Lake of Fire

by Linda Jacobs

  Constance shook her head, declining the harsh filterless tobacco. “Laura knew.”

  Norman nodded. “He would have told her.”

  The last of her sobs turned into a hiccup.

  “You look like a drowned rat.” Norman threw down his cigarette and pressed it into the soft earth with his boot heel.

  Constance felt tears start again, and she wiped her face with the backs of her hands. She’d imagined Norman found her desirable.

  He burst out laughing, a big merry sound that seemed to bounce back and forth between the tree trunks. Kneeling before her, his eyes were kind. “I was laughing because you have managed to get mud all over your pretty face.”

  He drew a silk square from the breast pocket of his jacket and scrubbed her cheeks. Taking her dripping hair into his hands, he squeezed the water from it. “I can safely say I have never wrung out a woman’s hair.”

  She smiled through her tears.

  “Come on.” He offered to help her to her feet.

  Extending her hand, Constance realized she still held the ring. “I don’t need this.”

  Norman plucked it from her palm. “When I first met you in St. Paul, I thought perhaps you and I …” He used his pocket square to clean the stone. Then he bowed and handed back the ring.

  Constance took it, but her gaze was on Norman’s face. “You thought …”

  “Let’s discuss that later,” he said. “Now, I think you should get cleaned up and let me take you in to lunch.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  JUNE 28

  When the rain subsided to isolated drops and dripping off the eaves, Laura left her room where she’d barricaded herself. Wearing one of Aunt Fanny’s shawls over emerald silk, she made her way downstairs, past the dining room occupied by the last luncheon stragglers, and into the dim east hall to Room 109. Without hesitation, she rapped. Cord had to believe she hadn’t been the one to tell Hank. She’d explain how she went to the meeting because she promised her father, never intending to say anything to undermine Cord’s cause. To prove it, she’d tell her father about them, that she’d chosen her man and it wasn’t Hank Falls.

  She knocked again. “Cord! If you’re in there, open up!”

  All was silent, within and without. It was the time of day when guests had checked out and their replacements weren’t due until the cocktail hour.

  She pounded with her fist. Beneath her assault, the portal swung open.

  The bed was made. There was no sign of Cord’s saddlebags on the luggage stand. The top of the bureau was clear.

  Laura advanced into the room and found nothing in the drawers or on the windowsill.

  But wait. Peeking from beneath the bedspread was the sparkle of black glass: Cord’s obsidian, the guardian spirit without which he might be open to harm.

  “Miss?”

  She jumped at the tentative voice from the hall. “Miss, if you’re looking for the man who was in this room …”

  “Yes.”

  “He checked out a little while ago.”

  The young man from the desk held the door and gestured for her to come out. She hesitated, then bent to grab the stone.

  “What’s that?” he asked in a suspicious tone.

  She closed her hand over it. “Just something Mr. Sutton would want. I’ll hold it for him.”

  He shook his head and held out his hand. “Everything that’s left in a room is given to Mr. Falls. His strict orders.”

  Laura’s fingers clenched. The stone warmed, as did her courage.

  “It’s just an old piece of rock.” She opened her hand so the young man could see and closed it.

  She turned toward the door and almost bumped into Captain Feddors’s stocky chest.

  “Here,” he said. “Let’s see this rock Sutton has left behind.”

  On instinct, she clenched her fist and thrust her hand behind her back.

  Feddors laughed. “You dare to defy me? A’hm the law and ah say to show me what you’ve got.”

  Laura looked up and down the hall, but there was no one. Of course, if there had been, what guest or employee would help her defy the ranking officer in the park? Yet, feeling the stone in her hand almost glowing, she was loath to part with it.

  “What do you care about a rock?”

  “Nothing. But when a rock becomes someone’s magic, someone ah despise, then ah’d best take that magic away from him.”

  Laura recoiled. How could Feddors know she held Cord’s connection to the spirit world?

  The captain took her arm, using his fingers like pincers. Her hand opened, and the obsidian dropped to the boards.

  He scooped it up. “Lots of Injuns use this kind of stone to ward off evil.”

  His laugh followed Laura as she hurried down the long hall and out into the gray afternoon. Within a few yards, she regretted the gown and thin black satin slippers. The smooth soles slipped in the mud, and the hem of the dress dragged over wet roots on the path. Droplets fell from the trees, making a soft sound where they landed on pine needles. When the wind picked up, they showered down, wetting her face and hair, and spotting her silk skirt.

  Nonetheless, she pressed on toward the stables.

  Cord had to be here. He couldn’t have packed his saddlebags and be gone already.

  To save time, she left the path beside the lake and cut through the meadow. Soon her skirts were soaked above the knee from the long grass and thigh-high sage. As the wet aroma rose, it reminded her of the morning she’d fought her way out of the Snake River.

  Yes, this land was wild and filled with dangers. But she didn’t want to go back to Chicago. She wanted to find Cord and stay with him, to see his ranch.

  She reached the stable and pulled open the door.

  “Cord!”

  The door at the opposite end of the stable was closed, the tackies evidently having taken shelter elsewhere during the storm. The interior was darker than it had been the morning she’d come to visit Dante and seen Constance slide her arms around Cord. Strange, how that no longer mattered.

  “Is anybody here?”

  No human voice replied, but a dozen large heads poked out over the stall gates. The horses nickered for an apple or oats.

  Dante did not appear.

  Laura walked the length of the barn, in case he’d been moved to another stall. She paused to stroke White Bird’s nose, then carried on. When she reached the far end, she was forced to admit that both Cord and his horse were gone.

  How could he have ridden away without finishing what he’d called their “conversation”? More a shouting match, but if someone cared enough to shout, they should care too much to walk—ride—away.

  Laura went back to White Bird and examined the whip cut on the mare’s cheek. “You’ve been hurt, too, girl. I’d take you home with me if I could.”

  With a last pat on the soft nose, Laura left the stable.

  On the way back, she crossed the meadow on a path that ended at the hotel staging area for wagons and coaches. Parties were arriving back early, no doubt having skipped some sights during the rain.

  Laura passed the carefree tourists on her way to the infirmary. She should be sorry for yelling at her father this morning since he was an invalid, but she wasn’t willing to accept any part of the blame for his business troubles. If he’d let her come into the bank years ago, it might have been different, but expecting her to marry the right man to keep him tied to the company while she continued to manage the household … why, if she had married one of Father’s choices, he’d have managed to maneuver her husband into living at Fielding House.

  If … when he recovered, he’d have to hire somebody to take care of things in Chicago, because she was going to find Cord, no matter what it took.

  Dr. Upshur reported Forrest was just dropping off into a good sleep, the first healthful and natural rest he’d had since the drugs used for surgery had worn off. The doctor had checked the dressing over his wound a few minutes ago and found it clean, with
no sign of pus or infection.

  “In fact, he’s doing so well he’ll be able to travel in two or three days,” Dr. Upshur went on. “Provided his business here is complete.”

  “It’s complete, all right,” said Hank from behind Laura. “Hopkins Chandler is leaving in a hired hack before dark so as to overnight at the National Hotel at Mammoth. That way he can catch the morning stage to the train up at Cinnabar.”

  Dr. Upshur moved away discreetly and went into another patient room. In her present mood, Laura felt like telling Hank it was fitting the railroad wouldn’t sell to him, either. Disloyal as it might be to her father, she wished Cord might have won.

  She glanced at her father’s door. “Does he know?”

  “Not unless you told him.”

  She shook her head. “And I shan’t tell him now. The doctor says he must rest.”

  Hank jerked his head toward the outer door. “Shall we go, then?”

  Once they were outside, she tried walking fast toward the hotel to get away. Hank kept pace with her.

  Realizing she would have to be more direct, she stopped. “You know your brother probably shot my father.”

  Hank matched her stare for stare. “You know your lover is the best candidate to have popped him with a little pepperbox or the like.”

  “He never …” Then, because Cord’s leaving stung, “He’s not my lover.”

  Hank smiled. “I am most gratified to hear you say that, whether or not it is true. As he has ridden out of both our lives, you must join me for supper aboard the Alexandra. Not the victory celebration I had hoped for, but perhaps we can console one another.”

  The last thing she wanted.

  But there were too many mysteries. Had Danny shot her father? Was it coincidence that he’d attacked her coach in Jackson’s Hole? Why did Cord’s banker seem to be in cahoots with a criminal?

  If Hank were Danny’s brother, he must have some of the answers.

  And though she shouldn’t care about helping Cord, she suddenly decided to trick Hank into helping her get his obsidian back from Captain Feddors. With its uncanny quality of heat, it might bring her some kind of luck …

  If nothing else, it would be something to remember him by.

  By early evening, the lake was still unsettled from the storm. Quick waves licked the Alexandra’s hull, as Hank led Laura onboard.

  She’d changed from the water-spotted green silk, eschewing the pink dress with lace and the striped taffeta in favor of a plain serge skirt and white shirtwaist. Hair pulled up in a tortoiseshell clasp, no toilet water or cologne. She might plan to enlist Hank’s aid, but one thing she did not intend was to inflame his senses.

  Leaning against the railing, he looked at her with intent dark eyes, his blond hair stirring in the breeze. The sun, which had emerged around four o’clock, peeked from beneath a bank of clouds on the far shore of Yellowstone Lake. High in the Absarokas, the smoke of the wildfire they’d all been watching had grown to a plume that billowed into the evening sky like cumulus.

  “Shouldn’t the storm have put that fire out?” Laura asked.

  “This afternoon’s rain probably passed it by … or it burns with such fury that a short dousing could not extinguish it. Ever seen a forest fire up close?” Hank used his hands to pantomime leaping flames.

  “Sometimes in Illinois grass fires creep for miles, but I’ve never seen anything big.”

  “Pity,” Hank murmured, close to her ear. “I have found that so much fire can be frightening … and beautiful.”

  Laura tried to imagine the torrent of heat and sound, sweeping through the forest.

  “I heard that the fire lookout reported new smoke late this afternoon.” He pointed to the northeast. “Near Nez Perce Peak.”

  “Nez Perce?”

  “A big ugly mountain, treacherous climbing … story is, at least part of the tribe camped in a high valley there on their way through in 1877. This was after they shot a white man named George Cowan, kidnapped a tourist party, and traded some worn-out nags to them in exchange for their fresh horses.” Laura suppressed a retort.

  His hand tightened on her arm. “Let me show you my modest little berth.”

  He took her in through the spare-looking passenger cabin and opened the ornate door to his quarters. From the gold-threaded embroidered pillows on the carved divan, to the striped burgundy armchair, fine silks and brocades dominated. She recognized the carpet as a Persian Heriz, a complex pattern of reds and blues that radiated outward from a central diamond.

  She looked further and flushed. Behind a Chinese screen ornamented with a cavorting dragon and the Great Wall, stretched a wide bed covered in sleek black satin.

  “Like it?” Hank asked with pride.

  Laura dragged her focus away from his “modest berth” and swallowed. “It’s not what I expected. Not what a woman would select.”

  “Alexandra did a wonderful job of decorating for a man.”

  “A single man.” Laura emphasized the second word. “I suspect you make a habit of entertaining women who are passing through.”

  Hank went to the Chinese bronze oil lamps one by one, trimming the wicks with care, rehanging them on their brass hooks, and lighting them. Sandalwood incense wafted on the cooling air.

  Footsteps on deck preceded a knock.

  “Our dinner,” Hank said.

  The waiter looked familiar, the young man on whom Cord had spilled salad in the hotel kitchen. Working efficiently, he put out covered plates.

  She turned toward the open window framed in velvet and watched the lake darken. When Hank closed the door behind the waiter, she heard a click.

  A moment later, the pop of a champagne cork was followed by a faint effervescent fizz.

  Handing Laura a crystal flute, Hank clinked his glass against hers. She swirled the champagne in her mouth and turned the bottle in its silver bucket of ice. “Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin,” the label informed, “since 1772.”

  “I’ve noticed the cutthroat trout is your favorite,” Hank said.

  She recalled him trying to cut Cord’s throat in the meeting this morning. “You’re very sharp, Hank.”

  How and when could she steer the conversation toward Danny … or Cord’s wayakin? She’d have to be careful, say she wanted it for herself.

  Hank lifted the silver cover from a serving platter. A whole trout lay in a white wine sauce with wild mushrooms and shallots. Beneath the fish, a bed of rice was tinged yellow with expensive saffron. Alongside appeared another delicacy, tinned white asparagus.

  Hank pulled out a chair for her. She sat slowly, reluctance in her limbs.

  He served the trout onto china that was clearly finer than the hotel’s best. The nearly translucent porcelain was tinted lavender, hand painted with tiny purplish forget-me-nots. Even with the masculine appearance of the room, Laura recalled Alexandra’s penchant for purple and thought she’d indulged her own taste in the china.

  Laura touched the gold rim, and Hank smiled. She reached for her fork and tasted the trout. “This is lovely, Hank,” she murmured, looking at Limoges.

  “Not half so lovely as you.”

  Laura hid a grimace. Any other time or place, she would have appreciated the china and the dinner.

  With her fork halfway to her mouth, she said, “You know, it’s the strangest thing. This afternoon, I was in the hotel hallway and one of the staff found something left behind in Cord Sutton’s room …”

  Hank pushed back his chair and came to her, drawing her up.

  “It was a piece of obsidian, really beautiful …” Speaking lightly, Laura tried to pull away.

  He shifted his hands, sliding them up to hold her shoulders hard enough to assert his claim. “I know we should finish dinner,” he pulled her closer, “but I seem to have lost my appetite.”

  “Hank.” For the moment, she gave up on the obsidian. “I’ve never given you any ideas.” She tried to maintain a reasonable tone.

  With a suddenness that sho
cked her, his lips mashed hers. His tongue twisted against her teeth, as he tried to insinuate it inside her mouth.

  She pulled away and he lost his hold. “Hank, no.”

  He was big enough to do whatever he wanted to her.

  Dragging her back into his arms, he pleaded, “Laura, let me show you how it can be for us.” He bent to kiss the place where the high collar of her blouse met bare skin, then loosened the clasp that bound her hair.

  So much for her plans of managing him into answering questions. “You know I don’t want this.”

  Gripping her shoulders, he propelled her toward the Chinese screen and the black-covered bed.

  She shoved his hands away. “I said, no!” The cabin door looked far away. “I’m leaving.”

  “Stay,” Hank whispered. He took her glass and set it with his on the table beside the bed. His breath came fast against her ear. “Since the first night I saw you,” he whispered hoarsely, “even in men’s clothes …”

  “Let me go!”

  She pushed at him, hard. He overpowered her and threw her onto her back on the bed. Her breath whooshed out.

  Hank straddled her. His hungry eyes took in her mussed hair and her breasts beneath the blouse’s soft white ruffles.

  Up until this, she’d thought he was enough of a gentleman to heed her refusal. Now, he appeared wild in the lamplight, his blond hair in disarray …

  He looked like his brother.

  Tugging at her blouse, he scattered pearl buttons, then tore at the delicate ribbons of her camisole. The silk ripped.

  “I saw you come out of the barn with Cord this morning,” Hank said thickly, “with straw in your beautiful hair.”

  Forrest had been no fool, saying what a prize his daughter would be.

  Hank’s blood surged, as he pressed Laura down on his bed. Though she struggled beneath him, he clamped his thighs more tightly. She might pretend not to want it, but he’d seen how the morning light illuminated the flush of a woman who’d been more than satisfied.

  Tonight, it was his turn.

  He folded back the silk and exposed her delicate breast. The sight set Hank to comparing her with other women he’d had. Those conquests, delightful as they had been, paled in comparison to the exquisite challenge of Laura Fielding. She produced a heat that exceeded any he’d felt before. No matter whether she wore her boy’s clothing, emerald silk, or this evening’s plain skirt and shirtwaist … if she danced divinely in his arms or raised her arms willingly to another man, he had to make her his.