Stormy Hawkins (Prairie Hearts Series Book 1)

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Stormy Hawkins (Prairie Hearts Series Book 1) Page 19

by Ana Morgan


  Avoiding Stormy’s eyes, the young woman snatched it out of the air.

  “Your train leaves in one hour,” Peabody said. “Lock up now and don’t look back.”

  The clerk nodded.

  Squeezing Stormy’s shoulder again, the man propelled her through the shop’s storeroom and out a door that opened onto a dim, dirty alley.

  Overhead, a man’s harsh shout pierced the air, followed by a crash and a woman’s wail. Wings flapping, a bird bolted from a nest on a window ledge. Two red-eyed rats scurried into a hidey hole.

  Stormy looked down at her stockinged feet. Broken bottles littered the dank walkway. She’d not be able to outrun him.

  Her panic snapped into anger. “Who are you?”

  “Edward Peabody, Esquire.”

  “The private investigator. What do you want with me?"

  “Money.”

  She laughed brazenly. “You’re no good if you think I have money.”

  His grip on her shoulder tightened. “Don’t underestimate yourself, Miss Hawkins. You’re a valuable commodity.”

  Her heart thumped with alarm. She’d read stories about wayward girls being kidnapped and sold as concubines to nomadic princes. She plucked at the peignoir. Her thoughts tumbled out as words. “This robe. I’m not a whore. I’m getting married. Candy thought I needed—”

  A chill coursed through her body. Candy had sent Blade’s mother away and dragged her to the lingerie shop. Insisted she try something on, and then left the shop. “Candy Masters paid you to do this.”

  Peabody stiffened. His arm jerked, rocking her like a wayward wave. “The beggar who undressed in front of my office,” he muttered. “He saw—”

  “Don’t underestimate my fiancé,” she spat. “He’s smarter and stronger than you’ll ever be.”

  Peabody laughed coldly. “Not as long as I have you.”

  “You want money? He’ll pay what you ask. He has the money.” His father has the money.

  “Oh, he’ll pay. So will the others.”

  Others? Zed, Brownie, and Running Bear couldn’t raise a cash ransom. They plowed every penny back into the ranch.

  “Like I said, Miss Hawkins. You’re a valuable commodity.” He put his arm around her waist like they’d agreed on a price for her services and were eager to consummate their deal. He aimed his walking stick between the tall brick buildings, toward a parked carriage that faced the street. “That way.”

  Certain she did not want to get in that carriage, Stormy bowed her head and took short, resisting steps. Any second now, someone would open a door or turn into the alley, and she’d ram her elbow into Peabody’s gut. Double him over so she could run the other way.

  Her ears strained to hear something other than his determined footfalls and her pitiful gulps of air. She tried to slow their pace.

  He forced her forward.

  She glanced desperately over her shoulder.

  He rapped her shin with his cane.

  Tears flooded her eyes, blinding her vision. White hot pain exploded in her heel. Her breath erupted in a tortured cry as she hopped on one foot and lifted the other.

  A chunk of thick brown glass stuck through her tattered stocking. She reached down and yanked it out. Blood welled from a deep wound.

  “You bastard!” Gripping the jagged glass between her thumb and forefinger, she swung her hand at Peabody’s face. The sharp edge sliced a cut across his chin.

  He yelped and released his hold on her.

  Ignoring the throbbing in her foot, she turned and ran for her life. The sash of the peignoir came untied. The robe blew open and streamed behind her like a sail.

  Peabody shouted a threat. His boots thundered behind her, drawing ever closer. Each heavy whoosh of his exhalations boxed her ears, distorting her hearing.

  She risked a glance behind her.

  Peabody gripped his walking stick and swung the knob over his head.

  She ducked and kept running even though she couldn’t feel her feet anymore. A slit of daylight glowed ahead of her. A street. People. Rescue.

  Peabody bellowed again.

  Everything went black.

  ~ ~ ~

  When Stormy came to, she smelled burnt ink. Her head ached like she’d tumbled down a flight of stairs.

  Thick and dry, her tongue rasped across the roof of her mouth when she attempted to swallow. Still dizzy, she pushed herself up and opened her eyes.

  She sat on a creaky bed in a narrow room with yellowed wallpaper and threadbare throw rugs. The ceiling sloped to a peak. A strip of clean towel bound her cut heel.

  Near the door on the opposite side of the room, Edward Peabody sat in a faded, stuffed chair. A thick book lay on top of the small table beside him. He ripped a page from the book, twisted it into a taper, and set it alight. Just before the flame reached his fingers, he tossed the stub into a battered brazier.

  The acrid smell of smoke gripped Stormy’s nostrils as she forced her fingers through a crusty clump of hair on her head and traced the outline of a painful, egg-sized lump.

  Peabody pointed at the blood-edged cut that marred his cheek. “Tit for tat, Miss Hawkins. You won’t touch me again, if you know what’s good for you.”

  “You can’t scare me,” she said with much more bravado than she felt. “You need me alive.”

  He nodded. “And, you need me. If anything goes wrong, you’ll die chained to that bed.”

  She stared at him, confused.

  “Look down,” he said.

  She obeyed.

  Secured by a sturdy padlock, a chain banded her waist like the peignoir’s missing sash. The other end was secured to the chipped metal bedhead. She jumped up and tried to force the chain down over her hips.

  “The chamber pot’s in that corner. You can’t reach this chair or the door.”

  She raised her chin. “I’ll shout for help.”

  “No one will come.”

  “Why?” Her voice quavered. “Where am I?”

  “The people who might hear won’t care.”

  She blinked back tears. “Why are you doing this? What do you want?”

  “It would be hard for you to fathom, Miss Hawkins. You were born rich.” He shushed her protest. “Not filthy rich, like the Masters, but you own land. Do you have any idea how much your ranch is worth?”

  She shook her head vehemently. “It doesn’t matter what it’s worth. I’ll never sell it.”

  “Do you know what it’s like,” his voice grew haunted, “to grow up stealing food to survive?”

  “No. We always have plenty to eat. We raise a garden. Bake our bread and butcher our own meat.”

  “Because you own land!” He ripped another page from the book and twisted it into a candle.

  “Stop that!” she snapped helplessly. “Books are precious.”

  He struck another match and held it near the paper. “I’ll give you the book if you agree to behave.”

  Her stomach churned. “I’d rather trade for food and water, but know this, Mr. Peabody. I won’t be your whore.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. “You’re much too valuable.”

  She hobbled unsteadily to the window. An arc of moonlight shimmered through the panes of wavy crown glass, but she couldn’t see anything more. She was a damsel in distress, chained in an attic cell.

  Fairytale princesses had princes to free them. She had Blade, but maybe she could do more than wait to be rescued.

  Peabody didn’t seem to want to hurt her. He’d dressed her foot, or directed somebody to do it. He wanted money. The sooner he got it, the sooner he’d set her free.

  She turned toward her captor. “Do you want me to write the ransom note?”

  He inserted t
he rolled-up page like a bookmark, closed the book, and tossed it over, onto the bed. The Voyage of the Beagle, by Charles Darwin. “What a delightful idea, Miss Hawkins. If I know your tightfisted father-in-law-to-be, a second will probably be needed.”

  Reaching behind his chair, he slid out a milk bottle carrier and lifted one jar. It was filled with a green-hued liquid. “This was made by an apothecary. It’s been boiled and strained, so it’s perfectly safe to drink.” He leaned forward and held out the jar.

  She was desperately thirsty, but she hesitated. “Why can’t I have plain water? Or real milk?”

  “Regretfully, I cannot say.” He set the jar on the small table, picked up his walking stick, and slapped the lion’s head against his palm. “My employers have their reasons.”

  Employers? Yesterday in the alley, he’d acknowledged that Candy had hired him, and that Blade’s family was the target. Who else was in this conspiracy?

  Wary of pressing him too hard, she shuffled forward until the chain pressed against her waist. She stretched out her arm for the jar and unscrewed the lid.

  The liquid smelled of roots and herbs. She took a tentative sip.

  It tasted worse than the bitter tea Running Bear had made her drink when she’d caught the chicken pox. The sides of her mouth tingled unpleasantly. Her stomach roiled with alarm, and then growled for more.

  She swallowed another mouthful and wiped her lips with the back of her hand.

  He set a half loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese on the small table. “When the jar is empty, you can eat.”

  Chapter 29

  Trying to work off his day’s frustrations, Blade raised an axe over his head and drove it into the end of a fireplace log. The sharp edge bit deeply into the wood and stopped, stuck.

  Just like he was. A week ago, he’d followed Peabody to a rooming house next to an abandoned button factory. The investigator carried in several bags and left empty-handed. When Blade inquired a short time later, the stone-faced hausfrau had shouted, “No rooms,” and slammed the door in his face.

  Peabody never returned to the rooming house nor did he venture anywhere near Patrick or Natalie. Again, sporting his unusual lion’s head walking stick, he stopped several times at the telegraph office, chatted with an apothecary, and let a tailor fit him for a new suit.

  From what Blade could tell, Candy had paid Peabody for a job already done, and the investigator was simply spending his pay.

  Blade rocked the axe handle until he worked the head free of the log. Retaking his stance, he swung again. The oak bolt split in two, halves toppling like maudlin actors onto piles at the base of the chopping block. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve and upended another length.

  Candy was the one behaving suspiciously. She’d abandoned her usual routine of sleeping until noon and now swept into his parents’ dining room before seven each morning with Mary’s plump, dark-haired friend, Emily, in tow. After breakfast, they led Stormy and his mother through a rigorous schedule of house hunting and wedding planning, staying out well past his family’s etched-in-stone dinner hour. No matter how he parsed Stormy’s recounting of her days’ conversations, Candy had not revealed a secret plan.

  Maybe she didn’t have one.

  With angry whacks, he split four more logs, and then stacked the pieces on top of the wood he’d chopped yesterday and the day before.

  His father proclaimed that abandoned men, along with pretty girls named Natalie, needed to stick together, and so had invited Jared, Patrick, and Natalie for supper each evening. At the dinner table, he teased out news about the children’s activities and sidestepped the discussion he kept pointedly avoiding—cashing out Blade’s shares in the bank.

  Yesterday, Natalie giggled and blew bubbles in her glass of milk while Sam tested her on times twos and times threes. Patrick and Jared had argued good-naturedly whether the Maroon’s new pitcher would be the team’s starter or closer.

  The children’s features and mannerisms were nearly identical to Jared’s. Blade was forced to conclude he wasn’t Patrick’s father.

  With a final, fierce blow, he drove the axe head into the chopping block.

  He’d been a fool to think Patrick was his son. When Candy broke his heart five years ago, he convinced himself she’d also stolen his future. He’d set his mind on living out his days like a hermit. Then, last night, Natalie had hugged him tightly as he carried her, yawning, to Jared’s carriage.

  With a gut-wrenching start, he realized what he really wanted in life was a boisterous brood of children—his and Stormy’s. He wanted to teach them to read and rope, and tuck them tenderly into bed at night after stories of riverboats and ranching.

  Tonight, he’d tell Stormy he was ready to buy tickets to Yankton. With Mouse’s help, they would evade any marshal who wanted to arrest him for battering Vance. Then, he’d give Zed the money to pay off the ranch note. He’d marry Stormy.

  After scrubbing his sweaty hands on his jeans, he opened the back door and stepped into the kitchen. He pecked Corinda cheerfully on the cheek.

  “You best wash up,” the cook chided. “Your mama doesn’t like it when you’re late for dinner.”

  “Olivia’s home?” That meant Stormy was, too.

  Ignoring Corinda’s scolds, he picked up a tray of filled soup bowls and raised the platter high like a professional waiter. He maneuvered around Jackson, who’d just come in through the swinging door, and stepped into the dining room.

  Jared, Patrick, Natalie, and his parents sat at the table.

  “Finally,” Patrick exclaimed. “I’m starving.”

  Blade passed out the soups, set the tray on a sideboard, and took his seat. “Is Stormy upstairs?”

  “She’s still out with Candy and Emily,” his mother said. “Shopping.”

  A warning bell clanged in his gut. “I thought we agreed she’d stay close to you.”

  “I really couldn’t help it. Candy sent me off with the purchases.” His mother speared a spinach leaf with her salad fork. “I’m sure they’ll be along soon.”

  Leaning forward, Blade moderated his voice so he would not frighten the children. “When did you last see her?”

  “We were leaving Madame Zarov’s.”

  “How long ago?” he growled.

  Olivia flinched. “About two hours. I’m sure everything is fine. Maybe they stopped for a drink.”

  “Sam, Jared, a word, please.” Blade stood and dropped his open napkin onto the table. Motioning for his father and brother to follow him, he marched to the library and slammed shut the heavy oak door. The old cavalry sword mounted over the fireplace rattled in its holder.

  “You might be overreacting,” Jared said.

  “I don’t think so.” Blade straightened to his full height and looked down on his younger brother. “A week ago, your wife gave five hundred dollars to a private investigator named Edward Peabody.”

  “Five hundred dollars? Where would she get that kind of money?”

  “I gave it to her,” his father said.

  Jared’s gaze see-sawed crossly between them.

  “Before I left Prosperity,” Blade said, “somebody named Peabody telegraphed detailed descriptions of Patrick and Natalie to the man who holds a lien on the Hawkins Ranch.”

  “Candy might not be a doting mother,” his brother huffed, “but she’d never do anything to harm our children. How do you explain the connection?”

  “I can’t,” Blade admitted.

  Jared’s face turned beet-red. “Then, you have no right to accuse Candy of—”

  The door opened a crack.

  “Granna says come quick,” Patrick called. “Someone’s coming up the drive.”

  Blade rushed past the boy. He’d almost lost Stormy to Sultan and to Vance. Surely fate wouldn’t test hi
m a third time.

  Twin lanterns on a hansom swayed in time to the rhythmic raps of the nag’s shoes on the driveway’s smooth stones.

  “See?” Jared said. “They’re fine. You aren’t always right.”

  Blade bristled at his brother’s taunt. Stormy’s homecoming didn’t explain Candy’s business with Edward Peabody. Or, the connection to Jonathan Vance. His brother had always cared more about himself and measured events by how they affected him.

  Impatient to hold Stormy in his arms and hear about her day, Blade ran down the steps and yanked open the hansom door.

  Candy stepped out. Her jaw was set, her eyes cold. Her voice cracked the still evening air. “Where’s Stormy?”

  Alarm raced through Blade’s body. “Isn’t she with you?”

  “I will not devote another minute to your ungrateful fiancée,” Candy said. “It’s a cruel joke to play on family and friends, leaving without a word.”

  “Stormy left and you didn’t see her go?” The story made no sense. Why would Stormy leave? She had no money and no place to go.

  Emily disembarked from the hansom, her tight dark curls now fatigued and drooping. “We searched high and low for nearly an hour with our hearts in our throats. My nerves are strained quite beyond repair.”

  “Where?” Blade pressed. “Where were you?”

  Emily flushed and avoided his gaze. “At a shop near the docks.”

  “What shop?”

  “Please don’t tell my father,” the chit wailed.

  “What shop?”

  “Fifi’s.”

  Startled, Blade turned toward Candy. Years ago, she’d spent his roustabout pay on a black bustier at Fifi’s.

  “Tip the driver, Jared.” Candy snapped her fingers. “Patrick, Natalie, collect your things and get in our carriage. We’re going home.”

  “The hell you are.” Blade seized Candy and Emily’s arms in bruising grips and propelled them up the steps and into the front sitting room. “You left Stormy near the Crazy Lady Saloon in the roughest section of town. You’ll stay here until she’s safely home.”

 

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