Claim: A Novel of Colorado (The Homeward Trilogy)

by Bergren, Lisa T.

  “It’s beautiful,” she murmured.

  The butler arrived, showing Billy the way with her trunk, and Francine turned to go. She paused in the doorway. “Perhaps you’d care for a moment to yourself. I will await you in the parlor to the side of the stairs.”

  “Thank you,” Moira said.

  Francine gave her a small smile and then disappeared around the corner.

  Moira turned to the small table where she’d set down her purse, and drew out a coin. The butler now waited at the door to show Billy out.

  Billy glanced his way and then to her as she handed him his pay. “Sure you’re ready for me to leave you here all alone, miss?”

  “I’ll be fine, Billy,” she said. He really was sweet, the way he’d taken to watching over her. “I’m with … family.”

  He put the coin in his pocket and hesitated a moment longer. What gave him pause? “Do you want me to come for you tomorrow, miss?”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary, Billy. I imagine the Knapps can send me back to the city in one of their carriages.” She looked over to the butler and he nodded once, in grave agreement.

  “All right then,” Billy said at last. “You look after yourself, miss.”

  “I’ve become fairly adept at it,” she said with a smile. “I’ll have the concierge find you when I return to the city, all right?”

  “All right. Good day, miss.”

  “Good day, Billy.”

  At last he was gone, and the butler with him. Moira shut the door quietly and then leaned her back against it. Her eyes scanned the long room again. The ceilings were high, and two windows stretched upward, three times her height. She walked the perimeter, then down past the windows and to the turret, and looked through the wavy glass of its lone window to the courtyard below. In a moment, Billy appeared, climbed into his carriage, and set the white mare in motion.

  Moira exhaled a long breath. Now she was truly on her own.

  o

  Daniel paced back and forth, awaiting the arrival of Nic, Sabine, and Everett. One of the deputies had been assigned duty as temporary sheriff in his stead. So if he could see to this business with his prisoner, all would be ready for the judge, due in town this afternoon. And then he’d be free to go after Moira. Now that he’d made his decision, he could barely wait.

  “Up on your feet, Robinson,” he said over his shoulder to his prisoner, watching Nic and the others approach through the window. “You’re about to find your tongue.”

  Chandler Robinson had risen only to be led to the outhouse thrice a day, or to pace his small cell. But now Daniel could sense Robinson behind him, rising, wrapping his fingers around the cold bars. Waiting on his accusers.

  Had the man truly killed that boy’s father for nothing more than to take his supplies? Daniel was cast back to finding Mary, sprawled across the floor of their cabin, bloody, lifeless. For what? A few dollars in the larder… He clenched his teeth.

  Nic tied up his horse out front and helped Sabine off her horse. Everett came around, hesitating.

  “You mind your manners, Robinson,” Daniel warned lowly, pushing away from the window and walking toward the door. He opened it, just as Nic was raising his hand to reach for the handle.

  “Come in, folks, come in.”

  Cleveland, the deputy on duty, rose from his chair.

  They filtered inward, but Daniel’s eyes were on Everett, the boy who had seen his father killed. He stepped in front of the boy and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Our prisoner, he can’t hurt you, boy. But if he’s the one that killed your father, we need to know it, straight away. You understand me?”

  Everett nodded soberly. He appeared pale and anxious. He glanced over Daniel’s shoulder.

  “This way,” Daniel said, nodding to the left. It was but a few paces more, but then they stood, still, suspended.

  “That’s him,” Everett whispered. “That’s the man that shot my dad.”

  “You sure?” Daniel asked, standing beside him, arms crossed, staring at his prisoner.

  “I’m sure,” Everett said, leaning a bit in his direction. Daniel reached out to loop an arm around his shoulders, turning his face away. It was enough, that.

  “Rules of the road,” Chandler snarled, with his fingers still laced around the bars. His voice sounded foreign, odd to Daniel, after days of silence.

  “Excuse me?” Nic said. Daniel’s eyes darted to the right as Nic approached the cell.

  “Rules of the road,” Chandler said in cavalier fashion, lifting his chin. “It’s a tough territory here. The weak fall prey to the strong. No harm meant by it. Merely survival.”

  Nic drew closer. “Survival, eh?”

  Chandler was lifting his head, studying him, when Nic reached through the bars and grabbed a fistful of his shirt with one hand, and the back of his head with the other. “Survive this.” Swiftly, he pulled him against the bars, ramming his head again and again against them.

  “Nic!” Daniel cried, along with Sabine. “Nic!” He snaked a hand out to stop him. Dimly, he felt his deputy, Cleveland, moving behind him, several seconds late.

  Chandler hovered midair, blood trickling from his nose and brow; then, knees collapsing, he crumpled to the ground by the bars.

  “Mr. St. Clair!” Cleveland yelled, tackling Nic to the ground.

  Daniel looked over and saw Sabine haul Everett to the corner and shield him with her body. He grimaced, seeing the utter terror on her face. Behind him, he could hear Nic wrench away from Cleveland with a guttural yell and rise, reaching through the bars again. He heard Chandler’s screech of terror, the sickening crunch of bone against bone.

  But he could only watch Sabine, trembling, eyes wide as she looked beyond Daniel, then turned to cover Everett again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “What in the Sam Hill is going on here?” thundered a new voice behind him.

  Daniel wrenched his eyes away from Sabine.

  Cleveland threw his arms around Nic and bodily lifted him from the ground, turning him from the cell and dropping him. Nic sprawled across the floor and then rose on one arm, panting.

  Daniel gazed toward the cell and shook his head, spying his bloody prisoner as he bent down to get a better look at the man. Great, he thought. A week in custody with barely a word spoken and now this.

  In the distance, he could hear the long, lonely whistle of the train. Fifteen minutes until it left for Denver again.

  He slowly rose to his feet, turning to the stranger as dread settled in his stomach. “Judge Basinger,” he said, assuming, by his dress and carriage, that he was the long-awaited messenger of the court. He reached out a hand.

  Mouth open, the smaller man numbly reached out his own. “You the sheriff here?”

  “Sheriff Adams,” Daniel said.

  “I’d hoped to find order restored here in Westcliffe, Sheriff,” the man said, indignation tingeing every word.

  “Yes. I did too,” Daniel returned. “By and large, it has been.”

  Nic moved over to Sabine and helped her up, and then the boy, as the prisoner came to his feet and wiped his bloody nose with the back of his hand, glaring at them.

  “My deputy here will see to your needs,” Daniel said, putting a hand on Cleveland’s shoulder.

  “Where are you going?” the judge sputtered.

  “To New York. I have personal business there and need to be on that train you just arrived on,” he said, gesturing toward the station with his hat. “This boy here is the eyewitness who saw the man in our cell—a man also wanted in Denver and Fort Collins—murder his father. These folks are his guardians. All right? Need anything else from me?”

  “Yes, of course there’s more. You can’t leave right now,” Judge Basinger said, shaking in indignation. “I didn’t travel all the way down here to be handed off to a deputy. Is this how General Palmer is running his towns?”

  “I don’t know General Palmer. But like it or not, it’s how I’m running it.”

>   “Well, I know the general. And I’ll have you removed from office,” the judge said, shaking a finger at him.

  “Listen, Judge, this was my fault—” Nic put in.

  “No,” Daniel said. “I don’t need you to shoulder my responsibility.” He shook his head. “I’ve been looking back, trying to fix my past for too long, whether it was five years or five minutes ago. It is what it is. I aim now to focus only on my future. On what might be.” He looked over at the judge. “Do what you have to do, Judge, and I’ll do the same.”

  And with that he left the sheriff’s office and headed to the train station.

  o

  Moira moved down the staircase, relishing the luxury of the Knapp home, with all its fine appointments. There were fresh flowers in every room and delicately tufted carpets down the center of the hall. She reached the polished floors of the foyer, then moved toward the parlor, which was beautifully decorated in French blue and white decorative moldings that reminded her of Queen Palmer’s music room in Colorado Springs.

  Francine rose from her wing-backed chair, and a tall, distinguished man turned from staring out the window beside her. Gavin’s father, he had to be. They both strode over to her. Francine took her hand in both of hers and turned toward the older gentleman. “Henry, I’d like you to meet Miss Moira St. Clair. Miss St. Clair, this is my husband, Mr. Henry Knapp.”

  “Moira, please,” she said, nodding back at him as he gave her a smart, short bow. He had wide mutton chops that were a dark gray, and thick, wavy hair that had obviously once been as dark as Gavin’s. But Gavin had really favored his beautiful mother in looks, while gaining his father’s height.

  “I’m glad you are here, Moira,” Henry said.

  “Thank you,” she said, studying him closely for even a hint that said he didn’t mean what he said. “I must say, I never dreamed I would be.”

  “Quite,” he said, lifting his brows.

  Moira drew back a bit.

  “Please, come and sit, my dear,” Francine said soothingly, gesturing toward a chair beside hers. Henry took a chair on the far side of a small conversation table between. “There is so much I wish to learn from you, I barely know where to start.”

  “You’ll have time, Francine. Give the young woman some breathing room,” Henry said with gentle reproach. A maid arrived and poured tea for them all, handing out the cups and departing.

  “Might you start … you see we miss Gavin very much.…” Francine brought her knuckle to her lips. Then after a moment’s pause, gave her a bright smile. “Please, tell us how you two met.”

  Moira was moved by the woman’s tenderness and felt a pang of sorrow again over Gavin’s death. For the next hour, she spoke of the crossing from Europe and, circumspectly, Gavin’s gentle pursuit. At one point, she was relating the harrowing storm, and how water was rushing in and Gavin hit his head, but their friend saved them both. Daniel. Daniel, always there … She caught herself and grimaced. “It was that night that Gavin’s headaches began. I believe he was seen by a physician when we arrived here. At least he said he did.” She shifted in her seat, feeling guilty for not recognizing the severity of his symptoms, although she was not at fault. Would they see that?

  “Our physician did see to Gavin,” Henry said gravely. “But as wondrous as the medical sciences are, it does not make them fortune tellers. He could not have known what was happening within. On the outside, he appeared as well as ever.”

  Moira nodded, feeling a breath of grace flow through their conversation. She glanced over them both with a small smile. There was something about them that reminded her of her own parents. Was it simply their age? No, it was more than that. The love they obviously shared. A tenderness. Henry’s businesslike manner was so like her own father’s. She settled back against the chair for the first time. “I want you both to know that I loved your son. The road we took together is not a road I would choose again. We made several grave mistakes. But I loved him.”

  Francine nodded, eyes wide. Henry remained motionless.

  “And what of the child you carry?” Francine said gently. “He will be a Knapp.”

  “I’m afraid he will be a St. Clair,” Moira said, as carefully as she could. “Gavin did not wish to marry. At least not me.”

  “I don’t understand that!” Francine said, setting down her coffee cup with a clatter. “As much as I loved my son, he was a cad when it came to women.”

  “Francine—” Henry said with a frown.

  “No, truly! He cavorted about with one after another. It was not how he was raised.”

  “He … he told me that he did not believe you two would approve of me.”

  They both paused.

  “He said it was one thing to be a singer upon Europe’s finest opera stages, but when we went West …” She sighed and set down her cup, settling her hands in her lap. “As I said, were I to do it over again, I’d do it differently. But I cannot go back.”

  “We were told …” Henry cleared his throat and began again. “We were told that you and Gavin presented yourself as husband and wife.”

  Moira sighed. “Yes, and I wish it had been the truth. Gavin considered it a convenience. A business matter.” She felt the heat of a blush rise along her neck.

  “He put a ring on your finger?” Francine asked, face drawn.

  “For a time, yes.”

  “Oh, my dear, I am so sorry.” Francine shook her head.

  “With wealth comes privileges,” Henry said, rising and moving to the window again. “I too am sorry that our son felt it was his privilege to abuse his association with you.”

  Moira paused. She was so surprised. Never, in all the times she had imagined their meeting, had she expected them to apologize for Gavin and his choices. “Gavin was a grown man. I was a woman grown. Neither of us behaved as we ought to have behaved. But I thank you for your kind apologies.”

  The grandfather clock began to bong noisily, covering the awkward silence that then ensued.

  o

  Sabine rushed outside, gasping for air. The splatter of blood, Chandler Robinson’s blood, on Nic’s hand sickened her. It was almost as if she could smell the metal odor of it. She leaned her head against the wall, trying to dispel the memories of her own blood spraying across the wooden floor of her cabin, the awful tearing of her lip, the difficulty chewing for days afterward when her teeth felt loose in her mouth.

  “Sabine?” Nic asked, coming outside.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head, and moving around the building, into the alley. “Please, just give me a minute,” she said, putting her hand up in the air, halting his progress toward her.

  “Sabine, I’m sorry—”

  “I know. I know,” she said, her eyes closed. “I understand. There was a part of me that wanted to hit him too.” She opened her eyes and stared at Nic, the man she loved. “Please. Can you wash your hands?” she pleaded.

  He glanced down at his hands, saw the blood, and his frown grew deeper. “I’m sorry, my love. I know it’s difficult, you seeing—”

  “Please. Just go wash your hands, Nic. Then we’ll talk.”

  He hesitated, then left her to pace in the alley for a while. He returned, hands in his pockets, and leaned a shoulder against the side wall of the sheriff’s office.

  “Where’s Everett?”

  “He’s sitting out front,” Nic said, nodding in the general direction. “He didn’t want to be inside. With him.” He paused for several breaths, waiting on her to speak. “Want to tell me what this is about?”

  “I …” She lifted a hand to her temple. “You know it’s difficult for me, any violence at all. I’m reminded of some of my most difficult days. Today … I don’t know if it’s because I’m so tired, or there’s so much to consider, between meeting your family and facing Peter’s killer …” She shook her head and sighed. “I was back, back in my cabin, somehow. The sound of you pulling Robinson into those bars reminded me of my husband, I think, and one terrible day when
he struck me with a crowbar.”

  Nic’s cheek muscle twitched, but he remained deadly still. “A crowbar?” he asked, so quietly she barely heard him.

  She glanced into his eyes and then away, knowing she might cry if she stared into them too long.

  “Sabine.” He hadn’t moved closer, but he was upright, with one hand outstretched to her. “Please. Come here.”

  She forced her feet into motion, moving to him. She did not fear this man. She feared a man in memory. This man, this man before her, was good. Different. He’d never strike her, with hand or tool.

  He wrapped her in his arms, slowly, and she could feel his breath in her hair. Gradually, she grew relaxed against him.

  “I will never, ever hurt you,” Nic promised. “You know that, right?”

  She nodded, feeling the truth of his words deep within.

  “When I strike others it hurts you somehow. I’m sorry for that, Sabine. Will you forgive me?”

  She nodded again.

  He pulled back and lifted her chin with the knuckle of his index finger. “I’m trying, my love. Truly. I really am much better than I used to be,” he said with a wry start of a smile. “I’ve been a fighter my whole life. But I’m trying to do what my father always urged me to do, use my brain,” he said, tapping his temple, “as well as my brawn. But you, Sabine, since you came into my life … you and God are teaching me to use my heart too.” He took her hand and placed it on his chest, where she could feel the dull, steady beat of it. “Give me more time to get used to using all three, all right?”

  “All right,” she whispered.

  Cleveland, the deputy, appeared on the front porch. “Mr. St. Clair.”

  Nic turned and looked at him.

  “I’m afraid the judge wants you in the holding cell. He’s considering bringing you up on charges.”

  Nic tensed. Sabine pulled back and looked up into his eyes with alarm. They were going to put him in the same cell as Peter’s killer? “Nic …”