He embraced her with his free arm. “I’ll live, sweetheart,” he said, although in obvious pain. “Are you alright?” he asked, noting her torn clothing and the bright red mark on her cheek.
“Yes, because you are here!” she answered, and then, emotionally spent and in shock, she started to sob.
“Shh, love,” he said as he held her. “It is over now,” he said soothingly, trying to calm her. “It is finally over.”
Cookson peered closer at Jack’s injury. The bullet wound was deep. As a battle-hardened Civil War veteran, he knew it was essential to stop the bleeding. Cookson grabbed the cloth dinner napkins from the table, wadded them up and applied pressure. Jack winced in pain. “God damn!” he said in protest. “Steady,” said Cookson, looking grim.
Help quickly descended from every direction and the scene became very chaotic. Hotel personnel scrambled to fetch Constable Emery and Dr. Hargreaves. Jack was moved to a bed in an adjoining room. Curious onlookers were disbursed. The mortician was summoned.
Detective Cookson and Susannah were interviewed at length by Mr. Emery, but he spoke with them separately so that one might remain with Jack and be of help to Dr. Hargreaves. Very soon three of Emery’s associates were dispatched to High Park – to notify Charlotte of her brother’s death, to arrest Brophy and to locate Catori.
The unpleasant task of finding and removing the bullet lodged in Jack’s thigh and then treating the deep wound took Dr. Hargreaves nearly an hour. The liberal amount of alcohol Jack consumed was not nearly enough to blunt the pain from the metal instruments that probed his tender flesh. Jack had lost a lot of blood. Exhausted, he slipped into a restful sleep in the comfortable bed. Susannah stayed close by throughout the night, with the oil lamp turned down low, dozing occasionally as she sat wrapped in a blanket in a brocade wing chair.
It was three or perhaps four in the morning when Jack awoke groggily, his eyes adjusting to the lamplight. He saw her sleeping there in the uncomfortable chair – his beautiful guardian angel. “Susannah,” he called to her softly.
“Jack! What? I am here!” she said, immediately jumping up from the chair. “How are you feeling? What do you need?” she asked as she came to the bedside. “Water?”
“Shh, shh, love,” he answered, gently taking her hand. “I need you. Come to bed,” he invited her as he drew back the covers.
“But your leg…your wound…” she started to protest.
“It hurts, yes,” he agreed. “But it would do a world of good to have you here next to me. Just come to bed.” Something shifted between them, it was sweet and lovely.
She looked at him for a long moment and was struck by the way the dim light played along the rugged line of his iron jaw, softening the harsh planes and angles of his handsome face. She dropped the blanket, removed her robe and slid under the warm covers, snuggling next to him, wearing only her thin night rail. He turned to her, wrapped his arms around her, pulled her close to his heart and tenderly kissed her temple. “Sleep, my love, just close your eyes and sleep,” he said to her. In this moment, she and Jack were the only two people in the world.
*****
A few inches of light snow fell overnight, cleansing the landscape and transforming Mother Nature’s lovely costume into one of pure white. The storm moved off and everything glistened in the bright sunlight.
The young lad who rode along on the country road early that morning was Jake Collins. He and his family lived at the cottage where Catori had collapsed the night before. At first light, his parents sent him to Larkspur, a distance of about ten miles, to seek help. When he arrived, Lady Alice was not yet receiving callers. However, at the mention of Catori’s name, Jake was quickly ushered inside by Mrs. Ross, who along with her ladyship’s coachman Mr. Benson, interviewed him at length in the kitchen. Jake gratefully accepted hot cocoa and heartily munched on warm scones as he described the events of the night before.
“We was scared at first,” he said. “She was like a wild thing. We didn’t know if she was a bad sort maybe, mayhap running from the law. But when me mum went to clean her up and removed her grubby clothes, she noticed she be wearin an unusual looking necklace – all made of seed beads with some kind of carved bear symbol. Plus she had an empty scabbard – like to hold a hunting knife – strapped to her leg. That’s when they guessed the lady was not from around here. Later, she started to tell about what happened, me mum and dad just knew her story was true.”
Mrs. Ross and Mr. Benson listened to the sordid tale with rapt attention. Evidently Mr. Brophy abducted Catori from Larkspur and held her captive in a cold, lightless prison where she subsisted on scant amounts of bread and water. She had kept her hunting knife strapped to her leg and concealed under her dress, using it to stab Brophy when the opportunity came. Remarkably, the lad went on, Catori collapsed at the door to their cottage with her hands still bound together.
To Mrs. Ross and Mr. Benson, the whole sequence of events stunk like rotten fish. Wasn’t it Mr. Mansfield himself who had told Lady Alice that Catori had wandered too far, had then fallen, was knocked unconscious and was being cared for by one of his tenants? None of it was true. And only yesterday, their very own Susannah had inexplicably married Mr. Mansfield after a three-day engagement. What was that about? So Brophy was stabbed, but was he dead? Did they have more to fear from him before he could be apprehended?
“You did right, Jake,” Benson told him. “Catori might have died. We are grateful for your family’s help. Her ladyship will be very pleased with everything you and your family did to rescue her. Catori is an American and only visiting here. Unfortunately she got tangled up in a fine mess. Finish your scones. I will get the coach ready and we will return to your home so that I may bring Catori back here where she belongs.”
“A fine idea Mr. Benson. And in the meantime I will ask Dr. Hargreaves to call this afternoon so that he may attend to her,” said Mrs. Ross helpfully.
As Mr. Benson prepared the coach, another surprise was in store, as two gentlemen on horseback unexpectedly trotted into the stable yard. One was the Constable, Mr. Emery. Benson did not recognize the other man but soon learned that he was Detective Cookson from Denver, who had called there only yesterday. The illuminating conversation that the three of them shared helped piece together more important details of the unraveling mystery. Mansfield was dead and now it seemed everyone was on the hunt for Mr. Brophy. Because they believed he was wounded, it was likely he would need to seek help in order to recover. This limited his options – there were few places he could go. His captive had escaped – he would know the authorities would be searching for him.
Mr. Emery rode to High Park ready to apprehend Brophy in the event he turned up. Cookson tied his horse to the back of the coach and sat beside Benson as they traveled to the cottage. Jake rode alongside. By the time they reached their destination, it was mid-day. Despite her swollen ankle, Catori was much improved from the poor condition she had been in the day before. She was beyond relieved to see Mr. Benson’s familiar face again. Before she left the cottage, she expressed her heartfelt gratitude to the Collins family for helping her and promised to return with Mrs. Collins’ borrowed dress as soon as she was able.
After introducing himself, it was Daniel Cookson who lifted Catori from the bed and carried her to the waiting coach. Once she was comfortably seated inside, Cookson thoughtfully arranged a blanket firmly in place around her. “There,” he said. “Are you warm enough?” he asked solicitously.
“Yes, I am very cozy. I thank you,” said Catori.
“The distance to Larkspur is about ten miles,” he told her.
“I will be fine,” she assured him.
“You were extremely clever to carry your knife along, hidden under your skirt,” he complimented her as they started their journey to Larkspur.
“You heard about that?” she said.
“Oh yes, the young lad Jake – he told us all. A pretty lady with a hunting knife – and using it! Unheard of in this p
art of the world. Your courage will be talked about for the next fifty years,” he said with admiration. “Your hands were bound and yet you successfully wielded a knife.”
“I acted out of necessity, Mr. Cookson,” she said.
“You have shown more bravery than some I have served with on the battlefield,” he said honestly. “I have one request of you, Catori, if you feel up to it,” he said.
“Of course, if I can help, I will,” she answered agreeably.
“We do not know the extent of Mr. Brophy’s injuries. It is quite possible that he remains where you left him, unable to flee. It is essential to solving the mystery that we find him. Might you look out the window and tell me if anything looks familiar. Can you remember the direction you came from when you escaped? Do you remember any landmarks you may have noticed along the way?”
She studied the white landscape – everything looked so different covered with snow. After a few minutes, she pointed to a lane, “There!” she exclaimed. “I came from that road and then turned onto this one which led me to the cottage.”
Cookson looked sharp. He tapped on the ceiling of the coach and it jerked to a halt. His demeanor changed – he looked tough, hard, decisive. “Your help has been invaluable, Catori. I will take it from here. I will see you back at Larkspur,” he told her confidently as he tipped his hat, opened the door and jumped down.
“Be careful,” she warned.
“I am always careful miss,” was his response
Cookson set out down the lane, putting the horse to a fast walk. It did not take long before the lane narrowed to a path which led him to the small brick enclosure – perhaps a former storage building which now seemed abandoned. The door was open, he cautiously peered inside and saw Brophy cowering there on the earthen floor, trying to hide in the shadows.
“I’ve been looking for you,” Cookson said, “and went to a great deal of trouble to find you - traveling nearly 5,000 miles. And here you are.”
“You have wasted your time. You’ve got the wrong person. I’m not the one you want,” Brophy sneered. “All that happened, abducting the girl – it was all Mansfield’s work, all his idea. He was after the money,” he continued, thinking such confessions might save his sorry hide. Brophy was unaware that his mentor was lying in a pine box. Cookson used the opportunity to press for more details.
“What else happened – those things that you say were all Mansfield’s ideas?” he probed.
“The explosion at the mine, poisoning the grandma, all of it,” he said.
Poisoning grandma? My, my, thought Cookson – your tongue can surely cut your throat.
“In Colorado, how did you link me with Mansfield?” Brophy asked.
“The telegram,” said Cookson. “You sent him a telegram in Denver and the next day he showed up at the brothel with a wad of money.”
“The whore, Jade!” he said at the realization.
“Yes, Jade – but when we discovered the telegram it all came together,” said Cookson. “You shouldn’t beat up women, Brophy – it just makes them angry. Furthermore, in my experience there is no such thing as the perfect crime. And now, I must take my leave,” he said matter-of-factly, surprising Brophy.
“What? You’re leaving? You’re leaving me here? I’m injured. I can’t stay here. Aren’t you going to arrest me, take me to Stoke-on-Trent to go before the magistrate?” Brophy pleaded.
“Not right now. Don’t worry, you’ll live. I will send someone around to collect you tomorrow. I am afraid I am out of bread, but will leave you this flask of water,” he said as he withdrew it from his pocket. “Make it last. Another day with no food – but you’ll manage. Sleep tight,” Cookson said adroitly as he swung the iron door closed, leaving Brophy alone in absolute darkness.
Chapter Thirty-Two
When the coach returned to Larkspur and the door was opened, an anxious Susannah was right there to welcome her friend Catori. Word had reached her at the Mayfair Hotel that Catori had bravely escaped Mr. Brophy and had taken refuge with a local farmer and his family. Mr. Benson was fetching her home.
Dr. Hargreaves ordered additional bed rest for Jack; Susannah no longer worried about the prospects for his full recovery. The reality was that her constant presence only served to distract him.
Susannah had already spent part of the day with Lady Alice, who could hardly take in all she had been told concerning Edward Mansfield. He was a complete fraud, a murderer, and a master at deception. It was disturbing to think she had been so foolishly misled about his character. A murderer was her guest at Christmas dinner! His plan to coerce Susannah into marriage for the safe return of her missing friend showed a frightening intensity of malice-aforethought. Even more ominous, it was a crime he could have easily denied if Susannah ever went to the authorities. What proof could she offer for such wild allegations? It was a possibility she did not wish to countenance.
The turmoil of the past several days had taken its toll on Susannah and yet it was important that she find the inner strength to devote herself to the welfare of her loyal friend Catori. Mr. Benson helped Catori down from the coach and she leaned on them both for support, keeping her weight off her swollen ankle, as she hobbled into the mansion.
“Oh, Catori,” Susannah said with high emotion as she hugged her friend, “you have no idea how glad I am to see you. I am so terribly sorry for all you were forced to endure at the hands of two very evil men. Please forgive me for putting you in danger.”
“I am equally glad to see you, Susannah. There is nothing to forgive. You were forced to endure your share of misery as well. I cannot believe you actually married the lout in the hopes that he would liberate me.”
“How could one man be responsible for so much misery?” Susannah asked rhetorically. “Thanks to Mr. Cookson, his days of doing evil deeds are finally over.”
“I met the intrepid Detective Cookson. He was very solicitous and showed kindhearted concern for my welfare. But he was also quite determined to apprehend Mr. Brophy. I do not think I would wish to tangle with Mr. Cookson,” Catori observed.
Once inside, Catori was carried up the stairs by a footman and taken to Susannah’s room. There was a warm fire in the grate and a steaming hot bath was nearly ready in the dressing room.
“I must be dreaming,” said Catori. “Is that heavenly bath for me?” But Susannah and the maids fussed and clucked over her. “Now that you have been returned to us we are all committed to seeing to your comfort and to having your health completely restored,” said Susannah as she and the maids helped Catori out of her clothes. “Cook has been busy all day making several of your favorite dishes and you will have a feast in a little while, including the vegetable soup you like so much and glazed capons.”
“I will savor every bite. You are all so kind to me,” she said as she stepped into the steaming bath. Once she was settled there was another surprise as the maid handed her a delicious cup of hot cocoa.
“My word! Hot cocoa and a hot bath! You spoil me. I may never get out of this tub!” said Catori with a smile.
It pleased Susannah to see her good friend able to relax after all she had been through. Catori was trying to be cheerful, to pretend all was well, but the reality was that she had spent a week lying in the dirt in total darkness, living on bread and water and contemplating an uncertain future. The ordeal had been a dreadful nightmare. Susannah knew Catori well – she was a gentle soul, introspective, serene, unselfish, and one who endeavored to live in harmony with the world. It would take time for her broken spirit to heal.
*****
The following afternoon Susannah returned to the Mayfair Hotel to look in on Jack and was encouraged to find him hobbling about, aided with a sturdy cane.
“You are out of bed!” she exclaimed. “Does Dr. Hargreaves know?”
“He does not know, and you shall not tell him!” Jack said firmly.
“Or else what?” Susannah challenged him.
“Or else what? Hmmm. Tempting,” h
e said playfully. “I am thinking of something naughty,” he said with a grin as he returned to the settee.
“You are an impossible patient,” she said candidly. “Are you hungry? Shall I ring for some tea?”
But Jack did not want food or drink. Being with her fed his soul. “Come here, Susannah,” he said with his hand outstretched.
“Jack…” she started to protest, but he waved his hand toward her in invitation. “Come here, my love,” he said again, his voice low and gravelly.
With new-found assertiveness she stepped to where he was seated and stood between his parted thighs. She gently held his handsome face in her hands and leaned over to kiss him. Her kisses were gentle, tender, sweet, and endless. He could die this way. It had been too long since he had touched her, had kissed her yearning lips. He kissed her as if he had waited an eternity to taste her again. With his strong arms he anchored her to him and at his caress her kisses turned more demanding, fascinating, urgent.
He pulled her down, her bottom now balanced on his good leg as he kissed her soft lips reverently, then kissed her brow, her cheek, her chin while tenderly caressing her arms and back. She melted into him and her tongue tasted his.
He cupped her breasts through the fabric of her gown and she arched into him as she gasped at the exquisite sensation of his magical touch. He slowly loosened the buttons of her gown until her bodice and chemise had been peeled away, freeing her aching breasts. His warm hands were on her alabaster skin, caressing, kneading, as he pleasured her.
“You are so beautiful, Susannah,” he said, heavy lidded. “So perfect.”
She was desperate for him to kiss her there. As if he sensed her need his hot mouth and tongue came over one areola. He suckled hard and shards of pleasure went coursing through her. “Oh, God, Jack,” she moaned. Then he gave her other heaving breast equal attention. His rough whiskers chafed against her tender skin, adding to the delicious torture. Liquid heat pooled at the core of her womanhood.
The Gold Miner's Wife: A Young Woman's Story of Romance, Passion and Murder Page 23