway to Pregnant Bride

by Tatiana March

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Annabel found Cousin Gareth slumped on the ground, a dark shape hidden by the night shadows. She fell to her knees beside him, illuminating him with the flickering flame. “Gareth! Cousin Gareth!” She shook his shoulder, flinched when her hand came away soaked with blood.

  She jumped to her feet. “Clay!” she yelled. “Help me!” Somewhere at the back of her mind she was aware he couldn’t hear her, but the sound of her voice rippling through the night eased her sense of helplessness. She waved the torch in the air until Clay stepped into the sphere of light.

  “I’ve found him,” Annabel said.

  Clay crouched to examine the fallen man. “He’s been shot twice,” Clay said. “One bullet made a groove along his skull. I don’t know how serious it is. The other bullet is at the top of his arm. It will not kill him, provided we can stop the bleeding.” He turned to look up at her. “Find some string.”

  Annabel hurried back to the campfire, took a moment to make a fresh torch in the fire. Then she found her leather hat and took it to Clay. With his knife, he cut away the rawhide cord and used it to fashion a tourniquet.

  “Is it not too tight?” Annabel asked and gestured to explain her meaning.

  “Ever heard of life or limb?” Clay replied. “With the tight cord he might lose the arm, but without the pressure he’ll bleed to death.”

  “We need to get him to a doctor,” Annabel said. The depth of her anguish came as a surprise. Memories flooded her mind, how Cousin Gareth had once been, a dashing young man with a deep sense of honor and family loyalty. Had he risked his life for her because he was a gentleman? Or because in the mists of his mind he had recognized her as kin? Either way, she owed him.

  Clay glanced at her over his shoulder, a thoughtful look on his face. She could read the questions in his eyes. Who is this man? What is he to you? Why are you fretting over him? She longed to pour out explanations, but his lack of hearing made it impossible. Perhaps it was for the best, Annabel thought, for her turbulent mind would have struggled to put together words that made sense.

  “Is it important to you that he lives?” Clay asked.

  Annabel gave an eager nod. She held up the torch and mimed a procession, using her other hand to portray a cantering horse and point into the distance.

  “Ride through the pitch-black desert by torchlight?” Clay said.

  Annabel nodded, this time hesitant. She might be asking for the impossible, but Clay gave her another long look and pushed up to his feet, making room for her beside Cousin Gareth. “Watch over him,” he said, and took the torch from her. “I’ll get the horses.”

  With silent steps, he vanished into the darkness. Annabel could hear him crooning to a horse, and then the clip of hooves. It seemed an eternity before Clay returned, the sound of the hooves multiplied as he led over the buckskin and a black horse that gleamed in the torchlight.

  “We need to take the bodies with us,” Clay said. “There’s no time to bury them, and we can’t just leave them to the buzzards.” He went off, moving carefully in the darkness. A wind had picked up, and the clouds were breaking. Occasionally, a shaft of moonlight came through, bathing the desert in silvery light.

  Annabel watched Cousin Gareth, her lips moving in silent prayer. She wanted him to live. For what he had once been to her, for being family, for risking his life to save her, and if those were not enough reason, to finally provide an explanation for what had sent him down the path of ruin.

  * * *

  Cousin Gareth looked elegant even when unconscious, Annabel thought as she sat by his bedside at the doctor’s house in Hillsboro. They had reached the town when the first hint of dawn painted a streak of gray in the sky. Riding double on the buckskin by the pale glow of the moon, they had brought in four men strapped to their horses, three of them dead and one clinging to life.

  The doctor, a brusque man in his forties, with the smell of whiskey on his breath, had opened the door when they pounded upon it. He had removed the bullet in Cousin Gareth’s arm and cleaned the cut in his head.

  “Will he live?” Annabel had asked.

  “That’s for God to decide. I expect that if he comes to, he’ll recover.”

  She heard the door open behind her, but no footsteps. Only Clay knew how to move as silently as a cat. “How did you get on?” she asked, not turning to look. His hearing was back to normal, and he’d gone to take in the bodies of the three robbers and make a report to the sheriff.

  “They need you to sign a statement. The bank clerk had entered your withdrawal in the ledger, which confirms you were an innocent bystander.”

  Clay didn’t ask anything, didn’t press for explanations. Why don’t you talk about it? Annabel screamed in her mind. Ask me how I could draw such a sum! Ask me about Cousin Gareth! Explanations would be easier if she could answer questions instead of having to navigate her own way to the truth.

  “I went to the telegraph office,” she said quietly. “There was a reply from the merchant in Valverde. Mr. Hicks owes eighteen dollars. You can settle at Hagstrom’s Mercantile.”

  “Fine,” Clay said. “Thank you.”

  The cool formality of his words stung. She wanted to jump to her feet and whirl around and hurl herself into his arms, tell him that she could explain everything if he just gave her a moment to gather her thoughts, but the rustling of the bedclothes stopped her short.

  With a moan, Cousin Gareth stirred beneath the pristine white sheets. His eyelids fluttered and lifted. Squinting into the morning light, he swept a glance around the room and let his attention settle on her. “Annabel?” he said. “What are you doing here?” He took another quick survey of his surroundings and homed in on her again, a baffled expression on his face. “What am I doing here? Where are we? How did we get here? Where is Miranda? Where is Charlotte?”

  Cousin Gareth was back. Despite the wave of relief, the accumulated resentments of four years put tartness into Annabel’s tone. “Isn’t Charlotte dead and buried in the Fairfax family cemetery at Merlin’s Leap?”

  Cousin Gareth had the decency to look ashamed. “She chose to run away and deserved to be written out of existence.”

  “It’s your fault she ran away. You were beastly to her.”

  A flush rose on Gareth’s skin. “I’d been drinking,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean to... I wouldn’t have... I was merely angry at her.” He cast another look around the room. “Where are we? Who is dealing with the business?” He fumbled at the sheets, attempting to get up. “The Northern Star is due for repairs at the dock, and the Morning Light has no outbound cargo to Shanghai...ouch!”

  He slumped against the mattress, a grimace of pain on his patrician features. “Why is there a hot poker in my head and my arm feels like it’s been on a butcher’s block?”

  Clay stepped forward. “You’ve been in a gunfight.”

  “Gunfight?” Cousin Gareth stared at Clay. His mouth curled into a rueful smile. “You look like the Western type. I guess I’m not in Boston. Who are you and what are you doing with my cousin?”

  He is my husband, Annabel wanted to say, but they hadn’t been to see the preacher yet. All those social constraints she’d been so eager to discard crashed upon her now, making her hesitate about the right way to describe their relationship.

  Before she had a chance to organize her thoughts, Clay spoke up. “The name’s Collier. The lady got stranded on a train stop, and I’ve been escorting her to her sisters.”

  Cousin Gareth nodded and addressed his words to Annabel. “The last thing I remember is following Miranda to Chicago. You might be kind enough to fill me in with anything you know about my fate since then.”

  How typical of Cousin Gareth, Annabel thought with a touch of bitterness. Barely back from death’s door and already taking charge. At least she no longer needed t
o worry that he might stumble upon his old boots she’d exchanged with the boot maker and notice his name inked into the lining.

  Behind her, Clay shifted on his feet. “I’ll leave you to catch up with your cousin, Miss Fairfax,” he said in a formal tone of politeness. “We can meet later at the hotel and...settle up.”

  Annabel flinched. Settle up? What did he mean? Was it just a phrase to stop Cousin Gareth from guessing too much, or was he implying their partnership had come to an end? As she watched Clay walk away, she wanted to jump to her feet, run after him, but her rational mind whispered it made more sense to postpone the confrontation until they were in the privacy of their hotel suite.

  * * *

  Clay stormed out of the doctor’s house, every muscle taut. Emotions collided in his head, like rocks smashing against each other in the arrastre pit. Had he gone and done exactly what he’d sworn never to do? Had he given his heart, his love, to the first woman who came along and asked for it?

  Annabel had lied to him.

  She was not a helpless orphan, alone in the world, in need of his protection. She was a rich man’s daughter, with a family that could take care of her. Fairfax was a gentleman, and he lived by a gentleman’s code of honor. How would he deal with a poor drifter who had interfered with his cousin? Icy sweat rose on Clay’s skin as he considered the possibilities. If Fairfax felt so inclined, he might persuade the townsfolk to string him up. No one would believe that a girl like Annabel had given herself freely to a man like him, and ugly jeers of rape would follow him all the way to hell as a rope tightened around his throat.

  Annabel, Annabel. Clay pictured her in his mind, her amber eyes shining with pride at every new achievement, the soft mouth curving into a smile of delight and triumph. How much of their partnership had been real? Did she really want to make a life away from her affluent background, or was she a society girl on an adventure holiday, ready to head home when the lure of a primitive life wore thin?

  Clay had no destination in mind as he strode along the crowded boardwalk, the morning sun bouncing back at him from the dusty street. When he found himself outside the hotel, his thoughts sharpened and he went inside.

  The portly clerk behind the counter looked up when he walked over. Without a word, Clay reached for the open ledger, swung it around and located the entry.

  Mr. and Mrs. Clay Collier

  “Give me the pen,” he said and put out his hand. Frowning, but prompted into obedience by Clay’s curt tone, the clerk took out a pen and dipped it in the inkwell before passing it over.

  Clay pressed the nib against the page. A blot formed to cover up the beginning of the line. He made another, smaller blot, to cover up the s in Mrs. He examined the result. Mr. Clay Collier, and a blot to the left of the name, as if the pen had been loaded with too much ink.

  On a new line, he wrote “Miss Annabel Fairfax,” and then turned the ledger around for the clerk to see. While the man inspected the entry, Clay dug in his pocket and dropped a gold eagle on the counter with a clatter that drew the clerk’s attention.

  “Do you think you could be persuaded to forget you’ve ever seen me walk up those stairs?” Clay asked.

  Comprehension flashed in the clerk’s eyes. “Sir, I can do better than that. I can swear that Miss...” He glanced down at the ledger. “...Miss Annabel Fairfax has been the sole occupant of that suite.”

  “Good.” Clay took a step back from the counter. “Close your eyes one more time while I go upstairs and collect my things.”

  His boots thudded with a heavy beat as he slowly climbed up the stairs, as if he wanted to postpone the first stage of removing his presence from Annabel’s life. It was fortunate the clerk had been so amenable, Clay thought. Hating lies himself, he did not believe he had the right to force another man to tell untruths on his behalf.

  Upstairs, Clay picked up the sailor’s duffel Annabel had made for him and stuffed his belongings inside. There was not much. The sum of his worth as a man, Clay thought grimly. Two books on mining. The Bible that had belonged to Mr. Hicks. A few items of clothing. A tattered postcard and a small bird carved from hickory, keepsakes from his friends at the orphanage. He looked around, spotted a green hair ribbon and slipped it in his pocket. A keepsake of Annabel. The idea cut like a knife, making the prospect of their parting real and imminent.

  Refusing to linger in the room, Clay went to the livery stable. For the rest of the day, he helped the hostler, earning free board for the buckskin and the mule. Night fell, but he waited. He waited until the small hours, when the saloons grew quiet and the town slept. Only then did he make his way along the empty street and drift like a ghost up the stairs into the suite that now belonged to that affluent stranger, Miss Annabel Fairfax.

  * * *

  Annabel waited in the hotel suite, a lamp burning on the nightstand. Guests moved in the corridor, entering their rooms. Voices echoed through the thin walls. Then it grew quiet, with everyone settling down to sleep.

  Midnight came. The lamp guttered out, and she didn’t take the trouble to get up and replenish the oil. She huddled beneath the quilt, dressed in the simple cotton nightgown she’d bought from the mercantile when they arrived two days ago. It seemed forever now. Would Clay come? Or would he simply vanish from her life?

  She heard a faint scratching by the entrance and felt a cool draft as the door opened and closed. The floorboards creaked. Annabel eased up to a sitting position against the headboard and strained her eyes into the darkness.

  The scent of dust and leather and horses alerted her before she felt the weight of someone sitting down on the edge of the bed. A match rasped, and in the flame she could see Clay’s features. His expression appeared closed and stark.

  “You lied to me,” he said.

  The match flickered out. Talking in the darkness, Annabel hurried to offer the explanations that had rattled inside her head for hours while she waited. “I didn’t lie, not really. I just didn’t talk about my background.”

  “Twice I asked you if you knew that man.”

  “I...” She took a deep breath, launched into her tale of how she and her sisters had been orphaned, how Charlotte had inherited Papa’s money and Cousin Gareth had tried to force her into marriage. “See?” she finished. “I had to keep my identity secret. I couldn’t risk leading Cousin Gareth to my sisters.”

  “How could telling me have jeopardized their safety?” Clay’s tone was curt. “There was no reason not to reveal your secret, unless you suspected I would betray you to your cousin.”

  “I wanted to tell you. I was waiting for the right moment, but it never seemed to come.” She tried to find the right words to justify her actions. “I was only fourteen when my parents died. Since then, my life has been limited to the confines of Merlin’s Leap. I didn’t have the chance to grow up. When I left home, I was desperate to forge my own identity. To be something other than the child of my parents, the youngest of the Fairfax sisters. I wanted to be myself, without the baggage of my background. My purpose was not to deceive but to be judged by my own merits.”

  She reached out in the darkness, laid a hand on Clay’s arm. “I told Cousin Gareth about us. That we plan to marry.”

  Clay stiffened beneath her touch. “Did you tell him that we’ve anticipated our wedding vows?”

  Annabel hesitated, flushed in the darkness. There should be no shame in what they had done, but Cousin Gareth would think otherwise. “No,” she admitted with reluctance.

  “That was wise,” Clay replied. “If you tell him, he’ll most likely kill me. He has every right to. He might even get the citizens of the town to string me up with a rope. A penniless miner does not interfere with a decent girl and get away with it.”

  Annabel could not deny the truth in his words. “We’ll find the preacher tomorrow.” She stared into the darkness, trying to discern Clay’s
features. His voice sounded too bland, too cool, and it made her shiver, as though the autumn chill had invaded the room. “We’ll get married,” she told him. “It will be all right.”

  “The preacher has gone off to tour the mining camps.” Clay’s voice was strained. “But it makes no difference. You’re only eighteen, and I assume your cousin is your legal guardian. Now that his identity is known, the preacher won’t wed us without his consent.”

  Annabel held her breath. Fear knotted in the pit of her belly, like a heavy weight. For weeks now, she’d fooled herself into believing it didn’t matter if she was economical with the truth, but all the time she had known it would.

  “What should we do?” she asked.

  The bedding rustled as Clay adjusted his weight. She heard him sigh, and then quiet words that sounded reluctant to her ears. “I’ll have to speak to your cousin and hope that he does not put a bullet in me. Then I’ll decide what is best for both of us.”

  Rebellion sparked in her. “Don’t speak to me like that. Like we are not equal and I’ll have to meekly follow orders, accept what you decide.”

  “You lied to me, Annabel. I’ve never lied to you. Not even when I wanted to, about having spied on you when you bathed by the creek. I hate lies. I remember sleeping in my cot and hearing my parents scream at each other, accusing each other of lying. I will not have my life turn out like theirs.”

  “I didn’t really lie...not much.”

  “You told me you used to live in an old house by the sea and your father was a seaman.”

  Annabel tugged at the covers, gaining time to formulate a reply. “Merlin’s Leap is a house by the sea,” she finally said. “Quite a big house, actually. And Papa was a seaman. Even though he commanded his own fleet of ships. The only lie I told you was that I didn’t know who Cousin Gareth was.”