by Shirl Henke
His smile had melted her bones then. “I really don’t know what to make of you, Olivia. You’re like no other woman I’ve ever met.”
“At least that is a start. Perhaps you’ll find me full of even more surprises...and I you...” She had let the last sentence hang in the air, a question unanswered, perhaps unanswerable, as they walked sedately back to the house.
Would he call on her? In the clear light of day, Olivia realized he had made no promise. She would simply have to wait and see what happened.
At the opposite end of the river bluff a lone rider made his way uphill toward the deserted racetrack for a secret rendezvous. Reining in his rangy dun gelding, Stuart Pardee surveyed the open meadow from the cover of a dense patch of scrub oak growing on the hillside. His rawboned hands held the reins loosely as he slouched in the saddle. Tall and gauntly thin, his body gave the impression that its various parts did not fit together as a unified whole, misleading the casual observer to think him clumsy and ineffectual. He was anything but.
Pale, colorless eyes, set deep in his pockmarked face, scanned the horizon with predatory efficiency. Running one big hand over his thatch of heavy tan hair, he caught sight of his target. A slow smile slashed his wide mouth revealing a set of large yellow teeth. Pardee kicked the dun into a canter, skirting the edge of the woods, headed toward their usual meeting place.
The small black phaeton pulled up in front of the rider. “You racing today?” Emory Wescott inquired, noting the light saddle on Pardee’s mount.
“Thought I might try my luck. The track’ll be slow from last night’s rain,” Pardee replied in the heavy Yorkshire accent he had never lost in spite of emigrating to Canada at the tender age of fourteen. He leaned forward resting his forearm across the saddle horn and spit a wad of blackened tobacco juice near one polished carriage wheel. “The whiskey here yet?”
“It takes a while. Smuggling sixty barrels up the Mississippi without attracting notice isn’t easy,” Wescott replied tightly.
“Thought the bloke had a hidden compartment in the bottom of his keelboat,” Pardee said.
Although the morning air was clear and cool, Wescott felt a fine beading of perspiration forming on his forehead. “There are such matters as bad weather, changing channels in the river, hostile Southern tribes, all manner of things to cause delay.”
“Hell with your bloody delays. I need that shipment before I head upriver. The Osage will be breaking winter camp in a few weeks. It’s easier to deal with them before they scatter to the west for the spring hunt.”
“You might easier convince the young malcontents to ally with the British once they are out of the villages and away from the old men.”
“You don’t know a bloody thing about savages, Wescott. They don’t work that way. I plan to speak before their tribal elders and the two great chiefs. If I can win them over, it’ll mean more than five thousand Big and Little Osage breaking their treaty with the Americans and joining His Majesty’s government.”
“There’s another matter you’d better consider as well. My contacts in the capital advise me a presidential agent from Washington just arrived in St. Louis.” Wescott watched with self-importance as the arrogant Englishman digested that unsettling bit of information.
“Who is he?”
“Name’s Shelby. A colonel in the army, ostensibly assigned to the Bellefontaine Cantonment. His real mission is to find you.”
Pardee’s pale eyes flashed with scornful amusement. “And you, I dare say. It’ll be easy enough to kill him,” he added, enjoying watching Wescott’ s face redden.
“No.” The flat pronouncement surprised the Englishman. Pleased to have his undivided attention, Wescott elaborated. “Shelby will be a deal more useful to us alive...if we can learn what he is about and keep one step ahead of him and those bungling Republicans in Madison’s administration.”
“How are you going to accomplish that?”
Pardee’s interest was piqued and Wescott relished the sense of power it gave him. Smiling in satisfaction, he replied, “I have my plans, Stuart, I have my plans, never you fear. Only remember that I have served your king quite effectively and will continue to do so after the war comes. I am on Britain’s side.”
Pardee laughed mirthlessly. “You ain’t on nobody’s side but yer own, my good man. You’d sell yer own sister—or that fire-haired ward of yours—if the price was right. You just remember I hold your gold until you bring me the whiskey. I’ll keep an eye on your soldier boy, too, never fear.” He started to ride past the carriage, then reined in right beside the cab and leaned over the dun’s neck, patting him.
“Wouldn’t want to make a little wager on who wins today’s race, would you...say the price of that shipment?”
“My horses are one business. Trade with you is another. I make it a policy never to mix the two,” Wescott answered stiffly. Damn, he hated the way the English bastard made him sweat! It would serve Pardee right if he switched sides and turned him in to Shelby. Then, again, he might get an early installment on that British gold. “On second consideration, perhaps we might arrange a small wager...”
Eyes hooded, Pardee again slouched over his saddle. “How much?”
* * * *
The crowd that gathered on the bluffs for the race reflected the motley composition of the city below. Barrel-chested, banty-legged French-Canadian voyageurs in ragged buckskins drank and laughed animatedly. A fair-haired, pale-skinned Kaintuck towered over them, with his Pennsylvania long rifle slung loosely in the crook of his arm as he lobbed a noisome wad of tobacco onto the muddy earth. Two sharp Yankee lawyers sweating in black suits stood gawking, looking dull as crows. A gaggle of jovial, florid-faced German merchants loudly exchanged bets on the local favorites with smiling, dark-eyed Italian wine growers. Swarthy Spaniards and elegant Creole families held themselves aloof from half-naked Osage, Kickapoo and Sioux Indians who wandered about.
A handful of slaves stood deferentially in the background as their owners made wagers. Ladies fanned themselves against the rising warmth of the day and exchanged gossip about the previous night’s social event. A babble of French, Spanish, English and a smattering of Indian dialects all intermixed in accents crude and cultivated. On a race day, the cream of St. Louis society mingled with the roughest elements from the riverfront and the wildest denizens of the backcountry.
Samuel surveyed the crowd from the vantage point of his big roan stallion, his eyes scanning for anyone who looked suspicious.
Elise Shelby Quinn sat beside him on a dainty white mare, her eyes fixed on her husband as she recalled the first time she had seen Santiago Quinn race at this very track six years earlier. How splendidly their lives had turned out after that. And how tragically unhappy her brother’s personal life had become. Elise had instinctively disliked Leticia Soames from the moment she had met the Virginia belle, but by then Samuel had already wed her.
Over the past four years she had read between the lines of his none too frequent letters. Now that they were together she had observed firsthand his dissatisfaction with his marriage. It did not take her skill as a former presidential agent to know that her brother was unhappy, yet Elise had been shocked and saddened when he told her about the divorce. What must he have endured to be forced into such a drastic decision?
She longed to give comfort but was loath to pry. “Samuel, I know how I felt when you asked me about Edouard...” she began tentatively, “and I’ll understand if you don’t wish to talk about it, but I thought perhaps since I survived the failure of a disastrous first marriage, I might be a good listener.”
“I guess it was rather a bombshell yesterday, wasn’t it?” he replied. “I didn’t mean to spring it on you, but I’ve been preoccupied with this assignment. Tish and my life back east are behind me now
Elise watched a haunted expression pass fleetingly across his face, then vanish, replaced by the smiling cynical harshness that had become second nature to him in the past four years. “Oh, Samue
l, what has become of the earnest young idealist you used to be? You had such faith in life, such joy in it.”
“Did I? It seems so long ago, I don’t remember,” he said absently.
“I remember a brave and foolhardy younger brother who risked his life to free me from Edouard.”
“Be happy, Liza. At least one member of the Shelby clan deserves a good marriage. Lord knows Elkhanah never had one and neither have I.”
“Father’s case was different. He and Maman had been wed for sixteen years with two children when she left him. You’ve yet to see your thirtieth year and have no children with Tish.”
“No, she never ‘burdened’ me with children,” he said bitterly. “She didn’t want the encumbrance. Being enceinte would’ve interfered with her political ambitions.”
Elise blanched as she watched his jaw clench. The roan shied nervously when his hands inadvertently tightened on the reins. She reached out and placed her hand on his. “I remember how bleak things once appeared for me. Someday this will change for you, too. There will be a woman—”
“No, Liza, at least not the way you mean. I’ll never marry again.” There was a flat finality in his voice.
“I said the same thing once, and I did not even bother with a divorce. Only wait and see what life has in store, little brother.”
A smile softened his features as he turned toward her. “As I’ve often reminded you since we were children, Liza, I may be younger than you but I am not smaller.”
She returned his smile, then caught sight of Emory Wescott. “That odious New England merchant seems intent on making his way up the hill to us.” Dressed in expensive black wool worsted, he looked formidable, even afoot. “I wonder what he. wants.”
“We’ll find out shortly. Why do you dislike him?” Samuel eyed her curiously, always trusting her keen insights.
“Call it feminine intuition or my credence to some vague rumors about how he makes his living.”
“I thought he was a trader in mercantile goods between here and the Eastern seaboard.”
“He is that and also dabbles in breeding and racing horses, but none of his ventures seem sufficient to explain his wealth.”
“How do the rumors explain it?” Shelby’s interest was piqued, not only because of his mission but also because of Wescott’ s ward. The thought annoyed him.
“I heard it mentioned that he was originally from Maine and the New England states are in the British hip pocket when it comes to trade. I haven’t lived here long enough to learn anything more. I merely dislike him...because I dislike him.”
Samuel stroked his jaw consideringly. “He might actually be my link to the Englishman, that agent stirring up the tribes in the area.” Abruptly he shifted his focus, asking, “Do you know anything about his ward, the French girl?”
In spite of the casual way he asked the question, Elise picked up the subtle nuance of change in his voice. “That striking young redhead? No, but she’s quite breathtaking. I seem to recall that you danced with her last evening.” Elise turned her attention from the puffing Wescott back to Samuel.
“She was rather bold about approaching me. Asked me to dance, as a matter of fact.” His face actually reddened an imperceptible bit beneath his tan, something he knew his sister would note. He would not arm her for matchmaking by explaining his earlier encounters with Olivia St. Etienne.
“I’ve not had the opportunity to meet her yet but I’m certain I will once we get settled in our house here. The children are a bit homesick but I think a few months a year out of New Mexico won’t hurt them.”
“You want them reared under the American flag, don’t deny it,” Samuel only half teased.
Elise sniffed dismissively. “Here comes Mr. Wescott. Shall I inquire after your redhead or will you?”
“She’s not my redhead, only a pretty bit of fluff with whom I shared a dance.” Liar.
“Good morning to you, Mrs. Quinn, Colonel,” Emory Wescott said as they walked their horses down the long incline toward him.
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of an introduction,” Samuel said as he dismounted and then assisted his sister from her mare.
“Samuel, this is Mr. Emory Wescott, one of St. Louis’s leading merchants. Mr. Wescott, my brother, Samuel Sheridan Shelby.” As Elise made introductions, the two men shook hands and took each other’s measure. Wescott was barrel-chested and powerfully built but going to fat around the middle, still a formidable man in a free-for-all, Shelby guessed, meeting those cold gray eyes and reading utter ruthlessness in their icy depths.
Superficially Wescott was all joviality. “I am a merchant, but today I’m wearing my horse trader’s hat, so to speak. Admired that blue roan of yours as soon as I spotted it from across the track. Looks to be a fast ‘un. Unusual color, too. How much would you take for him?”
“He isn’t for sale. I just crossed half the continent with him. A soldier needs a reliable mount.”
“I’d give you five hundred in gold for him.”
In spite of Wescott’ s offer, which was generous in the extreme, Samuel knew that their encounter was not about a horse. What was Wescott after? Had he perhaps found’ out about his relationship with Olivia? Not likely, else he would’ve come after me with a shotgun and a preacher. Still there was something about Emory Wescott that did not ring true. Liza had felt it at once and he agreed with her intuition.
“The offer is generous, but I’m afraid I must decline,” he said with a shrug. When the New Englander nodded in acceptance, Samuel knew he was little bothered by the refusal.
Wescott turned to Elise and said, “I understand your husband’s blood bay is running today. Now there’s another horse I’d dearly love to own—or his sire.”
“Red Hand and True Blood are my husband’s finest horses. He’ll never part with either, as he’s already told you.”
“I have a fine sorrel running this morning. Fast young mare, Gypsy Lady.”
“Is that boy riding for you again?” Elise asked. “He’s quite a horseman. Even my husband, who learned to ride among the Apaches, says he’s remarkable.”
“And the lad’s small frame makes him damned hard to beat on that fleet little mare. Care to make a wager on your brother-in-law’s horse, Colonel Shelby?”
“How could I refuse, especially since I’m going into business with him?” Samuel watched Wescott’s reaction to that piece of news which was not generally known as yet.
“Are you now?” Wescott nodded, only superficially interested. “I still want the roan and my sorrel is prime horseflesh. What if we wager them? If Red Hand finishes ahead of Gypsy Lady, I forfeit her, but if Gypsy beats the bay, you forfeit your roan.” He waited, hands across his brocade waistcoat, rocking back on the heels of his expensive Hessian boots.
Cocky bastard. “Does Gypsy Lady always win?” he asked his sister.
She shrugged. “She’s never been beaten, but she’s never run against Red Hand either.”
Samuel turned back to the older man. “How can I be disloyal to my sister?”
Elise interjected, “Samuel, don’t risk your new mount.”
Brother and sister exchanged brief glances, enough for her to understand what he was about. She made no further protest when he said, “You have your wager, Mr. Wescott.”
Chapter Six
"Look, Samuel, the contestants are getting ready. Let’s move closer so we can watch the start," Elise said as nearly a dozen horsemen lined up behind a marker sunk into the mud.
“The rain last night really made a mess of the course,” Samuel said as they wended their way down the hillside and into the crowd where Wescott had disappeared when he left them.
“You’ll get used to Missouri weather. It’s ever changeable. If you don’t like it, only wait for a moment,” Elise said, dimpling.
“It’ll be a slow track today. That should work to the advantage of a big strong brute like Red Hand.”
“You mean you hope so, else you lose your
stallion,” she replied with a cheeky grin, but then her expression turned serious. “You want to know what he’s really after, don’t you?”
“He didn’t simply want my horse.”
“Maybe he saw you dancing with his ward last night and wanted to see if you’re a proper suitor.”
Samuel gave her a baleful look. “I’m no woman’s suitor, Liza. Just remember that.” He began to scan the crowd for Wescott. “Keep your ears attuned for British accents,” he murmured as they wended their way through a babel of languages all being spoken at once.
“I’ve heard several already but I’m sure none of them is your quarry,” she replied.
“I didn’t think it would be easy,” Samuel replied glumly. “Best I watch who our friend Wescott approaches.”
“Samuel, I’d like to get a better view of the race, away from the crowd. See that stand of oaks?”
He followed her finger across the wide plain to a timbered area. “You mean around those sink ponds?”
“Yes. The racecourse turns there and I know a cut through where we can see the riders coming around the bend into the homestretch. That’s where Santiago will let Red Hand go, after the others are winded.”
He grinned at her. “You mean you hope he will.”
She kneed her mare ahead, calling over her shoulder, “You mean he’d better or you’ll be walking home!”
As they made their way through the crowd, Samuel sized up the horses and riders at the starting line. They were a motley group, as international as the city itself. A dandified Creole gentleman from New Orleans sat a smart looking chestnut mare. Next to him a buckskin clad Kaintuck struggled to keep a piebald with rolling eyes under control. Santiago Quinn’s blood bay was to Samuel’s way of thinking the finest looking piece of horseflesh in the race, but a gaunt, rawboned man’s tough, rangy dun looked as if it might be a stayer on such a long course over muddy ground.