The Wildest Heart

by Rosemary Rogers

  It made me uneasy, for some odd reason. Suddenly I had the strangest, most peculiar feeling that something terrible and ominous was about to happen, and the feeling was so strong that my heart began to beat faster, and my hands went cold.

  The feeling persisted when I walked out of the hotel. One of the Texans lounging outside straightened up when he saw me, his hooded, insolent eyes flickering over me in a lightning glance.

  “Want me to have the buggy brought around for you, ma’am?”

  Forcing a smile, I shook my head, telling him that I intended to walk only a short distance, that Mr. Shannon would be meeting me.

  “The boss is across the way, in the Silver Dollar saloon.” Was he telling me that he disbelieved me? After a short, but deliberate, pause the man added, “I could tell him you’re waiting. He wouldn’t want to keep you waiting, I’m sure, ma’am.”

  “I’m to meet Mr. Mark Shannon,” I said frostily. “After I finish my shopping.” I walked past him, not looking back, my lace-trimmed parasol held over my head.

  He was one of the men I’d noticed Flo flirting with which, no doubt, accounted for his insolent manners. I wondered if he thought I was Todd’s mistress, and that accounted for his measuring glance. Perhaps Flo had told him so.

  “A woman has to be very careful of her reputation here,” she had said mendaciously. It was the day she had ridden over to “warn” me about allowing too many gentleman callers. “Men respect nice women, but if they think she’s—well, easygoing, you’ll see how fast their attitude changes!”

  I had had to bite my lips in order not to make some comment about her rather unsavory past. But heavens, she was an aggravating baggage at times!

  Deliberately, knowing that the gun-hung Texan was still watching me, I forced myself to walk slowly down the wooden sidewalk. It had already began to get quite hot, but the sidewalk seemed crowded, all the same. Miners in filthy clothes, some of them wearing only their red undershirts tucked into their pants, moved politely aside to let a woman pass. Cowboys strutted arrogantly, their enormous spurs jingling. I could see some young girls, giggling together, eye them covertly. Grim-looking homesteaders, trailed by their drab, work-worn wives and round-eyed children pretended to ignore the cowboys. I saw several serape-draped Mexicans, most of them sporting drooping moustaches, even one or two Chinese, who scurried along, trying to look unobtrusive. Even this remote frontier town was a good example of a statement I had heard, that America had become a melting pot of all the races.

  I studied the faces I saw in the crowd, trying to take my mind off the uneasy feeling that persisted like a knot in the pit of my stomach. It was nothing, I chided myself. Only the mystery that Mark had created with his urgency, his secrecy. After I had talked with him, I would probably laugh at myself!

  Nevertheless, I quickened my steps slightly.

  A handsome, light-skinned Spaniard rode down the street within a few feet of me, just as I had reached the small shop with the lettering on the glass which read “Madame Fleur, Ladies’ Milliner.” I might not have noticed him at all if it had not been for his horse, a really magnificent specimen of a Morgan stallion. I knew enough about horses to recognize good bloodlines, and this one was a beauty. His rider, who must have noticed my admiring glance, controlled the dancing animal easily with one hand, and raised his flat-crowned hat with a gallant, sweepingly Latin gesture.

  “You like my Conde, no? It is unusual to see a pretty señorita who can recognize good horseflesh!” His teeth gleamed whitely under a thin moustache.

  He was a magnificent horseman, but far too bold! I inclined my head coldly and walked into the shop without glancing backward.

  Madame Fleur, who was a true Frenchwoman, left another customer to come bustling forward to greet me, her face wreathed in smiles.

  “Ah, the anglais milady! I have your order ready, of course.”

  “Please see to your other customer first. I shall enjoy looking around,” I said politely, and she bowed, finally leaving me alone after making clucking noises with her tongue to indicate how exasperating it was that she had someone else to serve when I had deigned to visit her little establishment.

  I walked between crowded counters, pretending to study ribbons, feathers, and other pretty trims. I examined bolts of material on the shelves that lined the walls. From the low-voiced conversation I heard going on behind me I could guess that I was being discussed, so I moved to the far end of the tiny room, and began to leaf through the small collection of old pattern books that madame had brought with her from France some years ago, to judge from the rather outdated styles.

  “The lovely señorita’s smile lights up this dingy place like sunshine in a dark cavern!” a low voice said beside me. Was there no limit to Latin gallantry? The bold Spaniard who rode a Morgan stallion had actually followed me in here.

  I gave him a freezing look and turned back to the patterns.

  Suddenly he said quietly, “Forgive me if I appear to force an acquaintance with you, Lady Rowena, but it was a meeting your own father planned before his death.” I could no more prevent my sharp intake of breath than I could help turning my head to meet his brown eyes.

  “I am so sorry!” he said quickly. “But I saw you and I had to follow you in here. Please do not be angry at my abruptness. I am Ramon Kordes.”

  He gave his last name its correct Spanish pronunciation, but at the time I was too stunned to notice. Kordes! What was he doing here? Why had he followed me? And if he was here, then his brother…

  Shamefully my first impulse was to turn away from him and run to safety. But the concerned expression in his light brown eyes made me hesitate.

  Ramon? This then was the youngest son of Elena and Alejandro. The one who had been left with the Jesuits in Mexico City. “He’s the gentleman of the family, I guess!” Mr. Bragg had told me once.

  “Lady Rowena! Please tell me you are not angry?”

  I said, through stiff lips, “But why go to all these lengths to meet me? Why?”

  He looked swiftly over his shoulder and lowered his voice, speaking quietly but fluently in Castilian Spanish.

  “It is as well that the two old women do not know what we are saying, and I know that you speak Spanish.” His voice became slightly bitter, reminding me suddenly of his brother. “You ask why I chose this way? I think you know already. It does not matter to Mr. Todd Shannon that I am completely innocent of all he accuses my brother of—or that I have spent most of my life in Mexico. No, to him I am merely ‘one of the Kordes bunch’ and he would have me shot down like a dog if he knew I were here!”

  “But you took a risk, then!”

  “Not too much of a risk! You see, he does not know me by sight. My picture, my description, they appear on no wanted posters. So you see? As long as I tell no one my name or who I am, I’m safe enough.”

  Bluntly I asked what was suddenly uppermost in my mind.

  “Your brother, Lucas, where is he?”

  I thought he reddened.

  “Lucas is here, somewhere. But he does not tell me anything of his plans. It has always been like that.” Rather caustically he added, “To Lucas I’m afraid I’m still the baby of the family. I do not know why Lucas decided to be so foolish as to come here, and especially at this particular time, but I came to find you. To see you for myself.”

  So—Lucas had obviously described me! Angrily, I wondered what kind of description he had given.

  “Now that you’ve seen me…” I said out loud, and Ramon Kordes shook his head as if to refute my next statement.

  “Please—I must see you again! Talk to you.”

  “But that’s impossible, and you know it! And especially not here, not now! I’m supposed to meet a friend. Outside. In a very few minutes.”

  “I will not keep you too long then. But I must know one thing. Tell me—had you not heard of me before? Your father left you no letter? No message of any kind?”

  I met his long, searching look and was suddenly angr
y.

  “What is all this mystery? Why will neither you nor your brother come right out in the open and tell me what you hint at? My father…” I had been about to say that my father had left me only his journals to read when I remembered all that Mark had told me about Lucas Cord. This was his brother, and innocent or not, I did not dare trust him. I said in a more controlled voice, “Mr. Kordes, I’m sure you must realize that this is neither the time nor the place to conduct a discussion of this nature. Perhaps another time.”

  He looked disconcerted and more than a little unhappy. “But how? I can see that I have angered you. I know very well that you are a well-brought-up lady and are hardly accustomed to being approached in such an unconventional manner. Believe me, if there were any other way…”

  I looked him straight in the eye, the thought that had been hovering on the fringes of my mind suddenly crystallizing.

  “Your brother found a way of meeting me. I’ve no doubt he can find a method of contacting me again. But tell him, if you please, that I will not talk to him or listen to anything he has to say until he can tell me the whereabouts of Mr. Elmer Bragg.”

  Ramon Kordes’s face was a study of incomprehension.

  “Mr.—Bragg you say? But I do not know of such a person! I…”

  “Lady Rowena? Oh, but there you are! A thousand pardons for keeping you waiting so long, but that Mrs. Green—ah, such a one for the talk-talk!” Her sharp black eyes lingered on Ramon Kordes, standing stiff and ill at ease at my side, and she smiled—rather slyly, I thought.

  “Ah, but I see you have met a friend! So!”

  “The gentleman was merely asking me to help him choose a gift for his fiancée,” I improvised coolly. “I told him, of course, that you would be much better qualified than I in such matters.” Turning to Ramon, I gave him a brilliant smile. “Señor, I wish you luck and good fortune on your forthcoming marriage.”

  He drew himself up and bowed stiffly. “You are very gracious, señorita, and I thank you. I will wait, of course, until you have concluded your business with Madame.”

  “Certainement!” Madame gave a throaty chuckle. “I realize this is hardly the place where a young man will feel comfortable, but I assure you, when your fiancée sees what we have chosen for her she will be—how you say? Very happy!”

  I could almost have felt sorry for him, but I was far too angry with Lucas Cord and far too worried about Mr. Bragg to waste time on pity, even though the references to my father and his plans for me still filled me with curiosity.

  My business with Madame Fleur was quickly concluded, once I had exclaimed over her creations with enthusiasm. She bustled into a back room to pack the hats into bandboxes, and when I glanced over my shoulder, Ramon Kordes had left as quietly and unobtrusively as he had entered.

  Thirteen

  When I finally escaped from the shop and Madame’s dismayed exclamations, when she found she had lost a prospective customer, Mark was standing outside and looking impatiently at his pocket watch. He stuffed it thankfully back into his vest pocket when he saw me emerge and hurried forward to take my arm.

  “May I carry your packages for you? Good heavens, Rowena, I had begun to wonder if you had not managed to get rid of Flo after all! ”

  “I’m afraid it was Flo who seemed anxious to get rid of me,” I responded tartly. “And thank you for offering to carry my hatboxes but no, dear Mark! Men always contrive to look slightly ridiculous carrying such things.” I looked at him sideways, opening my parasol to shield my eyes from the glare, and asked casually, “Did you see anyone come out of the shop a few minutes ago?”

  He was already beginning to propel me along the sidewalk, and gave me a harried, rather absentminded look.

  “No, I don’t think so. Was there someone I should have noticed?”

  There must be another entrance of some kind, then, or Mark had not been paying attention.

  Indeed, he appeared to be so lost in his own thoughts, he seemed hardly to be paying attention to me at the moment.

  “We’ll have to hurry, Rowena. Uncle Todd will be out of his meeting with the Cattlemen’s Association soon, and it would be better if he didn’t see us together before we decide what we must do.”

  “Decide what? Mark, I’ve had quite enough mystery for one day! Where are you taking me?” He was walking so fast that I was breathless trying to keep up with his long strides and almost tripped over an uneven plank. “Mark, for goodness sake! Must we hurry along so?”

  He slowed down then, and squeezed my arm apologetically.

  “I’m sorry! I had so much to think of that I hadn’t realized I was practically dragging you along.”

  “I’ll forgive you this time if you tell me at once, where we are going!”

  “To the marshal’s office.” His voice had suddenly become flat, almost harsh. “There is something you must know, Rowena, and it would sound more valid coming direct from the marshal himself. And once you have heard what he has to say, I think you will find it easier to make up your mind about a certain matter.”

  The strange, panicky feeling I had had all morning came back like a blow, making me stumble again. I found that I could not speak, that my face burned, and my hands were icy.

  Silently, I let Mark hurry me along, and since his few terse words, he seemed as little inclined for further conversation as I was by now.

  The federal marshal’s office, with the large painted sign by the door, was a few doors down the same side of the street as the Silver Dollar Saloon, and we could see the imposing brick and adobe Territorial Hotel across the street quite clearly. I remember glancing up at the windows that faced the street and wondering if Flo was watching us. It was all to take on a strange significance later, but at that moment my thoughts were all racing confusion.

  Mark was ushering me inside with an impatience quite foreign to his usual easygoing manner. A grizzled, fiercely moustached man of middle height rose hastily from the wooden chair behind his cluttered desk, and I had a vague impression of faded wanted posters tacked to the walls in such numbers that the walls seemed papered with them. There was a padlocked gun rack fastened to the wall behind the marshal’s desk and two more uncomfortable-looking wooden chairs.

  “Marshal Hayes, this is Lady Rowena Dangerfield, Guy Dangerfield’s daughter. She had hired the services of Mr. Bragg in Boston some months ago on the advice of her father’s lawyer, Judge Fleming. She’s been quite worried about his nonappearance, of course, and it was her concern that led me to take the steps I’ve told you about.”

  “Please, what is this all about?” I glanced from one to the other and the marshal cleared his throat awkwardly, carefully placing the cigar he’d been smoking on the edge of his desk. The sight of it reminded me so vividly of poor Mr. Bragg that I must have blanched, for I felt Mark take my arm again and hold it firmly.

  “Rowena! Are you sure you are all right? This heat…”

  I brushed aside his concern. “You’ve had some news of Mr. Bragg? Marshal, whatever it is, I must know!”

  “Well—” absent-mindedly he touched the large, circled star of his sagging vest, and I saw him glance at Mark, then back at me.

  “Is he—is he alive?” I cried. “Tell me!”

  “He’s alive, all right, but I’m tellin’ you ma’am, it’s a miracle he is!” Gruffly the marshal chose to be blunt to cover his awkwardness at my presence. “Can’t be moved of course, an’ it’s still touch an’ go from what I heard. He’s in a convent hospital in Mexico where nursin’ nuns are taking care of him. He was able to mutter a few words when they found him, but they say he’s still unconscious and can’t be disturbed again right now.”

  I remember Mark taking my hatboxes from me and placing them on the dirty floor and that he made me sit in one of the rickety chairs, and fetched me a cup of steaming hot, bitter coffee.

  I insisted on hearing the whole story, or as much as the marshal knew, and bit by bit, it all came out. Every bit of it was damning to one man.
>
  Mr. Bragg’s mysterious errand had been in Mexico. I glanced at Mark, and he gave me a significant nod. Apparently he had tracked Lucas Cord to a small town in the province of Sonora; either that, or they had met there by chance. But the fact remained the Lucas Cord had got into some trouble there, and was in jail.

  The marshal cleared his throat and looked at me apologetically. “Something to do with a woman and the illegal trading of guns. But Mr. Bragg arranged to speak with him, and they say he seemed angry and disturbed when he left the jail. Left town the same night and headed out across the desert towards the border, the Mex Rurales said. But then that same night, Cord busted loose from the jail.” I forced myself to listen silently as the marshal told the rest of the story. Mr. Bragg had been found two days later by some peasants. He had apparently been shot from ambush and left for dead. Delirious, half out of his head with pain and thirst, he had somehow managed to crawl to the shade of a rock, and had survived.

  “Those old-timers! Tough—full of guts!” The marshal said admiringly.

  “But you said he managed to identify his attacker?” What had I hoped for? A denial? Confirmation of all my suspicions? I received what Mr. Bragg himself would have called “the plain, unvarnished facts.”

  The nuns at the convent he had been carried to understood some English. In his delirium he kept muttering a name. “Luke Cord… must find Cord…” and then, “must stop…” and my name. “Have to tell Rowena—have to warn her.”

  The marshal looked at me apologetically. “The nuns know some English, but not much, you understand, ma’am? By the time the Capitan of the Rurales arrived there, having received the telegraph messages we sent, Mr. Bragg had relapsed into unconsciousness. Still is, to tell the sad truth. But one of those nuns, she was a real smart woman. Sat by his bed, and wrote as much as she could understand of his mutterings. Just in case it might be important, she said. An’ that’s how we got the whole story.” His face became grim, and his mouth was hard under the full moustache. I could suddenly understand why this grizzled, middle-aged man was a federal marshal. “Ma’am, no need to worry. Already got all the marshals in the territory alerted. Cord’s been sly enough to stay just on the right side of the law since he got out of Alcatraz, but this time we got him dead to rights. We’ll find him.”