No dimwit when it came to his own welfare, Seward had fled Wishbone immediately upon learning Delmar was on the loose. As yet he had not slowed down. A dozen times a day, as he’d traveled from the Arizona territory to the New York harbor, he’d felt the hairs rising on the back of his neck. Each time he’d looked around expecting Delmar to be there demanding retribution. Each time he’d found he was reacting to no more than his shadow. But he had kept running and kept looking back.
He would continue to do so until he boarded the Gloriana and felt the wind catch her sails. There on the sea, at last, he would not feel the need to look over his shoulder. And so it was, haggard from the journey, that Derby Seward cast his trunk to a waiting seaman, doled out a few coins to the driver of the carriage, and prepared to board the Gloriana.
He sighed out in relief as the horses’s clopping hooves carried the driver and conveyance away and his own thudding footsteps took him toward the waiting frigate.
Rhys drew his breath in and held it until the air grew stale in his lungs. With the dark clouds banked above and a gathering fog on the docks, he could scarcely make out the shape of the man climbing down from a solitary carriage which had ventured far down the wharf. Cautiously, Rhys leaned out from behind the stack of crates and barrels that had shielded him from the man’s view. The latecomer had a beard but he could not determine the color.
Rhys saw but one course. He stepped into the clear. “Seward!” he shouted.
Seward froze, then cursed himself for reacting to the name. He’d taken the precaution of assuming another for the journey to London. Now it seemed the safeguard had been in vain.
Above, the clouds parted and the moon broke though, its silver light catching Seward full in the face and showing his thick red beard in all its glory. Rhys broke into a run. Seward did the same, shouting a warning to any of the crew who were about on the ship to halt the man who pursued him. His hat flew to the choppy water below and his coat waved in the wind as Seward scurried aboard the Gloriana with the desperation of a rat seeking safety in the bowels of the ship. He had been aboard before and knew the way across the deck. He made haste for the companion hood and threw himself down the steps, gasping for breath as he descended to the lower decks and raced past cargo and men.
A few sailors, knowing Seward had paid his passage, sought to give him aid, but stepped aside as, from the quarterdeck, Captain Bale shouted for them to stay at their posts.
Seward raced on. Near a ladder which led to the deep cargo hold he passed a box where the ship’s carpenter had laid his tools. The blade of a small hatchet gleamed out in the lamplight. Seward grabbed the wooden handle and thrust the hatchet beneath his coat. A knife was his weapon of choice but for Rhys Delmar, whom he suspected carried a gun, the hatchet would prove a better defense.
With an angry cry tearing from his throat, Rhys bounded after Seward, flying past the seamen he had expected to block his way but who now stood aside as they had for the man he chased. He gained the upper deck and sprinted across it. Already Seward was out of sight but he had seen the path the man took and followed down the companion hood. Below he could hear the clatter of Seward’s feet and the heavy, gasping breaths of a man not accustomed to exertion. On he ran, gun drawn, not knowing what he would do with Seward when he caught him, but determined he would make the man admit his guilt if he had to beat the life from him to do it.
Rhys paused but once, when he saw that Seward had fled to the hold. There in the tightly packed ship’s belly a man could lie in wait. The thought that Seward might climb out by another exit and leave the ship before he caught up spurred Rhys on. In one bound he leaped to the bottom of the hold, landing in a crouch among the stacked bales and barrels.
Seward stood behind the ladder, ready to chop off the legs of his adversary as he climbed down. With that advantage taken from him he gave a cry of rage and flung himself, hatchet swinging, upon Rhys. His first brutal blow struck the weapon from Rhys’s hand and sent it careening toward a head-high stack of crates lashed to the ship’s sides. The gun landed atop the highest of the wooden boxes just as the ship creaked and listed port side. Rhys’s only weapon slithered over the edge of the box and wedged between two heavy crates and out of reach of either man.
Seward, however, was still armed with the hatchet and raised it for another blow. “You’ve done me a good turn by following, Rhys Delmar,” he cried through clenched teeth. “I’ll cut you to pieces right here and no man will fault me for it!”
He swung. Rhys sprung aside and the blow missed, bringing a vicious curse from Seward. “You have it to do yet!” Rhys challenged and leaped aside as yet another blow stirred the hair on his head.
“I’ll do it!” Seward taunted and pressed on. “You’re worth a bloody fortune to me! Dead!”
With Rhys dancing back and Seward edging forward they moved through the crowded hold. One swing of the hatchet sliced a bag of hemp and sent the fiber spilling to the staves beneath their feet.
Seward plowed through what he had unleashed, wielding his hatchet in ever-widening swings which Rhys continued to duck and dodge. Any one swipe could have rendered him headless had he misjudged by a second the speed of the swing. Needing a moment of respite, he dove behind a barrel, hoping he could keep up the chase long enough to tire Seward so that he dared go on the offensive against the man.
“What was Jenny Perrault worth to you?” he shouted, scrambling behind yet another barrel.
“Not a farthing.” Seward peered into the dark where Rhys had disappeared. Sweat poured from his brow and he had to suck in a breath before he could speak again. “It was what she was about to tell you that got her killed.”
“About Andrew Knox? My father?”
Seward pressed on, honing in on Rhys’s voice. “So you know about that, do you? For all the difference it’ll make!”
For half a second Rhys sat stunned by Seward’s admission that he had murdered Jenny. He recovered quickly when Seward shoved aside the barrel that was his protection and came near to slicing off his arm with a desperate swing of the sharp blade.
Relieved to see he’d lost only a sleeve and a layer of skin, Rhys shouted a taunt at Seward and kept moving through the tunnels of goods in the hold. He’d gotten his wind back but he had also learned every moment he took to hide and rest gave Seward a moment to recover his strength, too. He tried another tactic as soon as he put another barrel between Seward and himself. While Seward shoved the barrier away, Rhys sprung from the ship’s floor, leaping high in the air where he caught hold of the heavy rope that latticed the cargo to the ship’s walls. Climbing ape-fashion, he managed to land a hard kick to Seward’s skull before the man realized what had happened.
Groaning and with a blood lust in his eye, Seward lunged to his feet and started up the rigging after Rhys. With the axe in one hand his progress was slow, but he was relentless even as his big chest heaved in and out for air and each time he got within striking distance he swung the hatchet at Rhys. Only a few minutes into the overhead chase Seward discovered by accident that if he could not catch Rhys Delmar he might bring him down by hacking through the rope Rhys clung to.
On the first occurrence Rhys came tumbling down, clinging to the severed rope, landing only a few feet from Seward and the razor-sharp hatchet. He had lost the advantage of distance but he still had his endurance. Rather than leap to the floor and have Seward plummet on top of him and hack him to shreds, Rhys emitted a cry of determination and scurried hand over hand away from his pursuer. Seward however, had given up the game of chase. He severed another rope and once again Rhys came tumbling to him, this time landing with a dazing thump against a huge wooden keg and directly in the path of Seward’s weapon.
The darkness in the hold went blacker before Rhys’s eyes. He blinked and groaned and tried to clear his head and amass enough strength to dodge a death blow.
Seward laughed. “Got you now, you bloody devil!” He drew back his arm and swung.
Rhys never quite knew
how he managed to hoist himself out of the way of that blow, but it missed him by a hair’s-breadth. Seward’s hatchet split the chime hoop of the giant keg, releasing the entire top of the wooden barrel and bringing a blast of thick molasses spewing from the container. The gush washed Seward from his perch and he came plunging down into the pile of hemp he had unleashed before.
Choking and coughing and cursing Rhys Delmar, Seward scooted around on all fours in the knee-deep mess looking for his hatchet.
Above him Rhys swung on a dangling rope. He’d have laughed at the spectacle had not he known how deadly that molasses-sopped and hemp-strewn man could be should he find the lost hatchet. He couldn’t wait for that to happen. Positioning himself over Seward, Rhys dropped directly on the crawling man’s back, knocking him face down into the thick, oozing molasses.
Filled with rage, Rhys latched his fingers into Seward’s sticky hair and beard and thrust the Englishman’s head deeper into the thick black syrup. “You killed Lucien! You killed Jenny! I ought to drown you in it!”
Seward swallowed a mouthful of molasses and when Rhys relented and let him up for air he was clawing it from his mouth to let in the breath he needed. “Aye!” he shouted as soon as he’d filled his lungs. “I killed them both! The Perrault woman and the bloody cripple Bourget. Stabbed them in the heart. Liked the feel of it too. Aye!” He turned his hate-filled eyes on Rhys. “I killed them but you’ll hang for it! Not me, you bloody bastard!”
Nearly as crazed as Seward, Rhys slammed the Englishman’s head into the syrup again, holding it down a long moment, caring little if he did or did not drown the man. “Then I might as well let you choke to death!” he railed. “It’s of no consequence if you do!”
Seward kicked and grabbed but could not wrest the Frenchman off his back or tear his steel-like fingers from his hair. He had begun to give up the fight when Rhys realized a light shone over his shoulder and had been there for some time.
He rose up and looked anxiously back. Abner Bale and a score of his men stood about the ladder in the hold.
“I see you’ve not kept your promise regarding my ship,” the captain said. His steady voice brought a return of reason to Rhys, but he still held Seward’s head submerged. “Let him go,” Bale said. “My men and I have heard his confession and you’ll have our word where you need it. Now let him go. Don’t let him make of you what he’s claimed you are.”
Rhys jerked Seward’s head from the molasses. It was as if the Englishman had no face. He’d turned black where the syrup clung and was covered with hemp in hundreds of stringy fibers which stuck as if glued wherever they touched. His body was the same, a mound of molasses dotted with bits of hemp that stood out like tentacles. The only bit of Seward that showed he was not some bizarre creature dragged from the deep was the long pink tongue that lolled from his mouth as he gasped from air.
Rhys had not fared much better in the deluge of syrup but his head was clear of it and he could stand without help. “You’re a good man, Captain,” he said wearily. “Now if you’ll help me get this man ashore and to the authorities here, we—”
The captain ordered his men to take Seward above and wash him clean. “Sorry, lad,” he said to Rhys. “The Gloriana has set sail and the next port we see will be an English harbor.”
Chapter 40
August 1876
The moon rose high and shone blood red above the Gamble ranch. Teddy peered out of her bedroom window at the bright sphere. She had not seen a moon like that since—
“Dammit!” she said and pulled the curtains tight over the open portal. It was another of those damned devil moons, Felicity’s devil moon, a ball of crimson with dark dancing shadows, fraught with change. She hadn’t seen a moon like that since the night after she and Rhys had escaped from Taviz and the banditos, shortly before she had learned she was carrying his baby. Babies.
She looked over at the twin cradles where tiny, dark-haired Marc Andre Gamble Delmar and his golden-haired sister Theodora Gamble Delmar slept. Well. Teddy smiled contentedly and felt the wonderful warming in her heart that came every time she looked at them. They were worth it all.
But that bastard father of theirs—Teddy’s countenance changed like the shadows on the moon, from a loving smile to a simmering scowl. Well, no he wasn’t a bastard. Word had come from Felicity’s London correspondent that Marc André Rhys Delmar hadn’t been born on the wrong side of the blanket after all. He was the legitimate son of a cantankerous old earl who had not seen fit to acknowledge his heir while he lived.
Additionally, Rhys had been the victim of a plot by a rapscallion nephew of Knox’s, a degenerate, if Felicity’s friend was to be believed. Avery Knox had engineered the plots to have Rhys falsely accused of murder. And hanged. Knox was getting what was coming to him now. As was the unprincipled Derby Seward.
Rhys wasn’t on the wrong side of the law any longer either. After months of legal finagling he had been cleared of the murder charge in London and subsequently, through his new attorney in the Arizona territory, of the charge in Wishbone. All this had evidently been fodder for the London papers, for Felicity’s correspondent, who had been tardy in replying to their original request about Rhys, now took delight in posting clipping after clipping to keep them informed of the events. The last letter and batch of clippings had declared Rhys Delmar sole heir to the sizable fortune of old Andrew Knox. An earl.
***
Teddy didn’t care if Rhys was an earl or an eel. He had left her. Left her and the babies. And there hadn’t been a word from him since. After all that high and mighty talk about wanting his child to have a name, he hadn’t even written to ask if he had a son or a daughter.
She supposed she was indebted to him. He’d saved the Gamble Line for her. With Adams gone, the holdups had ceased and the company had flourished. She was nearly out of debt and the contracts she depended on were secure. What’s more, Cabe Northrop had been beside himself for not believing what she had told him about Adams. Cabe had a lot to make up to her and he was doing his damndest to see she got Wells Fargo’s full cooperation on every endeavor.
Yes. She owed Rhys for all that. She wasn’t forgetting, either, that he’d saved her life a time or two. And he’d given her his shares free and clear before he left. Except for the thousand dollars he’d taken. But then, that wouldn’t have bought a good team of horses.
One of the babies stirred and made a sweet little sound that brought the smile back to Teddy’s lips. Rhys had given her little Marc and Dora, too. Much as she wanted to, she couldn’t hate the man who had given her the most precious of gifts.
When the baby quieted Teddy rose and walked to the window once more. She was restless and she blamed the moon. Yes. She admitted it all. She owed Rhys Delmar.
But if she ever saw him again he’d best have a good fast horse to get out of her way.
***
Alain Perrault had brought order to Lord Sumner’s neglected estate, purchasing stock for the empty stables, hiring good men to get the fields cleared for the next planting. Even the massive old manor house had begun to shake off the look of an overgrown ruin.
Everything was coming to top-notch shape except the lord of the manor.
“You’ve no head for being an earl.” Alain, broad-shouldered and lean-hipped and as handsome of feature as Rhys Delmar, spoke to his childhood friend.
“Luck is mine that you have served as overseer on an estate nearly as large as this one,” Rhys replied. “I doubt I could manage it any better than did Andrew Knox in his final years.”
“Not when your mind is ever on the wilderness and that hellion bride you left behind.”
“Teddy Gamble didn’t want a husband.” He turned away from Alain and strode across the marble floor of a room with an arched ceiling that rose thirty feet above his head. He didn’t want Alain to see the disappointment in his eyes. Any other man in his place would be happy beyond measure. As he should be. All his life he had dreamed of being master of an estate such a
s now was his. One who has been a servant has such dreams. But now that all the wealth he could aspire to was his, he’d trade it all for what he’d left behind in Arizona. Teddy. And his babies.
Mae Sprayberry had written about the babies. A boy and a girl. His and Teddy’s. Fine and feisty. Like their mother. Not a word from Teddy. But he’d understood. She’d made her one and only concession to him when she’d agreed to take his name.
***
“She might have changed her mind,” Alain suggested.
Rhys shook his head. He’d never meant to stay away, but at first he had not been free to leave, not until the magistrates had taken their merry time to clear his name. Then there had been the matter of the inheritance to be settled. Another month had passed. Then another. And he’d been afraid of going back and finding all he’d get from Teddy would be a quick invitation to leave Wishbone.
Restless, Rhys walked out into one of the gardens Alain was in the process of restoring. The night was clear and overhead the moon was red as blood. He hadn’t seen a moon like that since the night after he and Teddy had gotten away from Taviz.
It was the night he had known with certainty she would always have his heart. Damn her!
***
The stage rumbled into Wishbone throwing up a wake of dust that hovered in the still, hot air what seemed an unnaturally long time.
Teddy Gamble, in fringed buckskins and wearing a silver and turquoise band around her throat, came out to meet it. “How was the run, Curly?” she called to the new driver.
“Smooth as glass, Teddy,” he said and tipped his white Stetson to her. “Got a passenger for you. Says he’s been real anxious to get here.”
Smiling, Teddy swung open the door of the coach. “Welcome, strang—”
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