Born of Treasure (Treasure Chronicles Book 2)

by Jordan Elizabeth

  Lost again, trapped in that race that would never end. The dead had to comfort him when no one else could. His father hadn’t even shown up.

  “Soon,” Clark said.

  “I’ve never walked so much.” Zachariah sighed. It wasn’t quite a complaint, more like hopelessness.

  One high-pitched whistle, fast. Clark stiffened, holding his breath as his heartbeat picked up speed; this could be it. A second whistle, slower, trailing off at the end as if the note could visibly hang in the air. He lifted one hand to make the others still while he stared ahead at the plains. The hills rolled, the sky dark, the trees off in the darkness, unable to move without a strong enough wind.

  Clark whistled back a series of four, sharp and loud. Silence. He treasured that still. A deer moving across the prairie could make a rustle he would have to doubt. A prairie dog escaping a fox could scatter stones that might sound like a footstep. An owl might distract his senses.

  A figure lifted off the plains. It could have been a rock or a stump, an animal carcass left to rot in the daytime sun.

  The figure stepped closer without a sound. Someone sucked in a breath behind Clark—Zachariah, if he had to guess. As the figure drew closer, Clark made out unbound black hair and a dark robe, open in the front to reveal a pale shift. Feathers, woven into the straight hair, fluttered as though they were a winged beast of old fairy tales rather than a Bromi.

  “Hello,” Clark said in Bromi. He parted his pointer and middle fingers, wiggling them in greeting. The gesture meant help, despair, the urge to rely completely on the other.

  Behind him, that drawn breath again. Garth and Georgette would behave, Amethyst would know he wouldn’t let the Bromi harm them, but Zachariah… the army despised the Bromi. Despite his parents’ attitudes, he might have begun to think differently toward the western natives.

  The Bromi halted close enough to Clark that their toes touched. She was a woman, with the long face and straight nose of her people, the broad forehead and high cheekbones. “Which are you?”

  Others who fled from society sought refuge with the Bromi. The medicine man had given Clark his name, for he saw inside of him, a secret Clark hadn’t had to tell, but one he knew would be safe. “I am he who lives in death.”

  “The one who flees and never waits.” In the night, he couldn’t tell her age, but she stood a foot shorter than his six feet in height. The Bromi were naturally taller than the white folk.

  Clark had to trust the Treasures not to overreact. “I seek sanctuary.” In Bromi, that meant they couldn’t refuse him. It was a sacred term. Even an enemy could seek that protection, meaning that neither side could attack during the peacetime.

  The Bromi nodded without losing contact with his gaze. She turned on her heels and marched to the south. Clark fell into step behind, never looking away from her back. He’d warned the Treasures to face forward as a sign of trust; they’d better do it, but as newcomers, the Bromi would be lenient.

  He squeezed Amethyst’s hand, hoping she understood how much he would protect her.

  From the ground, more Bromi rose, solidifying from the landscape. They held spears as tall as they were, or taller, and fell into step, creating a half-circle around them. Clark had seen it before. They welcomed them by making a shield.

  Eric appeared at his side. “You’re a good boy, son. I’m proud of you.”

  Clark glared forward. His father couldn’t be proud. Clark had ruined the Treasures.

  he Bromi village nestled in a valley beside a stream. Lean-tos, teepees, and long houses covered in birch bark speckled the land, shadowed, without any light escaping. When they reached the outskirts, the female leader lifted her hand to Clark and shook her head.

  “I will get our chief. You must wait here.”

  Clark nodded. “Tell him I’ll do anything.”

  She slipped into the darkness around the structures. The night warriors kept their half-circle around the group.

  “They won’t kill us?” Zachariah’s question hung in the air, not so much nervous as resigned.

  “I’ve asked them for sanctuary.” Clark kept his voice low. “They won’t hurt us.”

  He’d missed the calmness of a Bromi village. Each person did his or her fair share of work, in exchange for a peaceful lifestyle. They hunted and gathered. Some tribes stayed a year in one place, so they farmed for extra food. Family units stayed in their homes with dogs or wolves as pets.

  No one had to sell his or her body to survive.

  When he’d first seen where they lived, he’d been confused. The structures, the people, all different. Then, he’d come to admire them.

  The female returned with a man who carried a burning torch. He lifted it in salute to Clark. “He who lives in death. You have come to us?”

  Clark knelt on one knee and bowed his head. “I seek sanctuary for myself and my family.”

  “Who hunts you?” The man’s voice rasped. He had to be aged, although he moved with grace.

  “The army.” News passed fast among the tribes, even those that warred against the other. They would already know the army sought him. “Now, they’ve tracked my family.”

  “How long do you seek sanctuary?” The protocol question. They tested a man or woman based on the answer. Permanent sanctuary made a person seem weak. Quick sanctuary was preferred.

  “I need to plan,” Clark admitted. While walking, he’d searched his mind, but could think of nothing. Each idea seemed too desperate. “My family must be safe.” The chief would find honor in that.

  “Tomorrow, we meet. You will give the answer then.” The chief lowered the torch.

  Clark had never allowed the Bromi to give him more than shelter or medicine, if he’d been hurt while fleeing. Now, he would have to rely more on them. “I thank you with what I am.” That which touches death.

  The female led them to a long house. Beds were constructed into the wall, one atop the next, and covered in furs. An elderly Bromi woman crouched beside a fire pit, starting a flame amongst a pile of twigs. One of the warriors must’ve gone ahead to warn the family of the arrivals.

  “These white faces seek sanctuary,” the female scout announced. “We will give them what we have. They will return thanks.”

  A man climbed down from one the cots—the scout’s mate—and helped two little boys join the elderly woman. The children rubbed their eyes and yawned. The air stank of garlic and onions, a faint undertone of wood smoke.

  The scout pointed to one of the cots. “This will be for the elder ones.”

  “My parents.” Clark switched to the king’s tongue. “Garth, Georgette. She wants you to sleep there. No one will harm you.”

  Garth rested his hand over Georgette’s shoulders while she twisted her fingers together.

  “For the boy.” The scout waved at the cot above Garth and Georgette’s.

  “Zachariah, that one’s for you,” Clark translated.

  Zachariah stood stiff, still.

  “The girl is with you?” the scout asked.

  Clark glanced down at their interlocking fingers. Should he let her have her own cot? Would it raise too many questions? “My mate.” He needed to know she was next to him, that she didn’t do something foolish and slip out, or that she wasn’t able to sleep from fear.

  “Then you will be here.” The scout pointed at the cot across the way. “In the morning, you will eat with us. You will help us until it is time for the meeting.”

  “We will do all we can.” Clark kneeled for her again, a symbol of respect. Whatever the Bromi suggested, he would listen this time.

  lark’s cheeks flamed, but he laughed to ease the moment. A Bromi girl knelt in the river at his feet, cupping his testicles, and batting her eyelashes.

  “Such a big man,” she cooed. “Why have we never heard more about you?”

  The Bromi woman scrubbing his back with sand to exfoliate the skin kicked water at the kneeling girl. “Behave. You haven’t heard because he doesn’t associate with t
he likes of you.”

  Clark laughed again. “Entertainment and a bath. Nice of you both.” Tradition stated that all guests needed to be bathed by women of the tribe so they could be cleansed of sins.

  The woman slapped his shoulder. “You have a mate for your needs. Pretty little thing, for a white girl.”

  “Too skinny,” said the kneeling girl with a tsk. “We must fatten her, or will that come with a child?”

  “We use rising wraps,” he said. “No chance of a child yet.” Or ever. He winced. Why couldn’t they have their dream, with a family?

  Farther down the stream, other females worked on Garth and Zachariah. At least they couldn’t understand Bromi, or they might have questions about Clark’s mate.

  The standing woman ran her fingers through his wet hair and set to work braiding it into a single plait. She wove glass beads into the strands and tucked an eagle feather near his ear. “What we have heard of you is bravery. You do not allow the world to stifle you and you do not drag others into your battles.”

  Clark scowled. “Your chief wants me to use his warriors.”

  “It may not be our battle, but we do not mind helping a friend, especially one with honor.” She draped a leather thong with a carved whistle on the end around his neck.

  “We love to hurt the white men.” The kneeling girl grinned, squeezing his manhood a final time before standing. Water trickled down her legs. She and the other women wore modesty skirts made of deer skin, but their breasts hung free to the morning sun.

  “What about your… brother?” She nodded toward Zachariah, who tried to cover himself with his hands while two women washed him with rags. “Would he find me pleasing?”

  “He’s admitted he’s never had a woman before.”

  She tossed her two braids over her shoulder. “Then it’s time he did.”

  “Can you believe it?” Zachariah gripped Clark’s arm, his lips dry and parted. “She offered herself to me like…” He gulped as if regretting his choice in words.

  “Like a whore?” Clark supplied. They sat apart from the chief and his leaders, so no one would hear their whispers. The Bromi gathered around a campfire passing a clay pipe with green smoke that coiled.

  “Do they do that with all guests?” Zachariah sputtered.

  “She likes you.” Clark shrugged, his gaze on the chief. The medicine man chanted while holding a sage stick. It would help clear their minds so they could make a wise decision.

  He switched his attention to Amethyst on his other side. They’d put a red dress on her with a leather belt and deerskin along the collar. She picked at her fingernails, the silver polish chipped to make it speckled. Dried blood caked around the cuticle of her left pointer finger.

  He bumped his head against hers and smiled when she blinked. She would be safe here. Safety counted now, nothing else. Beside her, Georgette clutched her hand.

  The chief rose and clapped. The other men around him knelt to bow their heads to the dirt, staying stationery as the chief stepped by them toward the Treasures. His woven cape drifted over his shoulders to his knees.

  Clark held his breath as his mind screamed at him to run, to refuse, and his heart told him to take any help he could.

  “We are in agreement,” the chief said. “You will remain with us. We will make you tribal members. Where we go, you go. You will be family.”

  Stay… and do nothing. Clark stiffened. That couldn’t be an option. The chief should know he didn’t want to stay with the Bromi. They all belonged to the “white” world.

  “What did he say?” Garth asked.

  The answer dried into a lump. Clark gulped. “They want us to live here.”

  “We can’t.” Amethyst gasped. “We have to go home. We can’t stay here in… in tents. This isn’t our life. We have houses and clothes and… and…” Her chest heaved and she blinked, her eyes glossy.

  She belonged in a world of glittering jewels and night clubs that made her feet tap to the rhythm. She should’ve married that old beau, Joseph. She could’ve been happy with him in the east, at his summer house, and his New Addison City mansion, or whatever else he lived in, not trapped amongst the Bromis with Clark.

  “Give them our thanks,” Georgette said. “Tell them how much we appreciate the offer. I would like to know what we should do to help acclimate ourselves to the tribe.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Amethyst shrieked. “Mother, we can’t really stay. We don’t belong with the Bromi.”

  “Amethyst,” her father snapped. “We’ll stay. They’ve offered us shelter. We need it.”

  “We don’t have to stay forever,” Zachariah said. Was that hope in his voice?

  Clark slammed his fist into the dust. Stupid army, stupid tonic. Everything had brought his life to this point made him hate himself. “Thank you.” The words ground out in the Bromi tone. “We accept.”

  Did they? Did he? Clark rolled to his feet and stomped toward the woods. It might not be respectful to the Bromi, but anger sizzled along his skin. His flesh crawled as if energy built up beneath it. That energy, all that self-loathing, could explode. He wouldn’t have to worry then. Everything would be… gone.

  Pine trees grew around the river. He shoved them aside, ignoring the pricks against his hands and arms. He marched through the water, cold liquid splashing up his legs to his knees. On the other bank, he kicked a fallen log. No one would come after him. Good. He needed that alone time. He needed—

  “Clark!” Amethyst shoved through the trees toward the river. “Get over here. I’m not going through that.”

  “Leave me alone.” Of course she would follow him. “You’re safe with them. You don’t have to come.”

  “I want to be with you.” She folded her arms. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said all of that. Any of that. I was surprised.”

  “No, you’re right. You deserve all of that. You deserve that other life.”

  “I want you.”

  “Don’t push her away.” Eric appeared at Clark’s side.

  “Where have you been?” Clark kicked a rock toward the ghost.

  “Is your father here?” Amethyst called from across the wide, but shallow, river.

  “If you don’t want to stay here, then don’t.” Eric spread his hands. “You can make up a new identity. Make up a new home.”

  “I yanked everyone into this with me. I can’t pretend it can all go away.”

  “Senator Horan controls the army out here. He told them about the tonic. He’s pushing them to find you. If they get you, you can pretend it doesn’t work. He’s the one you have to work on.”

  He could let himself get caught. They couldn’t keep him forever if the tonic didn’t really “work.”

  “Then,” Eric continued, “you can assassinate Senator Horan.”

  eremiah shielded his eyes with his hand before remembering his hat, the brim cocked off to the side. He shifted it back to block the sun. His telegram should’ve arrived that morning. Even if his family was preparing for the festivities, they would’ve sent a steamcoach to pick him and Alyssa at the train station.

  “Something’s wrong.” He scowled. “No one’s here.”

  Alyssa rested her hand on his arm. “I’m sure they’re just busy.”

  His mother never let anything, not even business, get in the way of her family. “No, I can feel it. Stay here.” In the early afternoon sunlight, so bright it hurt his eyes, surrounded by family greeting family, children running wild on noon recess from school, farmers emerging from selling their wares in the city, Alyssa would be safe.

  Jeremiah carried his bag with him to the ticket booth in the station. Less bags would make Alyssa less of a target.

  The seller adjusted his green-tinted sun spectacles. “Yes, sir, Mr. Treasure?”

  “How are you, Bill?” His father would’ve chatted for longer, maybe asked about the new baby, and the seller did open his mouth to begin a tirade. “Anyway.” No chance for the seller to reply. “I don’t see my
folks anywhere. Must’ve gotten tied up back at the ranch. I’ll need some transportation out there. Are the hired cabs all rented out?” If they were, he’d beg a ride off someone in town.

  Bill pursed his lips. Maybe Jeremiah should’ve been a bit friendlier. “We’ve got them both. I’ll send the driver out in the jiffy.”

  “Thank you.” Jeremiah fished two coppers from his pocket and slid them over the counter as a tip.

  Bill kept his hands on his desk. “Be careful, Jeremiah. Things haven’t been right since the army invaded.”

  Invaded. What a great word for it. Jeremiah nodded.

  Bill lowered his voice. “Last couple days, we haven’t seen any of the normals from your pa’s ranch. Not a one. Most of the army hitched out, but from my reckoning, the numbers make it look like they left some back there. Haven’t seen your family since. A couple army men came to town to buy a wine barrel and that’s been it.”

  Jeremiah’s heart clenched before it raced. “Thanks for the heads up.” That couldn’t be a positive sign.

  The positive lessened further when the hired cab pulled into the Treasure Ranch and a Tarnished Silver lifted her head off the lawn by the veranda. She lay on her back with her heels digging into the grass, her legs fallen open. Silver-painted sandals sparkled on her feet.

  “Who is that?” Jeremiah growled. He clenched his hand into a fist around his bag.

  Alyssa drew a sharp intake of breath. “I don’t recall seeing her here before.”

  Wind blew over the open-topped cab, the cover left off for the warm day. The driver shifted in his seat as he slowed the contraption. A puff of steam exploded from the back pipe.

  “Good luck to you, sir.” The driver stared at Jeremiah from beneath the wide rim of his top hat, his goggles reflecting the sun. He hopped down and opened the door, but Jeremiah pushed out and strode toward the harlot. The driver could help Alyssa down.

  “Who in the bloody, blazing gears are you?” Jeremiah dropped his bag at his feet. Dust from the dirt road puffed around his boots.