Bodene relaxed for the first time since he'd left New Orleans. Smiling at her, he said, "It doesn't matter how long it takes, just as long as you and Sam come with me."
Savanna's decision to leave O'Rourke's Tavern was not the instant capitulation it appeared—she had always feared that one day she would come up against a situation over which she had no control, and Micajah's unwanted attentions certainly were that. She'd known when she'd struck out on her own that she was attempting the impossible; that it would not be the life her mother wanted for her, nor would it be a comfortable life, free from danger and brutal difficulties, but she'd been prepared for that. After all, hadn't she grown up watching her mother struggle desperately to keep all of them in the bare necessities? Surely she could do better unencumbered by two children. Savanna had also been grimly confident that no man would ever hold her in the same demoralizing enchantment that Davalos had wielded over her mother.
With little more than sheer nerve, some desperately needed luck and a lot of obstinate determination, she'd headed back for the only home she had known—Crow's Nest—only to discover that Crow's Nest and Stack Island no longer existed. The island and the small tavern, which Elizabeth had sold for a meager sum when the news of Davalos's death had reached them, had disappeared beneath the Mississippi River in a tremendous earthquake that same year. A resolute tilt to her chin, Savanna had turned her back on the past and crossed the river, searching for somewhere else to start up another tavern. She'd found what she was looking for in this deserted old homestead and, by sheer grit and guts and with Sam's help, had turned it into a passable business. It was not an easy life she had chosen, perhaps not even the life she wanted, yet she took a stubborn pride in it. But life on the wilderness frontier of Louisiana was relentlessly hard for everyone—especially for a woman alone and for a young woman who looked like Savanna....
Studying her features in a small spotted mirror that night, Savanna sighed. She didn't think there was anything remarkable about her aquamarine eyes, or her high cheekbones, or even the fullness of her mouth. As for the wavy red-gold hair, which only emphasized thefairness of her skin and the darkness of her brows and long lashes, well, she didn't think very much of it either. She hated the color of her hair, wishing instead that she had been endowed with hair as black as Bodene's and eyes that were a plain, unremarkable blue. And what there was about her shape that roused the unwanted interest and pursuit of men like Micajah Yates utterly baffled her—she was formed just like any other woman, she had exactly the same parts and they were precisely in the same places.
Putting down the mirror, Savanna turned away and walked toward her bed. If Yates and others like him would only leave her alone, she and Sam would do just fine. But no! There was something about her, something about the tall body she took for granted, something about the curves that she secretly despised that made her the angry, unwilling target of the lusts of so many men who crossed her path.
It wasn't, Savanna argued with herself as she slid into bed, as if she ever encouraged any of their advances. Painfully aware of what a man had cost her mother, she had sworn never to let that happen to her. Savanna didn't like men very much, all they represented to her was heartache, trouble and tears, and she'd never met one who had stirred the least tremor of excitement within her breast. Not one.
In the darkness she smiled—not so surprising when she lived in a society where someone like Murdering Micajah was considered quite a catch. She didn't expect that the men around New Orleans were any different, except for being cleaner and richer and perhaps better-mannered. Tears and trouble, every last one of them. She'd happily die a spinster before she'd let even one of them breach the wall she kept around her emotions—which was going to make living with her mother exceedingly difficult.
She grimaced. It wasn't surprising, considering the disaster of her own life, that Elizabeth was convinced that Savanna's happiness could only be attained by marriage. Of course, even Elizabeth would admit that not just any man would do for her daughter, but one of the reasons, once she'd gotten over her grief over his death, that Elizabeth had been so delighted with the contents of Davalos's will had been because it allowed them to live, as she had said, "with a better class of people, dear. Respectable people, honest people!" Smiling mistily at an indifferent Savanna, Elizabeth had trilled on, "I know that because of our circumstances you won't have the marriage opportunities that should have been your right, but, darling, there are all sorts of very nice men—shopkeepers and even some hardworking farmers—who would deem themselves very lucky to have a wife like you!" It had been shortly after this conversation that Savanna had left home.
Fidgeting under the light covers, Savanna twisted and turned, longing for sleep. She was not looking forward to returning to Campo de Verde—not that she didn't love her mother. It was just that the thought of Elizabeth's gentle scheming to find her a respectable husband made Savanna squirm with dread. That, and all the boring, dull, ladylike occupations that Elizabeth seemed to feel were required of women. Incredible as it seemed, Savanna preferred the struggle to keep the tavern going and the occasional facing down of dangerous rogues like Micajah to the stultifying domesticity that her mother embraced with such enthusiasm. It was only the growing fear of not being able to win against men like Murdering Micajah that was driving her back to Campo de Verde and a fate she viewed with deep misgivings and despair.
It was odd, Savanna mused wearily, that her mother, who had lived such an unconventional life, should now yearn so hungrily for all the trappings of respectability. Imagining the stupefying sameness of the days that stretched before her, for just a second she considered telling Bodene in the morning that she had changed her mind, that she couldn't possibly return to Campo de Verde. Sam's pain-filled face flashed before her eyes and she sighed. No. She'd have to go; it was the only way to make certain that Sam came to no harm, and that was the most important thing—that and keeping out of the clutches of Murdering Micajah! She grinned as she recalled Micajah's chagrined expression when Bodene had shoved the rifle into his back. After today, it was unlikely that Yates would continue his unwanted pursuit of her, and, certain she had seen the last of him for a very long time, Savanna didn't waste any more time speculating on the outlaw.
* * *
Smarting from having been bested by Savanna twice in less than a month, Micajah put several miles between himself and O'Rourke's Tavern before he deemed it safe to stop. The notion of doubling back and trying his luck again did cross his mind, but the memory of Savanna's deadly expression above that long black rifle made him think better of it—that and the knowledge that Sullivan was also there. If it hadn't been for Sullivan... A vicious look crossed his face. One of these days he was going to have to teach that interfering bastard a lesson, and when he was done, he'd teach Savanna what a real man was like.
Thoughts of vengeance, along with a spell of bad weather, kept him company during the three-day journey up to Natchez, and by the time he sighted the majestic bluffs overlooking the Mississippi River which signaled the end of his journey, Micajah was wet, hungry, uncomfortable and in a foul mood. Leaving his exhausted horse at the livery stable, he set out in search of some liquid comfort.
Natchez was actually two cities. On a high, tree-covered bluff towering above the river was situated the elegant town inhabited by the wealthy planters and respectable merchants and their families. There, along the jessamine-shaded streets, was to be found a charming mixture of Spanish and American architecture, iron grillwork and vaulted corridors mingling with arcades of slender columns and wide galleries. But on the narrow clay shelf nearly two hundred feet below the bluff near the river lay the 'other' city—Natchez-under-the-Hill. And if the town above was noted for its wealth and elegance, Natchez-under-the-Hill had gained fame as a haven for every kind of vice imaginable.
Familiar with all the dens of iniquity that comprised Natchez-under-the-Hill, Micajah quickly made his way to his favorite haunt. It proved to be a shabby littl
e dram shop named The White Cock, on the notorious Silver Street, and frequented by corrupt men like himself. Sidling into a darkened corner, he seated himself at a small, rickety table and glanced around the smoked-filled, dimly lit room. Seeing nothing to alarm him, he settled back to enjoy the first shot of throat-burning whiskey from the bottle that he ordered from the hard-faced slattern who worked as the barmaid.
The White Cock was only half full, and when the doors flew open a few minutes later, Micajah had a clear view of the two men who entered. The shorter one in the ragged blue coat and stained leggings he recognized as a sometime partner-in-crime of his, Jem Elliot, but the other was a stranger. His clothing alone—elegant, form-fitting russet jacket, starched cravat and pristine nankeen breeches—proclaimed him a man of wealth and style, and Micajah's interest was instantly whetted. Now what the hell is Jem up to with a gent like that? Micajah wondered as he covertly studied the two men. Is Jem thinking to cheat him in a card game? Rob him after he gets him drunk? Or something more interesting?
Elliot, his narrowed hazel eyes missing nothing, gave the room the same careful scrutiny that Micajah had earlier and saw him in the corner. He nodded and with the 'gent' in tow quickly made his way to Micajah's table. A toothy grin breaking across his features, Jem exclaimed, "Micajah! What the hell are you doing here? Heard you'd gone to try your luck once more with that red-haired vixen, Savanna." His grin became sly. "Since you're back so soon, figure she must have thrown you out—again!"
Micajah grunted and motioned Jem and his companion to join him. Despite the expression of distaste on the face of the gentleman, both men seated themselves at the table.
Silence reigned until glasses arrived for the two newcomers and Micajah poured both of them a generous shot from his bottle. The stranger, his aquiline nose fairly quivering with displeasure, stared at the dirty glass filled with the amber liquor and snapped under his breath, "I thought we came here to be private! I told you this was a delicate matter."
Elliot flashed a wink at Micajah as he sipped his whiskey. "Calm down, mister. There ain't no secrets between Micajah and me and there ain't nothing delicate about murder. As a matter of fact, Micajah here might be just the fellow you're looking for—has a lot more experience taking care of fellows like your Adam St. Clair than I have."
Not liking this turn of events, the stranger glared at Elliot, his supercilious features tight. Elliot smiled back, his shaggy brown hair and stubble-covered jaws making him look even more disreputable than usual. "Ever heard of Murdering Micajah?" Elliot asked softly.
The gentleman's green eyes widened and he glanced over at Micajah, a question in his gaze.
Not without pride, Micajah smiled and dipped his head.
The stranger reached for his glass and in one gulp swallowed the contents. A shudder went through his slim frame as the fiery whiskey seared its way down his throat. Setting the glass down, he looked at Micajah and said, "There is a man I wish you to, er, remove from my path. He is a wealthy man, well-thought-of in Natchez and not without powerful connections."
"Adam St. Clair?" Micajah asked, already calculating how much he could squeeze out of the man for the deed. Afterward, he might even be able to make the pigeon pay a tidy sum to keep the secret between them.
The man nodded, his fair hair gleaming in the flickering light. He glanced around nervously, and seeing that no one was nearby, he leaned forward, saying, "I will be willing to pay you four thousand dollars in gold. Two thousand now and the remainder when the job is done."
Micajah took a long, slow sip of his whiskey, never revealing that he was impressed by the sum. "Why do you want him killed?" he inquired. "Murder's a drastic solution. What'd he do to you?"
The man's lips thinned. "I don't think that it is any of your business."
A cold expression in his pale blue eyes, Micajah said flatly, "Then find someone else to do your killing for you."
The stranger sighed. "There is a woman involved. He has her, but I don't want him to keep her. It is that simple."
Satisfied with the answer, Micajah poured himself and the others another whiskey. Raising his glass, he muttered, "Here's to the demise of Adam St. Clair."
All three men drank to Micajah's deadly toast. Putting his glass down on the rough pine table, Yates asked bluntly, "How soon do I get the money?"
"Don't you want to know anything about him? Where he lives?" the stranger asked, wondering if his money wasn't simply going to disappear the instant it reached Micajah's grubby hands.
Micajah smiled coldly. "You can tell me all about him once you tell me how soon I get that two thousand."
"I can arrange for you to have it tomorrow morning," the man admitted, uncertainty clear in his eyes.
"Good! Meet me at Spanish Lick tomorrow morning at eleven with the money... and before another week has gone by, your Mr. St. Clair will be singing with the angels." Micajah grinned darkly. "Or dancing with the devil!"
After the stranger departed, Micajah and Elliot sat discussing their new employer. Elliot admitted he had never seen him before, nor did he know his name, but he had the impression that the man was a stranger to these parts. They speculated on that for a bit longer, but decided it didn't matter—as long as he paid them the money, they didn't care who he was. Or who he wanted killed. With hardly a pause, they switched the conversation to the more enjoyable subject of how they would split the money.
"Fifty-fifty, as usual?" Elliot asked.
Micajah flashed him an astounded look. "When I have to do all the work? All you did was steer the pigeon to me."
Elliot grinned. "Can't blame a man for trying. Seventy-five/twenty-five?"
"That's better," Micajah said, nodding. "Now tell me what's been happening while I've been gone."
The two men talked for some time, finishing off the bottle of whiskey. Eventually they parted, and with an unsteady step, Micajah began to walk toward the boardinghouse that he used whenever he was in the area.
Natchez-under-the-Hill was a dangerous, deadly place, even for rogues like Micajah and as he half stumbled, half walked down one of the twisting, narrow alleys, he became aware that someone was dogging his footsteps. He fumbled for his knife and cursed under his breath when he remembered that he had dropped it at O'Rourke's Tavern. His pistol was in his saddlebag back at the livery stable, and a film of sweat broke out on his brow as he realized that he was unarmed and being stalked by someone in the darkness....
The threat of danger cleared his head and an ugly light entered his eyes as he clenched his big fists. So someone thought to take on Murdering Micajah, did he? Well, it wouldn't be the first time Yates had killed a man with his bare hands.
Deciding to use the element of surprise against the man who followed him, Micajah spun on his heels and with fists flying lunged at the slight figure behind him. His massive fists pummeled the stalker, hitting the smaller man in the stomach and the face.
Caught by surprise, the stalker gave a pain-filled squawk as those first powerful jabs caught him. Bent nearly double from the force of the blows that Micajah rained upon him, he stumbled backward into the wall of one of the buildings which formed the narrow alley. Half beseechingly, half protectively, he held his hands out, but Micajah swept them aside, and grasping the man by the throat, lifted him upright slamming him savagely against the wall.
Fingers digging into the scrawny throat of his one-time stalker, Micajah breathed malevolently, "Thought to rob me, did you?"
"No! No!" the helpless figure gasped, clawing ineffectually at the fingers that threatened to close off his breathing. "Jesus Christ, don't kill me!" he gabbled. "It's me, Micajah! It's Jeremy Childers!"
Chapter 3
"Jeremy Childers!" Micajah exclaimed in stunned disbelief. "I thought your bones were bleaching on some godforsaken plain in Texas." Loosening his stranglehold on the other man's throat, he muttered, "What the hell do you want?"
This wasn't how Jeremy had envisioned his meeting with Micajah, but, thankful th
at he wasn't dead, he coughed a few times and rubbed his bruised neck. "Need to talk to you," he said hoarsely. "Private-like."
Considering how he earned his money, Jeremy's request didn't rouse any interest within Micajah—there were always men needing to talk to him 'private-like,' men like the stranger tonight. And since his immediate need for money was going to be met by that same stranger, Jeremy's words didn't fill him with excitement.
Shrugging his burly shoulders, Micajah turned away and continued toward the boardinghouse. "Where the devil have you been these past years?" he asked when Jeremy followed him, half running to keep up with his longer stride. "Thought you and Orval were going to make your fortune trading horses with the Comanches."
Jeremy grimaced in the darkness. "We were... only Orval got scalped by the Comanches and I ran into a Spanish patrol and spent my time since then in a prison down in Mexico."
Micajah glanced back at him. "Talk about bad luck. Told you it was a fool notion at the time."
They reached the boardinghouse, a small, ramshackle wooden building situated near the river and the livery stable where Micajah's horse was stabled, but a little distance from the main cluster of equally shabby buildings that comprised the lower town. Micajah liked the location since it would allow him a quick exit, and he had a nice little understanding with both the widow who ran the boarding-house and the owner of the stable; they treated him well and he was willing to pay them equally well for their services or...
The widow Blackstone kept a decent room at the back of the house, away from the other boarders, ready for him at all times. Silently Micajah and Jeremy entered the darkened building and made their way to Micajah's room. The candle that Micajah lit once they were inside revealed the meager furnishings—a pine chair and bureau and a bed with a threadbare quilt on it which did little to disguise the lumpy mattress. A washstand with a tiny cracked mirror above it and a few hooks on the wall completed the contents of the room.
Each Time We Love Page 4