The Southern Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  The men surged forward to stare at it. Some squatted down, while others stood tall to peer over their brethren’s shoulders. All were very careful to keep their coffee and tea far away from the fragile parchment. Strong fingers traced their past travels, while deep voices rumbled recognition of landmarks. Finally they began to move back, their curiosity appeased.

  Lowell looked up at Morgan, from where he alone still knelt beside the map. “What are the penciled lines, sir?”

  “The correct compass headings. The pole has moved slightly since the map was drawn almost two hundred years ago.”

  “Looks like you can predict the headings now,” Grainger observed from where he stood beside Little. It was the first time he’d spoken.

  “Pretty much,” Morgan agreed.

  Curiosity hung thick in the air. Jessamyn tried not to give voice to hers.

  Morgan glanced around with a devilish twinkle. “We know where we are on the map. If we head east along those peaks there”—he nodded toward the dreadfully jagged mountain ridge—“we should be able to come back onto Ortiz’s route by using a compass.”

  There was still a chance to reach the gold? Joy bubbled up in Jessamyn’s heart but she caught it back. Achieving that meant they’d have to pass that crenellated ridge with its dreadful abyss.

  “We’re about here on the map.” Morgan set a pencil down very carefully.

  Heads canted and eyes squinted as the teamsters considered this.

  “If so, then the far mountains, the ones crowned by the double snowcapped peaks”—he pointed, making heads turn and nod in recognition—“should bring us back on approximately this heading. Eventually we’d emerge here.”

  He laid a set of toothpicks across the map. The last one pointed to a triangle mountain, just above the wavy circle marking the gold.

  Jessamyn’s head swam. They could still make it to the gold, despite what Charlie had done? It just might be worth taking that narrow trail.

  Morgan glanced up at his scouts. “What do you know about this route?”

  Little shrugged, his gaze pensive. “It’s almost certainly longer than the Spanish route.”

  Grainger snorted. “Any road would be. But do you think it will lead to this mountain?”

  “Maybe. It will take us to hot springs below a pointed mountain, beside a waterfall.”

  Joy surged through Jessamyn. “That’s the route then. My aunt’s diary mentions those hot springs.”

  “They’re not on the map,” Morgan pointed out.

  “She said the men soaked out their aches there from working the gold, then rinsed off under the waterfall.”

  Morgan’s eyes gleamed and a wave of interest rippled through the men around them. “That’s it then. A gamble—but it should work.” He grinned like a buccaneer and began to roll up the map in its silk wrapper.

  “There’s one other way to tell the route,” Morgan added. Jessamyn’s head came up so fast to stare at him, she nearly dropped her teacup.

  “Ortiz marked the trail’s junctions with fist-sized chunks of white quartz, about the size of a brick. They’re very hard to spot amid the granite, and rockfalls have claimed at least a quarter of them.”

  The men burst into excited comment, recounting the route and the rock formations they’d seen

  “Ortiz made two maps?” Jessamyn whispered, her voice almost inaudible. There was still hope to rescue Somerset Hall?

  Morgan nodded, his eyes fixed on hers. “I planned to tell you tonight.”

  She gripped his hand, exulting as fiercely as any Amazon warrior. “We’ll be able to find the route without exactly matching Ortiz’s viewpoint of the pyramid?”

  “I believe so.”

  She kissed Morgan on the cheek, making the others cheer. He shrugged their applause off and started planning. “Have you scouted this trail, Grainger?”

  “The beginning of it, yes. We did so yesterday.”

  “Where can we make camp tomorrow?”

  Grainger and Little eyed each other in a silent conversation, before Grainger answered. “Nothing before the hanging valley—and we can’t hope to reach it until two, maybe three, in the afternoon. It’s very exposed to weather, which is why we didn’t suggest taking it earlier.”

  Jessamyn frowned, thinking about thunderbolts bursting amidst nervous horses—with a precipice nearby.

  “No caves?” Morgan frowned.

  Grainger shook his head. “Only a few that might hold a mule or two and not even enough of those for all of us. My guess is that a huge section of rock dropped off those peaks into the valley below, cutting them like roast pork. The hanging valley is the only hollow left.”

  “How’s the valley’s entrance?”

  “Looks dry, as if the stream dives under the trail to make the little waterfall rather than running over the trail.”

  Morgan nodded, his gray eyes flint hard in his tanned face. “We’ll start at first light tomorrow.” His gaze swept over the men. “Normally we’d try to be off a slope like that by noon. I don’t have to tell you why we want to reach that hanging valley before any thunderstorms hit.”

  The men rumbled immediate agreement. Jessamyn gulped, having expected more argument from them. Just how bad could a mountain thunderstorm be?

  A yellow-bellied marmot basked in a patch of sunshine, utterly content despite the risk of falling into an abyss should he move a few inches in the wrong direction.

  Jessamyn loathed him on sight.

  The day’s travel had been even more difficult than Grainger and Little had warned. Since the trail ran alongside and halfway up the peaks, it provided an excellent view of their steep sides, including the precipitous drop to the valley floor below. Given that abyss and the unstable rock leading to it, she’d have appreciated a broad trail, such as the width of Pennsylvania Avenue, where the Grand Army of the Republic paraded after the War. Instead this was at best only wide enough for two fully loaded mules.

  Worse, there were times when only a single horse could pass, and rests meant leaning against barren rock while she prayed that no surprise bit of Mother Nature’s malice—a sudden gust of wind, a bird bursting off its nest, or rain—would knock Starshine over the edge. Then she’d praise her beloved mare for being the best horse in the universe for walking so surefootedly on such a wretched trail. All the while keeping her ears open for any echo of Morgan’s voice and praying he was still alive.

  She hated to imagine the dangers that a thunderstorm could add.

  The fat-bellied marmot’s vantage point was one of those appalling narrow points. It was also one of the few sunny spots left, given the dark clouds rolling in from the west over the mountains where Charlie traveled. The storm would break over his party first, not hers.

  “Almost there, Jessamyn,” Morgan’s deep voice rumbled comfortingly from ahead.

  She swallowed and nodded, determined not to look over the abyss yet again at the coming storm. Starshine nudged her gently and they hastened on, with Jessamyn leading her mare.

  The wind suddenly strengthened, announcing itself with a nasty yank at her hat. She ignored it determinedly, as if it were an ill-mannered guest. It would be a fearsome intruder on the western range, where Charlie and his gang were.

  Suddenly the footing roughened and Morgan caught her by the hand. He tugged her into a nook beside the trail and she clung to him, still clutching Starshine’s reins. “I would prefer not to walk along that ledge again,” she stated emphatically, as if referring to a social engagement.

  “Nor I, Jessamyn, nor I.” His heart was pounding against her cheek. He lifted his head and tilted her chin up with a single finger. “See that cleft in the rock?”

  She nearly laughed hysterically. Cleft? It was wider than most of the trail. “Yes, of course.”

  “The hanging valley is just inside it. I’m going back out to help bring everyone in.”

  Jessamyn shuddered. For the first time in over an hour, she dared to look directly into the distance. Thundercloud
s were scudding across the sky like a giant’s navy. Their shadows darkened the abyss and the distant range, where Ortiz’s trail lay and Charlie traveled. Light burst from the top of one thunderhead to the next and Starshine whinnied softly. The hair on the back of her neck rose.

  Morgan would stay on this death trap of a mountainside until he brought all his men in—or died there, trying to save them. Dear God, was gaining the gold worth risking a man’s life?

  Once again, she reminded herself of Somerset Hall and the brave people waiting there, for the escape that only Ortiz’s gold could bring. But she cursed her own stupid pride for having rejected Morgan’s money, which would have at least kept his life safe.

  She plastered a brave smile on her face, as she’d learned all too well as an Army wife. “Yes, of course,” she said stoutly. “I’ll see to Starshine and help with the other horses.”

  “That’s my good girl.” He kissed her quickly—too quickly, cried her heart—and slipped past her. Almost immediately, he had to steady a nervous stallion.

  The wind blew a pine branch up from the abyss like a warning of oncoming hell.

  She kept her chin up and marched through the rocky cleft. Duty did have one great advantage, that of providing work to keep one’s hands busy, if not one’s mind.

  Maggie shivered under the darkening sky. They were in a high-mountain valley, at the timberline’s edge, full of fallen trees, rocks, and streams pouring past melting snow. There was nowhere close by to hide from a heavy rainstorm or ground soft enough to pitch a tent.

  Hazleton, a wise man about weather at least, was arguing with Charlie. “If we don’t take shelter now, sir…”

  She added her voice to his. “Charlie dearest, perhaps if we turned back for just a few minutes to that cozy little…”

  Charlie’s gaze could have blown them both to smithereens. “Turn around? Never! There’s plenty of time to cross this valley before the storm hits. There’s fifty dollars in it for you, Hazleton, if you succeed.”

  Hazleton hesitated, his eyes sliding toward where they’d come from. It would take far less time to find cover there than to cross the valley.

  Charlie’s hand dropped to his gun.

  Hazleton’s eyes narrowed before he managed to smile. “Glad to do whatever you say, sir.”

  Maggie tried to remember how to pray, gave up, and cursed her husband viciously but silently.

  The men and animals streamed past Jessamyn into the little hanging valley, taking shelter in the cave under the western overhang. The horses were quickly herded deep into the mountain, with the mules next to them.

  A slow roll of thunder echoed through Jessamyn’s bones, like Morgan’s voice inciting her to another round of hedonism. Where was he?

  Rain began to fall in heavy splats, like bullets pinging on the rock.

  She moved out to the valley’s entrance, just inside the cleft, and kept watch for Morgan. How could she have asked him to risk his life by coming to this dangerous place? There would be no rest for her until he reached safety.

  Lightning cracked across the sky, far too close to the trees on the mountaintop. The rain came faster, adding weight to the wind that carried it.

  The last of the mules arrived and were taken to safety. But there was still no sign of Morgan. Rogue or not, she couldn’t bear to lose him.

  Someone shouted something at her but she ignored him. Another voice answered the first and she slipped past. No one else challenged her departure.

  Now that she’d spent time with him, traveled with him, shared his bed, how could she stand to be without Morgan? He was so very handsome, with those gray eyes that gleamed like a dancing waterfall when he was contemplating mischief. Or the way lamplight struck red glints from his chestnut hair, like those in the depths of a wineglass. Those big, callused hands of his that could be so surprisingly gentle on her most intimate flesh. And his tongue. Dear God, the skills his tongue knew! And that beautiful voice of his, with the lovely Mississippi drawl, that could convince her to do anything at all…

  Dear God, please don’t let Morgan fall over the precipice. Let him live through this storm, not have his head trampled into a red ruin by a terrified horse. Let him come home safely into shelter and not be struck by a lightning bolt. Please, Lord, please…

  Jessamyn edged farther out toward the abyss, the wind lashing her skirts around her legs. The fat marmot was nowhere in sight and the rain fell from the skies like a washday barrage under the black sky. Thunder boomed again and again like cannon fire.

  O’Callahan burst out of the rain, running along the trail and leading one of his adopted mares. Startled, Jessamyn plastered herself against the mountain to let him pass. Rain blew sideways across the abyss into her face, almost blinding her, as lightning threw green streaks overhead.

  Behind him came Morgan with the other mare. He was soaked to the skin and panting. But the mare was moving smoothly, only slightly wild-eyed from the storm. He’d been risking his life all the way back there for a horse that didn’t belong to Donovan & Sons?

  He yelled something and yanked Jessamyn against him. She gasped in relief and clung to him, scarcely able to stand against the howling gale. He was shouting something, his face distorted, but she couldn’t hear him. She didn’t much care either, not when she could touch him again. Her heart was pounding louder than the thunder.

  He set first one foot, then the other, into motion. She went willingly, now that she was with him. Together they fought their way, along with the mare, into the hanging valley. Once there, O’Callahan took the mare’s reins and edged his way through the crowd, taking both of his darlings to safety with the other horses.

  Lightning sparked and sizzled. Morgan locked his arms around her, his chest heaving against her. Jessamyn hid her face against him, desperately seeking comfort from his presence. There was no room inside the storm to think, only to feel.

  In the distance, she could just see the stone cleft, like a doorway to the trail.

  Lightning crashed overhead and the ground shook. The horses stirred restlessly while the mules weighed the situation, still steady thanks to their lead mare’s calm presence.

  Suddenly a sharper boom sounded from above. Even the mules looked up at that and the horses whinnied. An immense fir tree fell slowly past the cleft, its branches flaming as it tumbled end over end into the abyss. Jessamyn closed her eyes and began to pray.

  The sky was absolutely black over Maggie’s head and the smell of oncoming rain nearly choked her. A lightning bolt blasted through the sky overhead. Behind her, one of the pack horses neighed in fright. An incredibly loud series of clangs announced that it had thrown off its pack and bolted.

  Never mind the horse. She still had to find shelter somewhere.

  Thunder rolled, shaking the ground. Lightning flashed again and again. More clangs and bangs, more loud whinnies and neighs that meant pack horses had panicked and disappeared. One of Charlie’s prized Thoroughbreds galloped past, its saddle empty and sliding to one side.

  Hazleton’s bay tossed him off, then ran. He rolled and flattened himself into a small hollow, hiding himself from Nature’s fury.

  Beyond him, Charlie’s big bay stallion reared and screamed, hooves pawing at the sky. Atop him, Charlie waved his hat in defiance.

  By now, the lightning was coming so frequently that Maggie was almost blinded. Her horse bucked and reared, again and again, screaming its distress. She fought to stay on it, keeping her hands wrapped in its mane and her legs clamped around its sides. Dammit, she would not be thrown like all the others.

  A lightning bolt erupted from the sky and struck a boulder less than fifty feet away. Her horse reared and twisted, bucking her off its back, and raced off. Maggie landed on her rear, forced to take one long look at the storm’s fury. She hid her face in the mud as she’d learned on that hardscrabble farm and pretended she was a worm.

  Cleaning up after the storm was more time-consuming than sorrowful for Jessamyn. They hadn’t lost any me
n or animals, although it would take some time to dry the goods that had been soaked. Thankfully, they had enough spares to replace the few losses.

  Recovering from her reaction to possibly losing Morgan was also something she wasn’t ready to think about directly. For so long, he’d shown himself as a rogue and a scoundrel, interested only in pleasing himself. Yet over the past few days, she’d seen him as a decent—even honorable—fellow. Then during today’s storm, she’d reacted as if he was her true love, worth risking life and limb for. Surely she had to have been momentarily insane, overset by a great thunderstorm. Surely.

  Falling in love with Morgan would be disastrous, since he had no use for her outside the bedroom. Plus, his carnal usage of her would end once this trip finished. She nearly whimpered at the thought—and worked harder to help Dawson.

  She’d simply have to make the most of what she had now with Morgan.

  Later that night, when all was quiet and she’d gone to bed, Jessamyn was shocked awake by a draft inside her cozy tent. “What?” she grumbled.

  A sleepy pair of eyes regarded her. “Aren’t you hot?”

  “Not my toes.” Morgan had the disagreeable habit of assuming she was as hot-blooded as he was, and throwing off the covers to prove it. She stirred the blankets back into position and snuggled down again.

  “You’re very energetic,” he observed softly, lying back against the pillows.

  Something feminine inside her came alert at his tone. They hadn’t often come together for carnal pleasures since they’d left the Three Needles, given the hard traveling and the altitude.

  That evening, Morgan had announced that they could sleep a few extra hours, since the next day’s route was much more protected, a decision greeted with many groans of relief. So Jessamyn was now more rested than she’d been on many previous nights, giving her the energy to savor what she’d almost lost that afternoon.