Claim: A Novel of Colorado (The Homeward Trilogy)

by Bergren, Lisa T.

  The concierge hesitated a moment longer, his eyes flicking over to the hotel manager. But Daniel didn’t care. He only wanted answers. And fast.

  “We have become somewhat alarmed over Miss St. Clair ourselves,” the concierge said in a low tone, leaning over the desk. “She has not returned in four days.”

  “You have a guest who has been missing for four days? And you have done nothing?”

  “She paid in advance. And went to call upon friends. We assumed she remained there, but most of her things remain in her room.”

  Daniel frowned. She had intended to see one family, as far as he knew. “Did she go to call upon the Knapps?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” the man said. “But I can help you find the cabbie who took her there.”

  “Please,” he said, gesturing outward.

  They exited back into the brilliant summer day and Daniel blinked and squinted. Luckily, at this time of day most of the cabbies outside were idle, taking their lunch several hours late, talking with friends.

  The young man who had brought Daniel here watched with consternation as they passed him by and continued down the line of cabbies, obviously worried that he might miss another fare, but Daniel ignored him, watching only the concierge before him, hoping he might recognize the man they sought. “There!” said the man, pointing. “Five down. The one with the brown carriage and white horse. That’s him. He accompanied her for days. She asked for an escort, a guard, of sorts. He was the one I found for her.”

  Daniel hurried over. The large man looked up, still chewing a piece of bread as he approached. Others ahead of him watched them too, all jealously coveting the next fare.

  “You,” Daniel said. “Were you watching over a Miss Moira St. Clair a few days back?”

  “If I was, what’s it to you?”

  “I’m Sheriff Adams, out from Colorado. I’m in love with Moira St. Clair. And I have reason to believe she might be in danger.”

  The man straightened at his last word. “Why do you believe that?”

  “Because she hasn’t returned in several days. And yet her things are still in her room. Where did you drop her last?”

  “Out past the city,” he said, gesturing northward with his head. “The Knapp estate. But she was packed for a short stay. Chances are, she’s fine, simply enjoying fine hospitality.”

  “Yes, well,” Daniel said, feeling a bit of relief at the news, yet knowing Moira would have at least sent for her things if her stay were extended, “if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to see that for myself. I’ll pay you to take me out there.”

  “Hey, you were my fare, mister,” said a voice behind him. He turned to see the young man who’d brought him out from the train station.

  “How are you in a fight?” Daniel asked.

  “I hold my own. Scrappy, my pa calls me.”

  “Good. You can come with us.” He flipped him a coin. “Pay someone to watch over your carriage and horse until we return. There will be two more for you if I get what I’ve come for.”

  The young man’s eyes widened. “All right. Let me get your bags.”

  Daniel turned to the other driver, who reached over and shook his hand.

  “Name’s Billy Samson. I hope you’re wrong about Miss St. Clair being in some sort of trouble.”

  “Me too, Billy. Me too.” He settled into the new carriage, thinking of Moira being in the same spot, just a few days before. But instead of relaxing, he found his sense of trepidation growing. “How ’bout you, Billy? You any good in a fight?”

  “Sure,” the man said, looking over his shoulder at him. “There was a reason the concierge up there asked me to escort Miss St. Clair about.” A grin spread across his face.

  “Good. Because we might have to fight to free her.”

  “Or we might find her on the front lawn, enjoying a cup of tea and a game of croquet.”

  “I’d welcome that. But are you game to back me up in case we don’t find the situation to be quite so … civilized?”

  “I’m game.”

  “Good.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Nic walked down Westcliffe’s bustling street, whistling, relieved to know that Chandler Robinson had been sent to Denver for his final sentencing. He and Sabine would have to return to Buena Vista in two weeks’ time for the trial of the owners of the Dolly Mae. Of course the company had called in high-powered attorneys from Denver, but Nic chose to believe that truth would prevail. In the meantime, he had one thing on his mind: marrying Sabine.

  The town was not big enough for a jeweler of its own, but the mercantile was certain to have a bigger selection than anything he’d seen in St. Elmo. He walked along the busy boardwalk, admiring how it was taking shape. The town was full of ranchers and miners and new families on the frontier, fresh-faced and full of hope. Perhaps Sabine wouldn’t mind settling here, or in Conquistador, with a fine view of the mountains, or even on the Circle M itself. Bryce and Dess had offered them their choice of lots. He smiled, thinking of Dess, who so clearly wanted her sister and brother nearby. But that was up to Sabine. He’d go anywhere she wanted.

  Another block and he spotted the Westcliffe Mercantile, up and on the right. He entered and smiled as the clerk up front greeted him. He paused before a display of trousers, jackets, shirts, and ties. They would be perfect, if he could find a set to fit him. But he could not wait to get to the jewelry case, so he moved on. Slowly, he placed one hand on the curved glass lid, and then another, looking down, into folds of soft fabric dotted with earrings, rings, and fancy cuff links. Men came, he knew, to this territory with such things and used them as currency, exchanging their mothers’ and wives’ keepsakes for a chance at a greater treasure, so elusive, for so many.

  But not for me, he thought in wonder. How on earth, Lord, did You choose me to be so fortunate? I am far from deserving.…

  “Can I help you?” asked the clerk, coming nearer.

  “Yes. I need a plain gold ring for me and something special for my bride.”

  “Getting married soon?” the clerk asked with a smile.

  “As soon as possible,” Nic said with a grin in return. Saying it aloud made it feel real.

  “Well, then,” said the man, cocking a brow, “we’d better find you something suitable then. Which do think would capture your bride’s heart? An emerald? Or ruby?”

  Nic’s eyes moved over the rings, looking for the one that was right. “There,” he said, lowly, pointing to the lower left of the cabinet. “That’s it. That’s it,” he said again in glee.

  o

  “Please,” Moira said, reaching out to Theresa, as the girl set a tray beside her bed. For the first time in what seemed days, she felt more coherent, but her mind worked and worked to find her next words. “Please,” she finally repeated again.

  “There’s your breakfast, miss. Mrs. Knapp, she’s coming to see you in a wee bit,” she said. Hurriedly, she turned and moved out of the room, almost knocking over a small table in her rush. Two other maids arrived and set down a washtub. Two men followed behind them, each carrying hefty pails full of steaming water. They never looked in the direction of Moira’s bed, but simply poured the contents of each pail into the tub and left. One maid moved to the corner and pulled out an Oriental screen, with ivory panels and black lacquered framework. She set it up in front of the tub, effectively dividing it from the rest of the room and giving the intended bather some modicum of privacy. Dimly, Moira supposed the bather would be her.

  She reached up and felt the short hair of her head. Where had her wig gone? Through squinting, weary eyes, she looked about the room and found it upon her dressing table, on a proper stand. So the Knapps knew of her burns now. Not that it mattered. Why had she tried to hide it at all?

  The second maid moved over to her and took hold of her blankets. “Come, miss. We’re to get you in the tub. Would you care for something to eat first?”

  Moira sat up. She didn’t bother to answer her question. I
t took too much effort. To speak. To refuse the bath. It was better to comply and get it over with, then back to bed. She rose on shaking legs and almost collapsed. “Whoa there, I got you,” said the maid, wrapping an arm around her waist. She tucked her head under Moira’s arm. “Come on. You’ll feel like a new woman after a proper bath.”

  They moved across the room and in short order, undressed her and helped her into the tub. The water was the perfect temperature, and Moira settled in and leaned back, letting the water reach her chest. There was a knock at the door and the maids moved over to it, accepting two more pails of water. “Here you go, miss,” said the first maid. “Lean forward and we’ll give your hair a fair scrub.” Slowly, she poured it over her head. Then Moira leaned back, letting it splash down her face as well.

  The maid picked up a bar of soap and moved toward her.

  “I’ll do it,” Moira said, lifting her hand. She was no child, needing a nursemaid. They’d drugged her, not taken her mind in total. And the water seemed to be washing away some of her fogginess. She rolled the bar in her hands, watching as it lathered into billows of bubbles. It smelled good, of lavender, and she set to scrubbing her hair, then her body, and went under for a moment to rinse it all off. She emerged feeling even closer to some semblance of herself. What had they been giving her? And how? When? Never did she remember anyone entering, giving her medication. Only sleep, and drink, and more sleep …

  She peered through the crack in the dressing screen, over to where a maid was pulling sheets from her bed and remaking it. Beside her was the tray. Drink. They were drugging her water and tea. That had to be how they were slowly poisoning her.…

  No more. It ended today. Somehow. They could not keep her prisoner here until she birthed this baby, still three or four months away. She looked down to her belly and rubbed it. You are mine, she told her child silently. No one will take you from me. Not even your grandparents.

  “Ready for the last pail, miss?” asked the maid, from the other side of the screen.

  “Please.”

  The young woman came in and poured it over her, rinsing her off, then handed her a thick towel of luxurious Egyptian cotton. Moira stood to wrap it around her body and then stepped out of the tub. The maid handed her a pile of neatly folded underclothes. “Up to dressing yourself, or you would you like help, miss?”

  “I think I can do it,” Moira said. She was feeling worn from the bath, as if it had sapped her meager energy. But she was feeling more awake at the same time. Help me, Lord. Help me to make the most of this time. Help me to find a way out.

  “Here’s your gown,” said the maid. “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  The woman moved toward her, her turquoise gown in hand. Why dress her in such finery?

  Unless Francine Knapp did not intend to call on her alone.

  Moira lifted her chin and waited as the maid buttoned up her gown in back, settling it around her. Then she sat down on a pedestal chair beside the dressing table, and the woman carefully combed her hair back, then reached for her wig.

  She settled it atop her head and stood back to look at her in the mirror. “There now, the perfect lady,” she said in admiration. “Would you care for a bit of powder? Rouge?”

  “No, thank you,” Moira said.

  “Oh, just a spot of color. You’re terribly peaked after your days in bed.”

  Days. So it had been days.

  She gave in to the woman’s ministrations, and in short order the girl had applied a careful layer of rouge to her cheeks. It was artfully done.

  “Much better,” said a voice from the corner.

  Moira’s eyes lifted to the mirror again, and she spied Francine Knapp striding toward her across the room. The male servants and the maids scurried to clean up the tub, emptying it with the pails and carrying the rest out immediately.

  Francine paused behind her shoulder, picking up one coil of the blonde wig after another, as if examining the quality.

  “So you intend for me to live like this until my pregnancy comes to an end?” Moira asked. She was so tired, she could not move, but her mind was gaining clarity by the moment.

  “Is it so terrible?” Francine said wryly. She waved about. “A fine apartment. A luxurious bed. Servants to care for your every need. Most women would envy you.”

  “I am not most women.”

  “That, you are not,” Francine said wearily. She turned and walked over to the two chairs that were nestled in the turret. Moira could see that her breakfast tray had been moved over there. “Come, my dear. Join me.”

  Moira glanced over to the open doorway. Might she make it, if she were to run?

  “You are far too weak for such a thought,” Francine said, staring at her, reading her look. “And there are guards in the hall. Come.”

  Moira rose, as gracefully as she could on her weak legs, and moved toward the woman, fighting the urge to reach out and steady herself on furniture as she passed. When she reached the chair, she collapsed. A thin sheen of sweat broke out over her whole body from the exertion.

  “Here, have some tea,” Francine said. “You look a fright all of a sudden.”

  Moira accepted the cup from her hands, but only pretended to sip from it. The liquid appeared normal, a deep golden brown. And it smelled fine too. But since it came directly from the viper, she would not drink from it. She set it down before her, watching Francine’s eyes follow it. There. You’ve given yourself away.

  “You need to keep up your strength, my dear. For the baby, if not for yourself. Won’t you try and drink a bit more?”

  “You’re right,” Moira said. Again, she feigned a sip, and set the cup down.

  “Today we will be joined by our attorney,” Francine said. “I do hope there will not be any more messy exchanges between us. Might we not carry forward, as friends, family, really?”

  “But the cost for such an agreement is a life. My child’s.”

  “Come now,” she chided. “We are not threatening to take a life. We are offering to give this child everything.”

  “I’ve had everything, Francine.” She shook her head a little. “Everything a woman could want, really. And it did not bring me peace, joy. Only love can do that.” From a good man. Daniel, not Gavin. From a God who loved her. As she was. Regardless of what she’d done.

  “Mrs. Knapp?” said a maid at the door, wringing her hands.

  “What is it?” Francine said, clearly irritated by the interruption.

  “You have a visitor.”

  “A visitor? But he is not due until—”

  “Not him, mum, but another. Mr. Knapp bade me to come and fetch you.”

  “Very well,” Francine said, rising. “I’ll see to this and return to resume our conversation.”

  “I shall await your return,” Moira responded tiredly, as if she could barely stand, allowing the woman to leave her presence.

  Francine, as if sensing her sarcasm, lifted her pert nose and walked from the room, every inch the regal woman.

  Moira reached for a muffin and forced a bite to her mouth. If she was to gain some strength, have a chance to fight, she would need some food in her stomach. As it stood, she would be lucky to make it to the door without aid. Everything in her called her to return to her bed, nestle into the cool, crisp, clean sheets. Let the comforter settle atop her, slowly warming her as she let her eyelids fall …

  She shook her head. She had to stay alert.

  “Theresa,” she called.

  “Yes, miss?” the maid said, at her door at once.

  “Might I have a glass of water? My stomach is too upset for this tea at the moment.”

  “Right away, miss,” said the girl. She disappeared, then returned in short order with a sweating pitcher and a crystal glass, slightly out of breath. “This came straight out of the ice box,” Theresa said proudly. “Mr. Knapp, he enjoys his water cold as a dip in a winter pond.”

  Moira covered a smile. “Well if it’s good enough for Mr. Kn
app, then it’s certainly good enough for me.” She gulped down the water and lifted her goblet to the girl again. “May I have some more?”

  “Sure enough, miss.”

  After Moira had finished the water, she handed it to the maid. “You can take those away, now,” she urged. “Mrs. Knapp and I will resume our tea.”

  “Certainly, miss.” She bustled out the door and Moira smiled. Francine would never know that she had taken in liquid, devoid of anything that might harm her further. She looked around for a place to dump her tea. Seeing no other option, she dumped it inside a large Chinese urn of blue and white—possibly Ming Dynasty—and then settled the cup back in the saucer.

  Francine Knapp returned, looking a bit … shaken? Moira pretended not to notice. She positioned her head against the back of the chair. “If I’m to speak with your attorney, I shall need a bit of a rest beforehand.”

  Francine’s eyes moved to Moira’s empty cup. “But of course, my dear. Theresa! Come at once and help me get my daughter-in-law back to her bed.”

  Moira accepted the help as if she could barely stand. She was terribly weak and weary, but nothing as severe as she feigned now. There was a shout downstairs and then a terrible pounding upon the door, so loud that they could hear it even here, at the end of the house. The sound reverberated down the polished wooden floors.

  Moira pretended a yawn and closed her eyes. “So, so very tired,” she mumbled.

  “You sleep,” Francine said, drawing the covers to her chin. “I will be back to fetch you in a while.”

  “Sleep,” Moira muttered.

  The woman hurried across the room and the door shut behind her. Moira heard the key in the lock. And more pounding downstairs, in the front entry. There was something familiar about the shout. A timbre of the voice, muffled and distant as it was …

  She forced herself to rise and come to her feet again. She moved across to the windows and looked down into the front area. She could barely see the edge of a carriage and a white horse. Billy. Billy?

  Her heart skipped a beat and surged. Reaching out to steady herself, she moved down to the small window in the turret, the one that faced the front of the building. Through the wavy glass she saw three men at the door.