by Sara Orwig
“My daddy died too.”
Claire held her breath, waiting for Fortune’s reply.
“That’s what I was told,” he finally said, giving her another hard look. “We should go. I want to go to the store for supplies. If there’s anything you or Michael need, let me know. We’ll go there on our way to the livery stable. Michael, the man who is following us is the man who tried to take you that night out of Natchez. Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you see him at any time, let me know at once.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I told Michael a long time ago that it’s his grandfather who sent those men to get him. He knows that his grandfather wants to take him away from me,” Claire said in a tight voice.
“Just watch for Harwood. Both of you.”
Fortune paid the bill, and they went upstairs to get their things. As soon as he paid the clerk to have their baggage carried to the livery stable, he took Claire’s arm and Michael’s hand to steer them toward the front door of the hotel.
“Isn’t that incredibly extravagant?” she asked in a low voice. “We can carry our own things.”
Fortune glanced down at her, wondering how difficult her life had been in trying to provide by herself for Michael. “We’ll have flour and rope and supplies to carry.”
As they stepped outside, he glanced up and down the street. As he did, he noticed Michael searching each face as well. Fortune swore under his breath, wanting to be rid of Harwood, to get Michael home to Atlanta so he could live a normal life.
They walked across the wide, dusty street to a general store. After buying staples, Fortune purchased hard candy for all of them. Michael smiled as he accepted it. “Thank you, sir.”
He held out a piece to Claire, who studied it and finally took it. “Thank you.” She placed it in a pocket. “I’ll save it for Michael.”
Again Fortune wondered about her. From what she had said, he guessed she had grown up well fixed, and he knew her manner of living must have changed drastically for the worse when she ran away with Michael.
When they mounted up with their meager supplies and possessions packed on their horses, he told her, “Both of you ride out ahead. I’ll trail behind.”
She nodded, and as soon as they were out of town, he let them get half a mile ahead, where he could keep them in sight yet could see if anyone was following them. All day he pushed them, and by late afternoon they rode through a low-lying area filled with cypress. Claire Dryden kept her head held high, and he realized that she was frightened by the swamp. To Fortune’s satisfaction, Michael showed no fear, but an engrossing interest in everything around him.
That night they camped on a slight rise. Only yards away, the land disappeared beneath still water, and when he had the horses unsaddled, watered, and fed, he cut a long branch from a tree to use as a fishing pole.
“Michael, we’ll catch something for supper.”
“Should you do that?” Claire asked, staring at the murky water.
“That swamp is filled with things we can eat.”
She shivered, rubbing her arms. “It looks as if it might be filled with snakes and gators.”
“I’ve got my Colt and my knife. I’ll be right beside Michael. You can see gators coming, and we’re not wading into the swamp. Let’s go, kid.”
By the time they returned, Claire had a fire going. Fortune sat with Michael, showing him carefully how to handle a knife and clean the fish, finally placing them over the fire. As he watched his son with his head bent over the cooking fish, the urge came more strongly than ever to pull Michael into his arms and hug him and tell him he was his father. He glanced up to find Claire Dryden watching him. She looked away quickly, and he knew she was worried about how soon she would lose the child. Michael moved away from the fire, sitting down to pull off his shoes and stockings, wiggling his toes and taking a bite of apple from a bowl.
When the fish were cooked, as Fortune was eating, Claire glanced at him. “Are you still getting a boat to Mobile?”
“We can catch a boat to Mobile or to Apalachicola and then go straight north to Atlanta.”
Michael sat with his bare feet toward the fire. He finished eating and stood up to carry his plate to place it in the bucket to wash. Suddenly he screamed and jumped, hopping on one foot.
Fortune came to his feet instantly, tossing his plate of food to the ground as he ran to Michael. He stomped on a long centipede, yanking Michael up.
“My foot stings! Mama!”
Fortune set him on a log and tried to get his foot still to look at it. “Michael, let me look.”
“No! Mama! Mama!”
Kneeling beside him, Claire hugged him. “What was it?”
“A centipede bit him,” Fortune answered while he tried to pat Michael and quiet him. “Michael, let me look at your foot.”
“No!” he sobbed, clinging to Claire.
“Michael, let us see,” Claire said quietly, stroking his face and wiping away his tears. He quieted, and Fortune turned his foot, looking at the ugly red welt on the bottom.
“If I draw out some blood and cauterize that, he’ll stand less chance of infection, but it’ll hurt.”
“Michael, you heard what he said. Let him take care of your foot.”
He buried his face against her, crying while she nodded at Fortune.
Hating to hurt Michael for any reason, yet knowing it was the best way to get the wound to heal quickly, Fortune moved to the fire to heat his knife. While the blade lay in the burning sticks, Fortune removed a bottle of brandy from his saddlebags. “Michael, take a big drink of this so it won’t hurt so badly.”
Michael burrowed closer against Claire, holding her tightly. She patted him. “Michael,” she said in a patient voice, “drink some of this and it will help your hurt.”
He raised a tear-streaked face and drank from the bottle, coughing and sputtering. “I don’t like it.”
She looked at Fortune, who nodded, and she turned back to Michael. “It’ll keep you from hurting so much. Take another big drink.”
“Mama—”
“Please, Michael.”
He drank and coughed and drank again, handing the bottle back to Fortune, who replaced the cork.
Fortune got his knife, looking at her. “Michael, this is to help you heal. It’s going to hurt.”
“Yes, sir” came a muffled reply.
Gritting his teeth, Fortune sliced into the cut and clamped his jaw shut as Michael cried out. Fortune uncorked the brandy and poured it over the wound. Bending down to suck out the blood, he spat it onto the ground. Finally he poured brandy on it again.
“I’m done, Michael,” he said while the boy clung to Claire and whimpered. “It’s all over except wrapping your foot.” Hunkering down, he worked quickly, wanting to take Michael in his arms and soothe him. Finally he reached out to turn Michael to face him. “You’ll be better now.”
Michael nodded and flung himself back to hug Claire. She picked him up and sat with him on her lap. Crooning softly to him, she held him in her arms like a baby, his long legs dangling off her lap. In minutes he was asleep.
Fortune cleaned the dishes and put things away, getting out the bedrolls and getting ready for the night. As he worked, he studied them obliquely. Michael needed Claire, depended on her. Within days they would reach New Orleans, where he had intended to buy passage for Claire to any eastern city of her choice and give her enough money to get started in her own business. He paused, studying her holding Michael, singing softly to him as she stroked his hair back from his face. She had asked if she could remain a nanny and he had refused, wanting to break all ties in his rage, wanting her out of their lives. Yet Michael loved her and needed her.
Fortune hated to acknowledge it, but it was obvious how close they were. Michael obeyed her without question, and he turned to her when he was hurt.
Fortune crossed the campsite to them. “He’s asleep. I’ll take
him,” he said, leaning down to lift Michael into his arms easily. He knelt and placed the child on his blanket gently, smoothing his hair from his face. “I hope he forgives me for hurting him.”
“He will. He’ll be reasonable tomorrow. I shouldn’t have let him take his shoes off.”
He stroked Michael’s hair and finally stood up. Fortune kicked out the dying fire and replaced his knife in his boot. Claire had pulled out sewing and had her head bent over it.
“Night’s coming.”
“I know. I can barely see what I’m doing,” she said without looking up.
He looked at the swamp, the dry area opposite where they had just traveled, and he moved to his belongings. He gathered clothing from his saddlebags, carrying it to a tree where he knelt to stuff his coat with the other clothing. He glanced at Claire and found her watching him.
He pushed clothing into a sleeve, filling out the coat. He propped it against a tree trunk, balling up a shirt on top of it and then placing his hat on top of the shirt.
“That won’t fool anyone,” she said quietly.
“In the dark it’ll resemble me.”
“What good will that do if we’re being watched?”
“I don’t think we’re being watched now. But he may catch up with us before the night is over. When it is good and dark, I’m going to move Michael to your blanket and stuff some clothing on his blanket to look like someone sleeping.”
Fortune retrieved his rifle and crossed to squat beside her, handing her the weapon and talking softly. “You keep the rifle, and you stay close to Michael. You’ll be safe that way. I’m going to circle around. I’ll be out there in the dark.”
He moved away, picking up Michael and placing him gently beside her. He went back to bundle more clothing on Michael’s blanket, and she tossed him her sewing, letting him roll it into a mound. When he removed his spurs and drifted into the darkness, she felt goosebumps rise up and down her arms.
Fireflies flickered, tiny bright spots in the night, and the deep croaks of a chorus of frogs were loud. She felt alone and she placed her hand on Michael’s shoulder as her gaze roved constantly over the area. The water of the swamp was complete blackness now, impossible to see, and she wondered if there were gators close at hand.
She cocked the rifle, wanting it ready to protect Michael. She sat down, looking at the stuffed coat and hat. It would fool no one if they came close, but perhaps in the distance in the dark it would look like Fortune sitting against the tree.
“I’m tired. I think I’ll go to sleep early tonight. This makes me think of times at home long before the war when I was just a girl,” she said brightly, wondering if Harwood was near, if her steady patter would convince him Fortune was her audience. She rambled about her childhood, talking in the silence, her finger on the trigger of the rifle.
Amid the deep bass of frogs sounded a jingle. It was faint, but she had heard it. She remembered Fortune removing his spurs. She inhaled deeply, her ears straining to hear, her eyes sweeping the area. It was impossible to see anything more than a few yards away. Tense, she waited, and then she heard another jingle. Hairs prickled on her neck and arms.
Suddenly there was a whispering sound and a solid thunk. She looked at the stuffed coat: a knife was embedded through it into the trunk of the tree.
She jerked up the rifle, coming to her feet as two shots rang out and pieces of the coat flew into the air.
“Lay down the rifle, missy, or you’re dead” came a cold voice out of the darkness, and she recognized Harwood as he stepped into view. He held a revolver pointed at her.
Chapter 10
“Don’t hurt us,” she said, placing the rifle on the ground and raising her hands.
“Get the kid awake. You’re going with me now.”
“Harwood.” Fortune’s voice came from somewhere to her left.
Harwood spun around, his revolver blasting into the night while she saw a flash from Fortune’s gun. She raised the rifle as Harwood fell.
“Mama?”
“It’s all right, Michael,” she said, keeping the rifle pointed at the inert figure on the ground. With a rustle Fortune emerged from the trees with his revolver in his hand.
The moment he knelt beside Harwood, Michael stood up and she pulled him close against her side.
Fortune glanced at her. “Harwood’s dead. We don’t have to worry about him ever again. Let’s saddle up and take the body to the next town. Michael can ride with me, and I’ll put the body across his horse.”
She nodded, patting Michael’s shoulder. “Are you all right?” she asked Fortune.
“My hat has a new crease,” he answered lightly as he thrust his revolver into his holster.
In a quarter hour they were packed up and moving. She was relieved to know that Harwood was no longer a threat, and she was dazed from the confrontation. It had happened so swiftly. Within minutes she saw Michael had slumped against Fortune, and she realized he had fallen asleep again.
“Thank goodness he wasn’t wide awake, and it was dark through all that. He’s never seen a man shot in front of him before.”
“When we get to Atlanta, he won’t have to see anything like that again.”
“You don’t expect any violence from Trevor Wenger?”
“I expect him to try. I don’t expect him to succeed.”
Fortune’s voice sounded hard and cold, and she wondered how much of a struggle lay ahead and how it would affect Michael.
“Are you positive you can’t work out something agreeable with the grandfather? There’s no reason he should object to your keeping Michael.”
Fortune’s head swung around. “He objects to me to the point of wanting me dead. He’s the one who gave me this lashing. He hoped it would kill me. He hates me for marrying his daughter and taking her away from the wealthy man he had planned for her to wed.”
Shocked, she stared at him. She understood that a father could be so determined and callous to his daughter’s feelings, because hers had been that way. Yet she was unable to fathom a person who would want to kill the man who was the father of his grandchild. She flinched as she remembered the scars that crisscrossed Fortune’s back.
“I’m a Yankee, I married Marilee when in Wenger’s opinion I had little to give her in the way of money. He despises me. And his reasons for wanting Michael are selfish. Anyone who cared for a child would never hire a killer to go get him.”
Agreeing with this last, she rode in silence. What kind of monster was Trevor Wenger? How could such a man have blood ties to Michael?
They rode into a small Louisiana town in the early hours of the morning. The street was empty except for light from a saloon. When they reached the sheriff’s office and jail, the place was locked. Fortune reined in and dismounted carefully, lifting Michael down from the saddle. “If you’ll wait here, I’ll find the law.”
She dismounted and sat on the boardwalk while Fortune knelt down to place Michael by her with his head in her lap. She looked at Fortune, whose face was close to her own. “Tired?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“You should have been in the Confederacy. You’d have learned to sleep in the saddle.”
She smiled, wondering if some of his worry had eased now that he was free of Harwood.
“I’ll walk down to the saloon and see if I can find a lawman to take the body. And I’ll get us a place to stay.”
“That would be very nice, Colonel, because I don’t feel like getting back on my horse.”
He got the rifle out of the scabbard and placed it beside her. “Just in case someone comes along and bothers you. Fire it, and I’ll come on the run.” She watched him go, his long legs covering the distance easily on the hard-packed dirt street.
The street became quiet. She leaned her head against a post, fighting sleep. In minutes she looked up and saw him leave the saloon with a stocky man at his side. The two walked down the street and out of sight in the darkness. They returned with a third man. Strugglin
g to stay awake, she watched them approach.
“Sheriff Laville and Edwin Pogue. This is my wife, Mrs. O’Brien, and her son, Michael, who is asleep.”
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am, but sorry it’s under these circumstances. Let’s get this done.”
The men went to haul Harwood’s body inside the office, and she closed her eyes.
“Claire.”
She opened her eyes. With his hat pushed to the back of his head, Fortune O’Brien knelt in front of her. “There’s a roominghouse down the street that belongs to the sheriff’s sister, and we can stay there.”
She nodded and took the reins of their horses while Fortune picked up Michael. “When we get there, I’ll carry him upstairs and get him settled. Then I’ll come back to tend to the horses.”
“I can take care of the horses.”
“No. You stay with Michael.”
She wasn’t going to offer again, feeling as if she might fall asleep on her feet. A light burned in a two-story Victorian house, and a woman stood in an open doorway. “You must be the O’Briens,” she said when they climbed the steps to the porch. “Look at the little one. Bring him inside. I’m Ingrid Royer. You poor things. My brother told me that terrible renegade tried to rob you. I hope your little boy wasn’t too frightened by him.”
“It happened so fast,” Fortune said, following her. She pulled her blue cotton wrapper close about her, a long brown braid hanging down her back to her waist.
“It’s a hot night again. I’m sorry we don’t have two rooms, but we have four boys, so our house is crowded.”
“It’s so nice of you to take us in,” Claire said.
“One room is a blessing,” Fortune added.
Claire knew besides it being scandalous, she wouldn’t ever become accustomed to sharing a room with him no matter how tired she was. But it was that or camping out again.
Ingrid Royer opened the door and motioned them inside to a long, narrow room with a plain iron bed. There were two mahogany tables, a rocking chair, and a washstand and chest. A lamp burned and the windows were opened. “I tried to get it ready for you. I have blankets there on the floor if you want to put your son on them to sleep. That’s what we do for our boys when we have relatives and the beds are filled.”