Separate Roads

by Judith Pella

  Damon Chittenden.

  Before she could speak, he turned back to the door and locked it. It was such an ominous, final act, it made her stomach clench. She quickly took in her surroundings. It was a storage room, probably for a maid. Brooms, dustpans, buckets, cleansers, and similar items filled shelves and were leaning against the walls. There was also an acrid odor stinging her nose—lye, furniture polish, and such.

  Then he turned around. His eyes, caught in the flickering flame of the lamp, had a gleam in them that did not match the apologetic smile twisting his lips.

  “I hope you have not been too uncomfortable, Jordana,” he said in a tone that sounded so polite, so normal. But Jordana knew now that Damon Chittenden was not a normal man. “I’ve brought some food for you.”

  “I’m not hungry,” she said, then added, “What do you want, Damon?” She wanted to be strong and calm, but her voice quavered. She was afraid she had finally gotten into a fix from which there might be no escape.

  “I’ve told you many times what I want.” He sat in a chair by the table. The light now cast eerie shadows about his face, and he looked ethereal, almost demonic.

  She made herself shake such images from her mind. She could get out of this. She would get out of this. “I thought we had an understanding.”

  “Understanding . . . ? No one understands.”

  “P-please, Damon, what are you going to do?”

  Ignoring her question, he went on, “Marrying you would have pleased my father. It would have been the only thing I have ever done to achieve that. Do you know what it is like having a dead hero for a brother, or even a living brother whose success your father is always holding up before you? I could never come close to them, no matter how I tried.”

  “I’m sorry about that.” In a way, Jordana truly was, but she had to remind herself that this man might very well have been involved in murder, and now he certainly was guilty of kidnapping. He was probably quite insane.

  “You will change all that for me,” Damon went on in a low, intense voice. “Father adores you. But I adore you, too, Jordana. All will change once you become my wife.”

  “But, Damon, surely you want a wife who loves you,” Jordana said gently. “You deserve that, and I am certain you would have no trouble finding one. You are handsome and . . . well, sweet.” It was hard to make that last part sound convincing, but she hoped his own vaulted self-image would buy it.

  “It is you I want.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll have you, Jordana. Arguing will not help. And I am sure once we have been together, you will find me to be a good mate. You really have no choice at any rate. I’ll have you tonight, or you will not see the dawn. Do you understand? I don’t like forcing you, and I truly wouldn’t, except I know once I do, you will find me a desirable lover.”

  “You couldn’t, Damon. You are not capable—”

  “Of murder?” He laughed, a sharp, evil bark. “I have already committed murder.”

  “D-did you kill Homer Stanley?”

  “Not with my own hands. I paid a gang of thugs to do it and make it look like an Indian attack. But there was another man a few years back. He stood in my way also. I strangled him with my own hands.” The fact that he seemed to be bragging sent a chill down Jordana’s spine. “No one ever suspected me. It too was made to look like Indians had done it.”

  Jordana knew then that reasoning with this deranged man would be futile. Her only hope seemed to be to give the impression of yielding to his demands. Maybe then he would untie her hands, and she could fight him. Of course the chances of surviving such an unequally matched battle were minuscule, yet what other choice did she have? Besides, she’d sooner die than do what he appeared to have in mind.

  “What will we do about my brother?” she asked, trying to buy time and also make it appear that she wasn’t changing her tune too quickly. “He may not give his consent.”

  “Oh, he will once I have spent the night with you and tarnished your reputation.” He smiled. “But he will see how much I love you and how I can offer a secure future for you.”

  She thought about mentioning her parents, but that seemed too argumentative. Instead she said sweetly, “You know, Damon, it is hard for a girl to think clearly about such things when her hands are tied. I know you must mean well, but it is difficult to believe it trussed up like this. It is not exactly the way I have dreamed of receiving a marriage proposal.”

  “What do you mean?” His eyes narrowed, and Jordana feared she had changed her tack too quickly.

  She held up her hands. “Won’t you untie me so that I can accept your proposal properly?”

  “You will accept?”

  “As you said, I have little choice. But I do see that you mean well—” She thought she should seek a stage career after this performance! “You have always been kind and genteel with me. In fact, my refusals have had less to do with you than with my own desire for independence.”

  “I will never try to dominate you, Jordana, my love!” It seemed an incongruous statement, considering her present position, but she bit back a snide rebuttal.

  “That’s all I want to know,” she murmured.

  “It is true, then?”

  “Need I say more?”

  He rose now and came toward her, lifting the flap of his jacket and removing a knife from a sheath on his belt. Jordana noted that he was also wearing a pistol. Her heart sank as she realized anew how unlikely escape was.

  He dropped to his knees and lifted the knife to her hands. “Jordana, I love you so. . . .”

  The tenderness of his words cut through her as surely as his knife would do if she tried to escape. How wonderful it would be to have a man feel thus toward her to whom she could also return the sentiment. If she could ever find such a man, it would almost be worth considering sacrificing her independence for him. Unfortunately, Damon was not that man. Still, despite what he had done to her, and was planning to do to her, it pained her to so deceive him. He truly did love her. He was to be pitied. Instead, she might be forced to kill him to save her own life—not that she had a prayer of doing so.

  Nonetheless, she sent a quick but fervent plea to God.

  Then Damon’s knife sliced through the ropes binding her wrists, and her hands fell free. It took all her restraint not to run away from him that instant. But if she had any hope at all of escape, she would have to use cunning. He sheathed the knife, then wrapped his arms around her, caressing her hair and face with kisses. All the while, Jordana was thinking about how she could lift the knife or even the gun from his belt.

  “I want you so badly!” he mumbled into her hair.

  With trembling fingers, she reached up and tugged at his jacket.

  “You do want me also, don’t you?” he breathed as he slipped the jacket off the rest of the way. He loosened his tie and collar.

  She pressed close to him. “Ouch!” she said, then giggled. “You best remove that gun before someone is hurt.”

  She could tell he was too besotted with her now to think clearly. He fumbled with the buckle of the holster, undid it, then tossed it aside, along with the knife. He pressed toward her with more ardor. She pretended to move into a more comfortable position. He could not see her hand slither down to the floor toward the holster. She stretched her fingers, but they were an inch shy of her target. She wiggled again.

  “What is wrong, my love?” he said, an unsettling edge to his voice.

  “I . . . I’ve never done this before. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Follow my lead.”

  He pressed her back, but she managed to twist her shoulder far enough around so that she could now reach the gun. Her fingers wrapped around the butt, and she slipped it from the holster.

  “What—?” he murmured.

  Then he saw what she had been up to. He responded so quickly, striking the gun from her hand, that she realized just how strong and agile he was. The gun tumbled to the floor. For one brief moment he
was distracted as he twisted to gather up the pistol. Jordana knew she’d have no other chance.

  She swung away from him and jumped up. But her moment of freedom was short-lived as his hand raised, now wielding the gun.

  “Stop!” he cried.

  She dove for the door. She only made it halfway, as far as the table, before the weapon exploded. The shot missed, and she wasn’t certain if he had intended to miss or not. But surely his next shot would find its target. Desperate, she looked around for some weapon of her own, anything! The light of the lamp caught her eye. As he raised his hand to fire again, Jordana grasped the lantern handle and flung the lamp at her adversary. It grazed his head before crashing to the floor.

  Damon’s second shot went wild. Jordana sprang toward the door. Thankful the bolt did not require a key, she turned it, then grasped the latch. As she flung open the door she saw, out of the corner of her eye, flames licking along the floor and up a wall. Then, to her horror, she saw Damon raise his arm again, but this time it didn’t hold a weapon. It was, instead, encased in flame. Licks of flame were also spreading along the floor, engulfing Damon’s weapons. She didn’t waste another minute with these observations.

  She bolted out the door and started running.

  36

  Jordana was nowhere to be found. Search parties had combed the streets of Sacramento for two hours without success. Brenton had resorted to knocking on doors to see if any residents had seen or heard anything. He was growing more and more disillusioned. If she had not been found by now . . . well, it simply did not bode well. However, he did hold some hope that if her . . . body had not been found, then it was a good sign.

  At least he told himself this as he was turned away by yet another resident who knew nothing about his sister.

  Suddenly a sharp blast cut through the still night air. It almost sounded like a gunshot. He wondered if one of the other searchers was trying to signal the others. But they had not prearranged any such signals. Brenton now thought that would have been a good idea. Yet firing shots in a busy city, even at night, was also risky.

  Then another shot echoed.

  It couldn’t have been more than a couple of blocks away. Brenton turned in that direction. It was probably nothing, but it warranted an investigation. He was turning a corner when a figure hurtled toward him. He had only a moment before it slammed into him to note that it was a female.

  Then thud! He was nearly knocked off his feet with the force of the collision. He stumbled back several steps, and only the brick wall of a building kept him on his feet.

  “Oh, goodness!” the woman panted. “I’m so—Brenton! Thank God.”

  “Jordana!”

  Brenton threw his arms around his sister, and she did the same around him, only her arms were shaking and she was gasping in great gulps of air.

  “I’m . . . so . . . happy . . . to . . . see . . . you!” she sputtered between gulps.

  “We’ve been looking everywhere for you. What happened?”

  But before she could answer, he saw another person racing down the walkway toward them.

  “You little vixen!” yelled this person. “You won’t get away from me!”

  “No, please!” Jordana cried.

  Brenton had no idea what exactly was going on, but he knew immediately this man meant to harm his sister. In one swift motion, Brenton shoved Jordana behind him as he stepped into the man’s path.

  “You can’t keep her from me!” shouted the man, and Brenton recognized the voice first, then the face.

  “Chittenden! What on earth—?”

  Damon skidded to a stop two feet from Brenton. He was panting, and oddly enough, an acrid smell of smoke and charred cloth rose from his body. One of his shirt sleeves was quite damaged.

  “Don’t get in my way, Baldwin!” Damon warned.

  “What do you want with my sister?”

  “He kidnapped me!” Jordana answered.

  But Damon had apparently had enough of talk. He dove toward Brenton, who, unable to avoid the attack because of his close proximity to Jordana, took it full force, and was slammed up against the wall. Evidently Jordana had stepped out of harm’s way.

  “Get help!” Brenton gasped to her.

  Damon was about to forget Brenton in light of this new threat, but of course Brenton could not let that happen. He had to give Jordana time to get away. With Damon momentarily distracted, Brenton took his advantage and aimed a solid blow at the man’s jaw. Damon staggered back, and Brenton followed this advantage with another blow to his ribs. As Damon doubled over, Brenton noted that Jordana had hurried away. Other members of the search party were nearby, and she was sure to run into them soon.

  However, he momentarily lost his focus and did not see Damon recover from Brenton’s blows. He charged at Brenton, hitting him with enough force to shake Brenton’s teeth, and also knocking off his glasses. Brenton lunged for the spectacles as they fell, but he missed, and they hit the ground. The next sound he heard was a scrape as Damon’s boot kicked the spectacles far out of reach. Did Damon know how worthless Brenton’s sight was without the spectacles?

  In the next instant Damon’s calculated removal of the spectacles was all too clear. A blow smashed into Brenton’s nose before he saw it coming. Blood spurted down his face, and he felt as if his head had been detached from his body. Black spots, the only clear things his blurry vision could discern, appeared before his eyes. But he must not pass out. He had to keep Damon occupied until help arrived.

  Swallowing back nausea, he took another swing. Damon made the mistake of grabbing Brenton’s fist to deflect the blow. Despite his impaired vision, this physical contact aided him in finding his target. He struck with his free fist and clipped Damon on the chin. But the young banker shook this off easily and sent a fist hard into Brenton’s stomach. Apparently any injury Damon may have suffered to his arm from the fire was negligible, considering the strength of the blow, which knocked the wind out of Brenton.

  This would certainly have finished the battle, but at that moment, the sound of several pounding boots reached Brenton’s ringing ears. He prayed it wasn’t his imagination. He was doubled over and half blind, so he could not be certain that help had arrived until he heard Jordana’s voice.

  “That’s him! Don’t let him get away!” she was yelling. Then Brenton felt arms around him. “Brenton,” she said. “Are you all right?”

  “Did they get him?” he panted.

  “Yes!”

  Brenton looked up, and in the blur of several figures surrounding him, one was obviously being held by two others. Damon was struggling mightily, screaming and cursing.

  “How could you do this to me . . . to us?” he cried.

  Jordana just silently shook her head and seemed to grip her brother tighter. Brenton lifted his hand and gently patted hers.

  “It’s over now,” Brenton said.

  “It was so horrible!”

  He heard the tears in her voice rather than saw them spilling from her eyes. He didn’t often catch his sister crying. He knew this had been an ordeal, and he feared Damon had done more to her than merely hold her captive.

  “Jordana, you are all right, aren’t you? He didn’t . . . well, hurt you?”

  “I’m fine. He didn’t harm me. But . . . I’ll tell you about it later. Can we just go home?”

  One of the men in the search party informed them that they were taking Damon off to jail and offered Brenton and Jordana a horse to use to get home. He also said he would see that word was sent to the other parties to call off the search. Thanking him, Brenton retrieved his spectacles which were a bit bent but still serviceable. He then returned his attention to his sister.

  Jordana was shaking and Brenton was sore and bruised, but, helping each other, they managed to mount and soon enough were riding up to the house that had become their temporary home. Never before were they happier to see a house.

  ——

  Jordana smiled as she watched Caitlan fuss over
Brenton. She did not begrudge him the extra attention at all. He was as much a hero in her eyes as in Caitlan’s, not to mention everyone else’s in the family. He had never been in a fight in his life, yet he had fended off Damon’s brute force bravely, even without his spectacles.

  They now sat around the kitchen table with tea and a hot but slightly overcooked supper. Jordana wasn’t hungry. She was still in shock over what had happened. It was hard to believe that Damon Chittenden had been so deranged and that she had somehow managed to be placed at the center of his insane delusions. She feared that somehow her rebuffs had sent him over the edge. Perhaps she could have been gentler back in Omaha. But then she shuddered at the thought that she could have given in to his pressure months ago. Many girls would have. He had seemed like fair husband material.

  She thanked God for directing her away from him and for keeping any other unsuspecting women from falling prey to his charms.

  “So, Jordana,” Brenton broke into her thoughts, “have you had enough of adventure for one lifetime?”

  She laughed, and it was almost a completely sincere gesture. “For now at least,” she said. Then she looked around the table, amusement for a moment fading in her eyes. “I hope you don’t think me selfish. I truly don’t wish to be. But . . .” She let her words trail away. She didn’t quite know how to put what was on her heart.

  “But you deserve to have your dreams just like anyone else,” Brenton finished for her, his tone full of deep sincerity. As when they were young, he still seemed to know best what was in her heart.

  She smiled.

  Later, when she and Caitlan were in their room undressing for bed, she told her friend a bit more detail about her ordeal.

  “I’m so sorry I left you,” Caitlan said. “It would never have happened—”

  “Pshaw!” Jordana waved her hand carelessly in the air. “Then both of us would have been kidnapped.” She paused, then grinned. “On second thought, I don’t think Damon would have had a chance against both of us. But, Caitlan, you mustn’t blame yourself. I won’t hear it!”