Sahara Splendor
Page 24
Billings swirled the amber liquid in his snifter and then lifted his gaze to meet Madigan’s. “As Horatio Spade’s accountant for the past several years, you alone know how much his stagecoach empire’s worth,” he began quietly. “And you’re aware, too, of the enormous expense required to maintain Concord coaches, way stations, the payroll—and the price of keeping appropriate congressmen in your pocket, come time to renew mail and government freighting contracts.”
Madigan sipped his drink, returning the agent’s gaze.
“And you surely realize that with each passing day and each mile of railroad track being laid, your wife’s pet project is galloping headlong toward its demise.”
“I wouldn’t phrase it in such ominous terms, but yes, Sahara’s aware that the glory of Spade Express will someday be history—as far as the cross-country runs are concerned, anyway.”
Billings nodded. “And once the long haul’s no longer feasible, spreading her coaches and stock and employees out over shorter, localized runs will require a great deal more supervision. Not to mention cash outlay,” he added dryly. “And frankly, Mr. Madigan, with Holladay snapping up existing local routes and establishing new ones as the mining districts necessitate it, there won’t be enough stage business left for Spade Express to remain profitable.”
Ben Holladay was notorious for competing against smaller stage lines, undercutting their profits, and then acquiring them on the auction block for a fraction of their worth…an agonizing process he hoped Sahara never had to undergo with her beloved company. “You’re saying we should sell out now, before the dealings get nasty and we lose everything.”
“Precisely.”
Madigan drew a deep breath, wishing he’d never agreed to meet Billings for this drink. The agent’s reasoning made perfect sense—and Sahara would know it—but if he even thought of selling her express company…if it were any of her other holdings…if his wife were here to make the decision herself… “Come to our room and present your arguments to Sahara,” he insisted. “I’m sure she’ll see that your offer’s worth considering, but I can’t—”
“I have a stage to catch within the hour,” he interrupted, glancing at his impressive gold watch. He snapped the timepiece shut, his brown eyes narrowing. “Surely if my boss gives me the power to acquire Spade Express, your wife will allow you to accept a million dollars for it.”
His voice rang with a mockery that again silenced the tavern’s clientele, and Dan felt his temper tightening his collar. “You are the most underhanded—”
“A million and a half.”
“—and when Holladay hears from me—” Madigan rose to leave, incensed at the overstuffed, chuckling huckster who dared raise his voice so that every man present became party to this high-stakes shouting match.
“Two million—my final offer. And believe me, Madigan, when Holladay hears you turned me down, he’ll come after Spade Express like he ruined Butterfield in March. You’ll be damn lucky to get a tenth of my offer then.”
It was true. Damn this bastard; he’d proposed the one deal Madigan couldn’t make but couldn’t possibly turn down. Dan swallowed so hard his throat clicked, his head reeling with cigar smoke and Sahara’s certain wrath, and the feeling that he was doomed to lose every happiness he’d so recently acquired before he could fully enjoy it.
Billings rose, eyeing him coolly. “So be it. I must be on my way, sir, and I rue the day you and your charming wife appear in Ben’s office to sign away—”
“Sit down, dammit. Spell this out on paper.” He glared at the bearded agent with a fury that nearly blinded him, but if Holladay’s henchman was throwing two million dollars at him, he’d be a fool not to snap it up. Sahara would just have to understand that.
Billings resumed his seat, pulling out a fountain pen with a flourish. “I knew you’d see reason, Madigan. So much easier to accept the inevitable and profit from it than to watch Spade Express die in Holladay’s chokehold. So much easier dealing man to man, without a woman’s hysteria clouding the issues.”
Twenty minutes later Madigan left the tavern with an itemized bill of sale and a bank draft in his pocket, tucked behind the boxes that contained his wife’s stunning emerald jewelry. He had a feeling he was in for a wedding night like no other man had ever experienced. Or wanted to.
Chapter 23
“You did what?”
The crisp linen tablecloths and fashionably dressed diners around them disappeared in a red haze as Sahara skimmed the piece of paper her husband had hesitantly placed before her. No wonder his fingers trembled when he’d fastened the emerald choker around her neck—and she’d assumed it was love rendering him so speechless!
“The one company I expressly insisted would remain in my—and you sold out! To Holladay, for Chrissakes,” she blurted. “After all I went through, assuring my employees—”
“Honey, please. May we discuss this somewhere more private?” Madigan asked in a strangled whisper.
“—and not two days later, you turn them over— along with my coaches and stock and station buildings—to the man who symbolizes all that’s crooked and underhanded—”
Sahara stood up, yanking the glimmering necklace from around her throat and flinging it at him. “Blood money! You bought my wedding ring with the souls of people who trusted me!” she cried as she removed the matching gemstone from her finger. “Sign over that bank draft, Madigan. I won’t let you see a dollar from this stupid-ass transaction! And I won’t stay married to a traitor!”
Dan felt his whole body going numb, but unfortunately his mind was still functioning enough to realize how badly his strategy had backfired: he’d hoped the restaurant’s ambiance would set the tone for decorum rather than dirt-slinging when he made this inevitable announcement. All the arguments he’d prepared about bowing out of stagecoaching and profiting handsomely from it withered in the hellfire of Sahara’s wrath. Her face flared beneath the golden-red glow of her hair, and as she clutched a hip draped in mint green silk, she made a riveting spectacle. If only she were aiming her anger at somebody else!
“If you’ll let me explain, you’ll see that I made the only feasible choice, considering the—”
“Bullshit,” she whispered tersely. “The only choice you’ve left me is to hide my face in shame. I don’t give a damn how you handle the rest of the holdings, partner—I want nothing more to do with anything you and your father represent. Just give me the money for my company and get the hell out of my life, Madigan.”
She’d surely run through her repertoire of expletives by now, but he knew better than to test her. His heart heavy with regret, Dan slowly signed the bank draft into her name and handed it to her. “You’re making a big mistake, Sahara,” he whispered. “I love you. I made the only deal I could for you, under the circumstances. Please listen to reason before you walk away from the life we can share together. We can invest in railroads, or—”
But Sahara snatched the bank note from his hand, whirled around, and stalked out of the dining room, oblivious to the dozens of curious gazes that followed the rich, green billowing of her backside. Once she was out of sight, Madigan felt the stares lingering on him—not that it mattered. His beloved bride of less than a day had called him a traitor and flung her wedding gift in his face. As he picked the emerald jewelry up off his plate, wistfully wiping the gemstones clean with his napkin, he knew their deep green fire would always remind him of Sahara’s eyes at the moment she walked out on him.
“Ho-ly shit,” he mumbled.
And then, because he felt too wretched to comprehend anything else, he mumbled her favorite swear words again.
The next morning Sahara walked the streets of Denver, restless and angry. Here she was in the most exciting city she’d ever visited, yet she didn’t care. In the wink of an eye, Spade Express had ceased to exist, and so had her marriage. Once again she’d depended upon a man who claimed he loved her and had her best interests at heart, and once again she’d been sold out.
At least Madigan had removed his luggage from the hallway during the night without making any fuss. Sahara looked up from her musings to see a tall, blond man smiling suavely at her, and her stomach churned. She also recalled the faces of Elizabeth Kent, and Major Ziegler, and the dozens of men and women along the trail who’d regarded her with such admiration and respect. Most of them wouldn’t see the glowing reports Phineas Jenkins had penned—and if they did, it would be an ironic stab in the back, after they learned they now worked for the notorious Ben Holladay. What a shambles Dan had made of her new life, all because some agent waved two million dollars in his face!
The money was deposited in her new Denver account—she was free to live anywhere, any way she chose, without having to worry about money for the rest of her days. She’d come a long way from being the urchin who’d pointed a broken gun at Dan Madigan while wearing one of Bobby’s raggedy old shirts for a nightgown…yet she felt as fragile and useless as a crystal goblet with no wine in it, balanced precariously on the edge of a table.
Spying a cafe, Sahara went inside and ordered tea, trying to organize her thoughts. Idleness was so foreign to her that she would gladly have washed the restaurant’s dishes to avoid the endless stretch of purposeless days that loomed ahead of her…the futility of a life where she needed and was needed by no one. When her lower lip began to quiver, she pulled the folded newspaper stories from her reticule and studied them so that she wouldn’t cry in public.
Here were accounts of halcyon days riding atop her blue and black coach…the summer breeze riffling her hair, the monotonous whine of Mitchell reciting his alphabet over the steady rumble of the wheels on the rutted road…the stench of decay as her men gathered up the bodies after the Indian attack at the Kents’. She knew all along Spade Express would someday bow to the iron rails stretching across the prairie, but she hadn’t figured on having her exhilarating new life snatched away so suddenly. What had Dan been thinking when he made such a momentous decision without consulting her?
Sahara quaffed her tea before she embarrassed herself in public again. Last night’s tantrum had been bad form: she should’ve allowed Madigan to escort her back to the suite and then shot him! Much more effective than letting him live while she died each time she thought about his betrayal.
Her ruminating came to a halt when she focused on a set of slender, slumped shoulders in a chair a few tables away, shoulders that looked awfully familiar. Then a towheaded little boy sat back in the adjacent chair,
grimacing tiredly at the woman, and Sahara rose from her seat. “Mitchell!” she called out. “How good to see you!”
His face lit up with surprise, and when she went over to join the pair, Sahara felt a great loneliness had been lifted from her heart. “Imagine seeing you two in a city as crowded as Denver! I—oh, dear, Roxanne, what’s wrong?” she said in a lowered voice. Mrs. Pruitt’s face was as pale as the tablecloth, and her lusterless eyes were underscored by deep shadows. “Why, I thought you’d be settling into your new home by now.”
“So did I,” the woman replied in a bitter whisper, “but it seems Wendell’s found himself a friend. Just hadn’t had time to write me about her.”
Sahara’s jaw dropped. She fumbled for words, thinking of the hardships Roxanne had endured while selling her home in Kansas City and making the long, arduous ride to Denver so full of hope—only to discover that her husband was as devious as Dan Madigan. “I—I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “If you need a place to stay, or—”
“Oh, I didn’t let him off without demanding the proverbial pound of flesh,” Roxanne replied with a hard-edged chuckle. “He paid dearly to keep me from going to his supervisor and to the papers—enough to live comfortably on and send my son to school. But it’s taking me a while to adjust to all this freedom. I…wasn’t expecting to be at loose ends.”
“I know the feeling.” Mrs. Pruitt’s defiant attitude surprised her a bit, yet she’d seen glimpses of a strong, capable woman when they were consoling Elizabeth Kent. And there was no avoiding the pointed questions in Roxanne’s eyes as she looked across the table.
Sahara cleared her throat and then laid the two newspaper articles in front of her friend. “You saw these, perhaps?”
“Yes. I was amazed that such a toad as Jenkins could write so eloquently. I’m proud to say I rode with the woman described in these stories.”
Glancing away, Sahara sighed. “These are pieces for my scrapbook now. Madigan and I got married yesterday—”
“Oh, Sahara! Congratulations!”
“—and last night over dinner he announced he’d sold Spade Express. To none other than Ben Holladay.”
Roxanne’s outraged expression was tremendously gratifying, and as they commiserated over second cups of tea, she realized that their journey across Kansas had planted the seeds of a friendship she’d expected to be only temporary, which was now flowering because they’d both suffered a downpour of disappointments. It felt good to air her anguish and share Roxanne’s, along with outdoing each other’s nasty barbs about the men who had betrayed them. When Sahara realized she’d drained her third cup of tea, she felt greatly refreshed—uplifted by the hint of a sparkle in Roxanne’s pale blue eyes.
“What’re you going to do now?” the slender blonde asked as she and Mitchell rose from the table.
Sahara smiled reflectively. “I haven’t decided, but there’s got to be something more exciting than counting our money here in Denver. When I figure out what it is, I’ll let you know.”
The idea hit her as she shuffled through a stack of old newspapers in the hotel lobby the following evening, so wonderful and timely—so perfect!—that Sahara giggled out loud. Had it not been dark and the streets of Denver dangerous for a woman alone, she would’ve rushed to Roxanne’s hotel room then and there. Instead, she took the paper up to her room and spent the night planning and dreaming, grinning happily.
“Get ready to roll!” she crowed to her friend the next morning. “We’ve come this far west, so we may as well go all the way to Oregon!”
Mrs. Pruitt scowled sleepily as she tied her wrapper around her nightgown. “What on earth are you talking about? What’s so special about Oregon that you want to—”
“Loggers! Hundreds of lumberjacks in the forests who’re crying out for wives!” Sahara exclaimed. “Look at this piece in last month’s paper!”
Roxanne’s face puckered. “Sahara, get ahold of yourself. After the way we’ve been treated, why would either of us rush into marriage again? For a smart woman, you sure have a short memory.”
“Not us, silly! We’d just be the agents—like this Asa Mercer fellow in the article. He saw the plight of the loggers, whose only female companionship was the whores in Portland and Seattle, so he gathered together women left alone by the war and transported them to the lumber camps. He’s a hero, Roxanne! Performed a service to humanity.”
Her friend pushed a pale blond curl from her eyebrow as she glanced at the yellowing article. Then she shook her head. “I remember this now, from the Kansas City paper. Mercer collected loggers’ fees for the women, but then he got branded as a white slaver and lost so many of his prospective brides he nearly caused a riot when he arrived in Oregon short of women. It was a miracle those loggers didn’t tear him limb from limb.”
“Who’s going to call me a white slaver?” Sahara insisted with a chuckle. “Those stories Phineas wrote are the perfect set up. I’ll have him place an advertisement in the same papers, calling for eligible, adventurous women to submit a letter of introduction and a photograph to me, in care of the Portland post office. I’ll send them fares for either a stagecoach or a steamer—”
“You’re going to pay for this venture yourself?” Roxanne demanded. She was wider awake now, her express
ion incredulous. “Sahara, that’ll cost you thousands of—and what if the loggers mistreat them? What if—”
“They’ll have an investment in this venture, too,” she replied with a patient smile. “It’s only proper to give the women suitable lodging and time to be courted. None of them should be forced to marry, or forced to prostitute themselves if they don’t, and I think the men’ll agree to that. So, each logger who wants a wife will be required to invest some time and effort into building our boardinghouses. We’ll need furniture, too, and supplies hauled in, and any lumberjack not willing to contribute will be ineligible to court our women.”
Roxanne was still shaking her head. “It sounds terribly noble, in theory, but—well, Portland’s hundreds of miles from here! You can’t possibly coordinate the details and get the houses built before women flood the post office with requests. And who’s to say some of these women won’t just come along for your free ride?”
Undaunted, Sahara shrugged. “They’ll have plenty of hardships along the way—as we know—and laundry, cooking, and sewing to do once they arrive. We all have to take our chances in this life, don’t we?” she asked in a thoughtful tone. “My ladies are risking far more, starting new lives with strangers in a wilderness area, than I can lose by paying their way. No point in having all this money if I don’t do something with it. Something worthwhile.”
“That aspect doesn’t surprise me, Sahara,” her friend said softly. “You’re the most generous, kind-hearted woman I know. But even you can’t line up all the loggers and building plans and the myriad supplies you’ll need for such a project. Not before you can get from here to the Northwest—not before winter makes the traveling even more dangerous for those mail-order brides.”
Sahara grinned slyly, because she’d hoped the conversation would take this turn so that she could reveal the