The Southern Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  He touched her lightly on the shoulder. “We need to leave, Jessamyn. There’s just enough time to clean up before we have dinner.”

  She blushed. “Certainly.” She straightened and stepped back, her hands immediately working to settle her clothing. Though her mouth was bruised from his kisses, her eyes were as reserved and thoughtful as they’d been nine years ago.

  Morgan reminded himself sternly not to preen and strut like a rooster when he escorted her down the street, if for no other reason than she’d be gone in a few months. He gritted his teeth at the reminder and briskly disposed of the used condom.

  Then he stealthily sorted through his chest of carnal toys for some trinkets to distract her with, should a private occasion arise.

  The restaurant was, of course, the best Kansas City had to offer, given that William Donovan was dining there. French cuisine prepared by genuine French chefs, not someone flourishing an acquired accent, and served in an atmosphere of eye-catching opulence. Gold and green marble covered the walls and floors, framed by heavily carved wood. Gaslight hissed and danced on hundreds of crystals dangling from chandeliers and sconces, casting a surprisingly warm light across the central room and its assembled diners with their formal clothing.

  The maître d’, who obviously considered himself a superior being, raised an inquiring eyebrow as Morgan and Jessamyn approached.

  “The Donovan party, if you please. They’re expecting us.”

  The maître d’ unbent immediately with a gracious smile. “Mr. Evans, what a pleasure to see you! Mr. Donovan told us you’d be joining him. This way, please.”

  He stepped away from his desk and swept past another waiting couple without a glance. Morgan and Jessamyn followed him up the stairs to the private dining rooms on the second floor. Here the corridors were just as opulent as the great room below but hushed, as if to encourage the exchange of secrets in the rooms beyond. Skillful waiters moved quickly, silently stepping aside to let the newcomers pass and averting their eyes as if even the guests’ identity was a private matter.

  The maître d’ tapped on a door at the end of the hallway. William’s deep voice answered quickly and the man opened the door with a slight bow. Morgan followed, acutely aware of how cold his hands had suddenly become. William was his closest friend and his mentor in so many ways, and the bond between them ran deeper than blood kin.

  Still, before his marriage, William’s appetite for the fairer sex had been legendary. If Jessamyn was the first woman whose attractions incited him to adultery and he turned his charms on her…Morgan’s fists clenched before he told himself he was being a fool. William was besotted with his darling wife, whom he’d married little more than a year ago. He’d stopped spending time in brothels the day she moved in with him.

  Inside the elegant little room, William and his wife, Viola, rose to their feet. Their surprise at Jessamyn’s presence was quickly covered by smiles of welcome, although William’s glances at Jessamyn seemed particularly warm.

  Morgan stiffened, tightening his grip on Jessamyn’s arm, and forced himself to make introductions. “My dear, allow me to introduce you to my employer and good friends, William and Viola Donovan. William and Viola, may I present you to my cousin, Mrs. Jessamyn Evans, who’s traveling with me?”

  Jessamyn nodded politely, every inch the perfect Southern lady. She’d stiffened slightly when he introduced her as “cousin,” but at least she hadn’t openly objected. “Mrs. Donovan, Mr. Donovan, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Morgan didn’t drop his guard, barely managing not to snap out a challenge to a fight. William’s eyes swept over Morgan, amusement in their depths. Thankfully, Viola provided a distraction.

  “You’re introducing us to family members at last? Lovely!” She rushed around the table to kiss them both on the cheek.

  Only Morgan felt Jessamyn’s reflexive flinch—and his own. William followed his wife’s example and greeted them, polite toward Jessamyn but still searching Morgan’s expression.

  Morgan settled into his chair, pasting a smile on his face as he watched William out of the corner of his eye. The party, led by Viola’s laughing energy and Jessamyn’s Southern graciousness, soon ordered the restaurant’s specialties for supper.

  His jealousy of William faded, replaced by a wry laughter at himself. As if the man ever noticed a woman other than Viola now!

  “Where are Hal and Rosalind Lindsay?” Morgan asked, more as a way to postpone the inevitable discussion of why he wanted to take leave. “I thought they would join us tonight.”

  Viola’s eyes danced and William smiled, lounging back in his chair like a cougar. “Captain Lindsay,” he answered formally, “was unavoidably called away on business. His wife—”

  “Of five days,” Viola inserted with a smile.

  “Insisted on accompanying him, to ensure that he accomplished all matters in a satisfactory manner. Said business needing to be conducted—”

  “At their house. We may see my brother and his wife again sometime tomorrow,” Viola finished and chuckled. “Maybe. Or maybe not.”

  “More likely not,” her husband agreed, without heat, and patted her hand. She turned it over to clasp his and smiled at him, their confidence in each other as radiantly clear as it had always been.

  Morgan shifted uncomfortably before reaching for his champagne. His parents had cherished each other like that once and he’d always hoped to find something similar in his own marriage.

  William’s brilliant blue gaze came back to him, with all the clear-eyed watchfulness he wore in the private clubs as a master of women’s fantasies. There were damn few masks, if any, capable of standing against it.

  Morgan squared his chin and looked back at his old friend and mentor. Beside him, Jessamyn was silent, studying every word and move the others made. He began his report.

  “I completed the deal with Halpern this afternoon and was able to get an excellent price on those ammunition chests.”

  “Congratulations,” William murmured. His eyes never wavered from Morgan’s face.

  “I’d like to take a few weeks’ leave now, maybe a couple of months. Jessamyn’s uncle left her a map showing where there might be—”

  “Is!” she inserted fiercely.

  William and Viola’s heads swiveled sideways to look at her. Her jaw was set mulishly as she glared at Morgan. “I know Ortiz’s gold is buried exactly where Uncle Edgar said.”

  Viola’s eyebrows shot up. “Ortiz’s gold?”

  William let out a long, soft whistle before rising to lock the door. He sat back down with a very thoughtful expression. “Where do you plan to hunt?”

  “The San Juan Mountains,” Morgan answered. “She has a well-made Spanish map, starting from the Three Needles on the Rio Grande’s headwaters. After that, the trail leads a little west but mostly south into the mountains.”

  “Anyone else know about this?”

  “Her cousin has a copy of the same map. You know him and his wife: Charlie and Maggie Jones.”

  William’s eyes flashed and he slapped the table angrily, as if it was a poor substitute for the real scoundrel.

  Viola sighed, her soft mouth drooping. “Maggie was so distraught after her baby died. I tried so hard to be a friend and help her every way I could.”

  William put his arm around her and she leaned against his shoulder, her face half-hidden. “You can’t save people from themselves, sweetheart.”

  “True. But perhaps if I’d set a better example as a Christian, she’d have changed.”

  “Viola, darling, she stole everything you had and sold it.” And no one else will ever take advantage of you again, promised his pitiless expression.

  “But if she hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t have marched into your office and we wouldn’t be married,” Viola countered and tipped her head back to bat her eyelashes at him meaningfully.

  William choked.

  Morgan bit his lip, trying not to laugh, and Jessamyn spluttered behind her n
apkin.

  William patted his wife’s arm. “You are, as ever, perfectly correct. But I believe you’ll agree with me that Morgan and his lady will need to make every effort, if they are to survive and reach their destination before Charlie Jones.”

  “Certainly,” Viola agreed promptly. “Jones is a very dangerous man.” She kissed him on the cheek.

  William smiled at her fondly then cocked an eyebrow at Morgan. “How well funded is Jones?”

  Morgan snorted, his jealousy finally completely erased. “Extremely. After you refused to haul freight from his Rosabelle Mine, in retribution for stealing all of Mrs. Donovan’s possessions, Jones traded the Rosabelle for Nelson’s Firelight Mine.”

  “How did he persuade Nelson?” Viola asked, fascinated. Jessamyn put down her fork, ignoring an excellent roast chicken, to listen.

  “Officially, Jones said that his new bride wanted a home closer to the comforts of civilization. In truth, a large number of thugs nearly destroyed Nelson’s hoisting shaft. Taking the warning, Nelson cut his losses and accepted the trade. Whereupon Donovan & Sons promptly signed a contract with Nelson at lower rates, albeit still very profitable, than with Jones.”

  “But the Firelight had never been a major producer,” William observed.

  “Up until then, no. But shortly after Jones took possession, he sunk a new shaft, turned lucky, and struck a very rich vein of gold. He’s now the second or third richest man in the Colorado Territory.”

  “I’ll wager Maggie spends it as quickly as he can bring it out of the ground,” Viola said tartly.

  Morgan spread his hands in agreement. “Or faster. She’s his only weakness. But he’s still extremely rich.”

  “I assume Cousin Charlie still controls the same thugs who brought him the Firelight,” Jessamyn commented thoughtfully, buttering a roll. She looked entirely too civilized, in her proper black dress with her precisely wielded silverware against the crisp white tablecloth, to be discussing such matters.

  The others stared at her, startled by her matter-of-fact description of her cousin’s viciousness. She looked around at them and shrugged. “It would be very much in his fashion, you know. He always liked to keep other bullies and thieves close at hand to increase his mischief. But if so, where can we find an army to proceed against him?”

  “We won’t need an army.” Morgan infused his voice with more certainty than he felt. He’d seen the nearly ruined Firelight after Jones’s thugs had wrecked the hoisting shaft and he’d prefer to have ten men for every one of Jones’s. “His men are mostly miners and bully boys, more accustomed to camps than mountains and trails. I can hire better fellows than that in Denver. War veterans, for example.”

  William considered him for a long moment, his blue eyes hooded and nearly unreadable. He glanced down at Viola, who nodded silently, before he spoke. “Take whatever you need from Donovan & Sons—men, horses and mules, supplies.”

  Morgan frowned at him, knowing exactly what the offer would cost the firm. After all, he’d spent most of the previous year acting as William’s general manager, while William and Viola honeymooned abroad. “It’s the middle of summer, the busiest season. You’d be stretched too thin.”

  William shrugged, his blue eyes as implacable as a broadsword’s steel. “I want my best friend to return alive.”

  Morgan knew damn well how poor his chances were of directly defeating any edict delivered in that tone. “I’ll repay you.”

  “Don’t be absurd!” Viola cried.

  Morgan barely glanced at her. “It’s business, Viola. I ran Donovan & Sons for the past year while you were in Europe. You can’t afford to lose a dozen men at the height of the season.”

  “You’re our best friend and we want you back. William, tell him not to be silly!”

  Her husband pursed his lips, considering his general manager. “You can repay me at cost.” He put his hand over his wife’s.

  “Cost plus—”

  “Cost,” William said flatly.

  Morgan laughed. “Deal. I should have known better than to try to outwit you.”

  Viola snickered, a remarkably unladylike sound that she covered with a sip of lemonade.

  “Thank you,” Jessamyn said softly. “You’re very generous.”

  “You’ll take Grainger as your second-in-command,” William added in tones that were as implacable as they were silky.

  Morgan nearly spewed his wine across the table. “The fellow who is your best trail boss between Trinidad, the Denver & Rio Grande’s railhead, and Santa Fe?”

  Jessamyn gasped softly but didn’t speak.

  “I know exactly how important he is. But he’s an ex-cavalry officer, no pilgrim, and our best organizer for a trip into far country. You need someone like him at your back, since I can’t accompany you.”

  Morgan nodded gratefully. When no other comments came, he brought up the company’s enfant terrible. “May I have Lowell too?”

  William’s eyebrows went up. “Now you want the Kentucky lad, too, who’s an excellent marksman and a near-genius in any wilderness, despite his difficulties around civilization.” He drummed his fingers on the table, staring into the distance. Morgan watched him silently, barely conscious of holding his breath. Finally, William spoke. “Very well, you can have them both. I recommend you also find yourself a good guide.”

  “Have you been into the San Juans?”

  “Just once, five years ago. And you?”

  “Saw them from the south with Cochise, before the War. We didn’t enter them.”

  William grunted his sympathy with Cochise’s decision. “The San Juans are high mountains, many over fourteen thousand feet, as if giants stacked blocks end over end. Also, the Ute Indians there are very good fighters, even if they’ve recently signed a peace treaty. You may have a map but local experience will count for as much, or more.”

  Morgan nodded. “I’ll ask Grainger to find someone.”

  “How do you plan to travel there?”

  “Train to Denver, then south to the Sangre de Cristo Pass. After that, travel by horseback.” He turned to look at Jessamyn. “Do you want to ride astride?”

  She stiffened, clearly affronted, and very precisely set down her fork to glare at him. “As a lady, I always ride aside, of course. I have an English hunt saddle, which Cyrus ordered made for me in London. It’s waiting for me, with the rest of my gear, at the boardinghouse.”

  “Excellent,” Viola approved. “How many riding habits do you have?”

  “One, thank you, cut from cavalry blue.”

  Morgan’s fingers tapped briefly on the table, at the reminder of her years with Cyrus.

  Jessamyn continued, her eyes barely flickering toward him. “Plus an American Lady’s mountain dress, which will also do for riding in a pinch.”

  “Very good. Those full trousers are quite comfortable, aren’t they?”

  “Indeed they are, even hidden under the skirt.”

  The two ladies smiled at each other in perfect harmony and went back to eating.

  William drummed his fingers on the table. “You’ll use our private car as far as Denver, since it’s standard gauge, with Abraham and Sarah Chang to look after you. I’ll have it hitched to the U.P.’s morning train to Denver.”

  “There’s only narrow-gauge railways after that.” Morgan considered his options, given how fast railroads were being built in Colorado.

  “Yes, you’ll have to switch to the Denver & Rio Grande. I’ll ask Rosalind to arrange a special train with them to the foot of the Sangre de Cristo Pass. Some of your horses and supplies will meet you in Denver, of course, and the rest at the Plaza de los Leones.” He unlocked the door and tugged the bell cord, summoning the waiter.

  “Thank you,” Morgan said with feeling.

  William barely bothered to glance up from the coded telegram he was writing. “My pleasure. Just remember Jones will probably be doing the same thing.”

  Morgan shrugged and produced his own pad of telegram
blanks from an inside pocket. “I’ll take my chances. I’ve had fair warning and I can defeat him.”

  “Of course,” William agreed, his expression harsh. “But watch your back on that trail. You’re heading into the roughest of territories.”

  Maggie preened, admiring herself in the hand mirror her maid held. Her peignoir was in the latest Paris fashion, so ornamented with pleats and ribbons that the underlying white silk was barely visible. It was cut low in front to display her superb décolletage, which was also framed by her flowing locks.

  She arched her neck and smirked. Just like a swan, as that Italian what’s-his-name had bleated before Charlie killed him.

  She snapped her fingers. “Jewelry box!” Her maid flipped the lid open and Maggie began to select the finishing touches. They wouldn’t be enough to keep Charlie’s interest, let alone make him any use to a woman. But they’d certainly keep a smile on her face.

  Her fingers petted her darlings as she debated. The gold nugget earrings? Too common, even if they were enormous. Rubies? No, too heavy. Sapphire earrings, with that delicious pendant that nestled between her breasts to remind her of why she’d really married the fool?

  The box dropped out from under her hand as her idiot maid bobbed a curtsy. “Mr. Jones.”

  Maggie barely refrained from boxing the fool’s ears. She managed a smile as she grabbed the precious chest and set it on the table. “Have you finished making arrangements?”

  “All done.” He settled onto the bed, watching her moodily. She’d thought him a fine enough fellow once, even if no match for Morgan Evans’s bold elegance. She flicked her fingers at her maid, who departed hastily.

  “Rail travel arranged, plus surprises for our competition.”

  “Lovely.” She started sorting through her pretties. She’d need inspiration, if she was to rouse Charlie’s male member to any sort of upright stance tonight. “I’ll wait for you in Newport.”

  A long golden rope, set with rubies and diamonds, dropped around her neck. Maggie squeaked and grabbed at it, holding it out so she could see it better. “Oh, how beautiful! Lovely, lovely! Pigeon’s blood rubies, cabochon cut…” She scrambled in her drawer for her jeweler’s loupe, not taking her eyes away from the jewelry.