by Shirl Henke
The way Wescott saw it, allying himself with the British in the conflict was his hedge against the future. Whether the English army could invade New Orleans and march all the way up the Mississippi Valley to unite with British forces in Canada was problematic. If such could be accomplished, excellent, but even if the British failed to take the big river, they would certainly defeat the puny American forces on the Gulf and hold the key port city of New Orleans, thus placing a stranglehold on America’s western commerce. Then men of vision like him would become the arbiters of trade and he would grow rich as Croesus.
But that eventuality might take several years. In the meanwhile, he was alarmingly short of cash and in need of proving his good faith to his British allies, namely Stuart Pardee, the distasteful lummox. Where were those damned guns and whiskey for Pardee’ s savages?
As he sat drumming his fingers impatiently on the polished mahogany surface of the table, the butler entered with a missive. Bowing perfunctorily, the dignified black man handed it to his master, then stood quietly as it was read, waiting to see if a reply would need to be delivered.
A slow smile splayed across Wescott’s jowly countenance. He had sent word to his agents in New Orleans, hoping to locate his runaway ward through the uncle who had disowned her scapegrace family. This was interesting news from that quarter, indeed.
The troublesome chit had vanished without a trace, leaving him with the unpleasant prospect of facing Samuel Shelby upon his return to St. Louis, but Shelby had not to date come back. Perhaps he had perished in the wilderness at the hands of savages—or Pardee. But no, Pardee had agreed it would be better to keep Shelby alive and use Olivia as a conduit for information about American plans on the frontier. He had, in fact, sent word to the Englishman regarding his ward’s most untimely disappearance and offered a handsome reward for her return. Once war broke out, Olivia would be especially valuable to both of them.
Now it appeared she was even more valuable than Wescott had ever imagined. He skimmed the message again, then dismissed the butler and sat back to consider his next move. Charles Durand, the not so dearly beloved uncle in New Orleans, was dead without any direct heirs. His only existing blood kin was his sister’s child, Olivia Patrice St. Etienne.
Charles Durand had been a fantastically wealthy man. He had, it seemed, somehow managed to abscond from France with a sizable portion of the Bourbon family’s personal wealth and set himself up in exile, living the high life in the Creole backwater of New Orleans, awaiting the overthrow of that upstart Napoleon and the restoration of the rightful Bourbon monarchy. In the meanwhile, he had invested the wealth and multiplied it several times over.
“A pity he didn’t live to see his dreams come true,” Wescott said mockingly to himself.
Now the fortune was Olivia’s. And he, as her legal guardian, meant to have it. The first matter at hand was to locate the girl, no mean feat since she had obviously not gone to her uncle. If she had not headed south on the river, she must for some reason have headed in the opposite direction. In anticipation of that, he had dispatched agents to check the few settlements on the Missouri and upper Mississippi for a boy matching Ollie’s description, as well as notifying Pardee. Sooner or later someone would run her to ground. Stuart Pardee would not act so high and mighty around Emory Wescott once he had the Durand fortune within his grasp.
He stood up and headed to his library. It was time to send another inquiry upriver regarding Olivia’s whereabouts. Since he had a vested interest in her return, perhaps Pardee had already located the chit. No need to tell the Englishman their plan had now been altered.
* * * *
Stuart Pardee sat outside the Ste. Francoise trading post surveying the sunset. Small and rude as the little mission stockade was, it afforded some few amenities of civilization. Founded by French Jesuits in the last century, the post was austere and small, but at least he had slept for a few nights on a bed with a roof over his head, albeit the bed was a narrow corn husk mattress and the roof a crude log shelter.
He was heartily sick of smoky Indian lodges, greasy stews made of wild game and pot puppies and the everlasting quest to keep his majesty’s childlike, undisciplined allies loyal, such loyalty being purchased with old muskets and new whiskey. Since Ste. Francoise was on the river, mail boats arrived at odd intervals, keeping him in touch with Wescott in St. Louis. He detested having to report his failure to locate that fire-haired ward of Wescott’ s, but he was beginning to doubt that she had ever come upriver unless she was with one of the trading parties enroute to the headwaters of the Missouri, a most unlikely event that would place her well outside his reach, anyway.
What he really needed now was not that damned woman, but the latest shipment of guns and whiskey from Wescott. As usual the bastard was behind schedule. He leaned back against the rough log wall and peered out the open gate of the post to the river flowing by several hundred yards away. A canoe banked and three figures emerged. He looked away. Just more voyageurs coming from upriver, probably carrying a load of pelts to sell in St. Louis. Perhaps they had seen or heard something about a red-haired woman on the upper Missouri.
Pardee decided to question them, but just as he stood up he noticed that one of the three was walking ahead of the other two and his wrists were bound behind him. Something was nigglingly familiar about the tall black-haired man who walked with such arrogant confidence in spite of being a prisoner.
Shelby!
His eyes narrowed as he studied the colonel’s companions, a great grizzled mountain of a man who looked as if he had not seen civilization since the colonial revolt and a slight figure partially obscured by the two tall men. Then he caught a flash of flaming red hair glinting in the setting sunlight. A slow smile spread across his wide mouth. Two problems solved at once. He slipped into the shadows between the trading post and the small log cabin that served as a crude rectory for Father Louie.
“Ain’t no use yer tryin’ ta talk me outta this,” Micajah said doggedly as they walked through the gate of the post.
“I’m only telling you the priest won’t marry two people at gunpoint. The Catholic Church would not consider it a valid marriage,” Samuel replied with equal tenacity.
“He is right. I am a Catholic and I know it would be no true sacrament, Micajah,” Olivia added in a subdued tone of voice.
“Where I come from, once’t a preacher says th’ words over yew, yore hitched. Don’t make me no never mind ‘bout sacr’ments er sech.” He stopped as they neared the little church and fixed Shelby with shrewd brown eyes. “Yew really want ta walk in there all trussed up like a Christmas goose—er will yew give me yore word ta act like a man?”
The barb struck home. Shelby felt the sting of heat on his face. He had been badgering Johnstone continuously for the past two days, rather like a schoolboy caught in an infraction, trying to wriggle out of it. According to the old mountain man’s simple code of morality, he was guilty of a grievous sin and Micajah meant to see justice done. Sighing, Shelby replied, “I’ll tell the truth to the priest. You don’t have to drag me before him.”
“Good ‘nough.” Micajah nodded and slipped the long hunting knife from his belt to cut Samuel’s bonds.
Olivia stood silently through their exchange. Still chastened and humiliated by her foolish passion that had precipitated this whole debacle, she had said little during the journey to Ste. Francoise. She could not bear the idea of marrying Samuel when he believed her to be nothing more than a scheming harlot, but neither could she bear to see Micajah’s pain and disillusionment if she flatly refused to do what his honor demanded.
Samuel rubbed his chaffed wrists and looked from Johnstone to the quiet woman. Olivia stood staring at the bright molten ball of orange dipping below the uneven spikes of the post’s fence. The sun’s dying rays turned her hair to living flame and limned her proud patrician profile in gold. She was so beautiful she fair robbed him of breath. And possibly she was just as treacherous.
“Let�
�s talk to your priest, Johnstone,” he said grimly.
Father Louie was a slight dark-haired man with a hooked nose and shrewd black eyes. His face was swarthy, burned by the sun and seamed by wind. Deep grooves around his mouth gave the appearance of harshness until he smiled.
“Bon soir, Monsieur Johnstone. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? Perhaps you are interested in taking instruction and being baptized at last, mon ami?” The merry glint in his eyes belied that he seriously believed such to be the case.
“You preachers jist never give up,” Micajah said with a grin as he reached out to envelope the diminutive man’s hand in his huge one. “Nope, I come on serious bidness though. Hit’s about these two tomfool young’uns.” He motioned to Samuel and Olivia. “They need ta git hitched.”
Father Louie looked at the handsome couple standing well apart from each other. They scarcely looked like lovebirds. In fact they seemed to be rather antagonistic at the moment, casting each other furtive, angry glances.
“This here’s Sparky, er, Mam’sel Olivia St. Et-tane,” he said, stumbling over her full French name as he shoved her forward to meet the priest. “She’s my ‘dopted daughter. ‘N this big buck is Samuel Shelby, an American soldier boy. A colonel he is, but sorty out o’ uniform fer the time bein’.”
“Charmed, Mademoiselle St. Etienne,” the priest said graciously. “I did not know this old rogue had such a lovely daughter in his charge.” He turned to Samuel. “Colonel Shelby. We do not get many Americans here save for an occasional trapper, but then if you wish a marriage performed, I shall be most happy to oblige.”
“Our wishes on the matter need to be discussed,” Samuel said in a measured voice.
“How so?” Father Louie inquired as Micajah growled a low warning.
“The lady and I don’t want to get married. We aren’t at all suited to each other.”
“Cudda fooled me when I seen yew rasslin’ ‘round on th’ ground like a pair o’ bobcats in heat. Yew fit together right well then,” Micajah interjected sourly.
Father Louie’s expression became grave as he turned back to Samuel. “Is what he says true, my son?”
“No;—well, yes,” he admitted grudgingly. “But we didn’t intend to let it get out of hand,” he amended lamely. “Anyway, he interrupted us before the act was consummated.” Samuel felt his face breaking out in a cold sweat.
“What he says is true. Micajah saved me from committing a terrible folly,” Olivia added, staring at the priest, giving no more than a scathing glance to Samuel.
Father Louie stroked his chin consideringly, looking from the murderously intent expression on Micajah’ s face to the nervously squirming young people. “And if Micajah had not so fortunately come along to insist on the proprieties, would you then have stopped before the act was consummated?” His shrewd black eyes moved between Olivia and Samuel. She blushed and looked away, shaking her head.
Shelby muttered an oath beneath his breath and returned the priest’s stare. After a moment he sighed dejectedly and admitted, “No, I wouldn’t have.”
“I see,” Father Louie replied consideringly. “You do know that God considers intent in sin almost as serious as the act itself?”
Was there the slightest bit of irony in those last three words?
“The point is that in fact I did not compromise Mademoiselle St. Etienne,” Samuel said tenaciously, refusing to be drawn into a theological debate.
“The point is I wouldn’t marry you even if you had!” Olivia replied furiously.
“How long have you known Colonel Shelby, child?” Father Louie asked gently. A woman of her obvious education and breeding scarcely seemed the sort to succumb to a handsome stranger’s casual blandishments.
There was something about the priest that made it impossible for her to withhold the truth from him. “We met in Washington last winter. Then again when he came to St. Louis in the spring.”
“So, you have been, er, acquainted for nearly a year and”—he turned suddenly to Samuel—”you followed the lady from the East Coast all the way across the Mississippi?”
What could he say without revealing his mission in the region? Damn and damn again! “Not precisely. I was posted to the Cantonment at Fort Bellefontaine outside St. Louis, but I did expect to meet her again while I was in the city.” He, too, found it impossible to lie with those fathomless dark eyes on him.
“Th’ two damnfool young’uns is too stubborn ta admit they got feelin’s fer each other—but when th’ chance comes, they ain’t too stubborn ta act on ‘em,” Micajah averred triumphantly.
“I cannot perform a marriage if you refuse, of course, but it would seem there are a great many reasons for you to agree. To what do you object?” he asked Olivia.
“To him!” she said, glaring at Samuel. “He thinks I’m—” She broke off, unable to repeat the hateful innuendoes.
“And you, my son?” the priest asked when Olivia was unable to go on. “A man who does what you have done has the moral obligation to put it right, especially considering the duration of the relationship.” He waited, patiently studying the unhappy young soldier while at the same time catching Micajah’s nod of approval from the corner of his eye.
Father Louie had been friends with the frontiersman for nearly twenty years, and he knew Micajah to be nobody’s fool. If Johnstone believed these young people to be in love and suited for each other, that was good enough for him.
Samuel struggled with his conscience. The very last thing on earth he wanted was another wife, especially one who might be involved in British espionage. But Micajah and Olivia had saved his life—she had in fact saved it twice. He owed them both a debt of honor on that count and he had behaved badly toward the woman, regardless of her provocation. Protecting her reputation would make Johnstone happy and he could offer Olivia a comfortable settlement to live on once he became established in the Santa Fe trade with Santiago. She would have her freedom from Wescott—if she truly wanted it—and he would not need to be encumbered with a second wife...or so he told himself.
“I have no further objections. I’ll marry her,” he replied stoically.
Olivia’s head jerked up and she stared at him in stunned amazement. “Well, I won’t marry you.”
“You’re behaving childishly, Olivia. Consider the alternatives,” he said, looking from the grave priest to the scowling Johnstone.
Of all the ways she had imagined her wedding day, this was certainly not one! This was a nightmare. But one from which she would not simply awaken. He plans to annul the marriage, she realized at once. Well, why not? She could certainly prove her virginity if it came to an examination! He would never learn the truth about her until it was too late...or so she told herself.
Without warning the pain clawed at her heart and a giant lump formed in her throat, making it difficult for her to say, “Very well. I will marry you, Colonel.”
They recited their vows in the small rude chapel made of mud-chinked logs. Neither of them could have said what went on during the ceremony as they walked through the motions, but soon Micajah was slapping Samuel on the back and hugging Olivia joyously.
“Father Louie here says they’s an empty cabin jest across th’ post, where th’ manager o’ th’ mercantile ‘n his wife lived till he up ‘n quit last month. Traders in St. Louis ain’t sent anyone to replace ‘em yet, so yew kin use hit fer tonight.”
“Where will you sleep, Micajah?” Olivia asked, refusing to consider how she and her new husband would make their sleeping arrangements in a small trader’s cabin.
“Shucks, I kin bunk with th’ good father here. I ain’t fixin’ ta waste any more time watchin’ out fer th’ two of yew. Don’t need ta no more.” He winked at Samuel and then patted Olivia’s hand gently. “Tamorah we’ll say our good-byes ‘n plan fer our next rendezvous. I ‘spect ta be bouncin’ a grandbaby on my knee afore th’ snow flies next year.”
She nodded and forced a smile to her lips. How could she bear t
o hurt him with the truth? When he and the priest bade them good night in front of the small cabin, she turned to Samuel, not knowing what to say.
Samuel. Her husband.
In name only, she reminded herself. There would be no grandbabies for Micajah, no love for her. She would not humiliate herself further by crying. Her “husband” was not worth her tears. “Well, do you have a coin to flip? Heads I get the bed, tails you do.”
He looked down at her with an unreadable expression on his face. “You do understand we can reach an agreement? When I’m able to return to St. Louis I’ll make arrangements for your support. Although I’m not a wealthy man, I’ll have a comfortable living from my investment in my brother-in-law’s trading company.”
She was taken aback by his words which seemed to imply that he did not intend to end the sham marriage. “I don’t want your money, Samuel, living as your wife or your mistress.” She turned and walked through the open door into the cabin.
Father Louie had asked one of the clerks from the mercantile to prepare the place. A lone candle burned on the table in the center of the room and a cheerful fire crackled its welcome from the hearth. In the far corner, a modest-sized double bed had been made up with a patchwork quilt and the covers turned back. Suddenly the room seemed suffocatingly intimate. Her breath caught and she turned to face him, unable to stop herself from saying in a breathless rush, “Just have the marriage annulled and leave me in peace.”
Her angry denunciation startled him. “Why? I have no plans to ever marry again. We can live separately without any problems. My military career and my future business will keep me away from St. Louis most of the year. I’ll secure you a house of your own.”
How cold-blooded he sounded, patiently explaining a soulless, loveless arrangement to her while her heart shattered in a million shards. “I want the marriage annulled,” she gritted out.
He had been trying to be patient under such difficult circumstances, but her anger fanned the spark of his temper. “Might that not prove a bit awkward? To get an annulment you would have to prove the marriage had never been consummated.”