Bride of the High Country

by Kaki Warner

  With some reluctance, she had told her traveling companion about Smythe. Nothing missed Maddie’s observant gaze, and she had asked several times who Lucinda was expecting. The dear woman had a right to know that a dangerous deviant might be lurking about.

  “You mean you actually poked his . . . lower person . . . with a gun?” Maddie had asked that first night as they sat in the dining car, enjoying a lovely dinner of roast capon, rice, and string beans—when the rocking of the train wasn’t sliding their plates all over the table. “You brave thing!”

  “More furious than brave.” Lucinda hadn’t shared all the details—such as why Smythe had attacked her or that Tait had come to her aid. She couldn’t talk about Tait yet. Maybe she never would. And she would never talk about those horrible days in Five Points.

  “Nonetheless,” Maddie insisted, “I find you a most remarkable woman. I admire you tremendously.”

  Lucinda hid her smile behind a forkful of rice. No one had ever said that to her before. It was nice. Having a friend was nice. She resolved to work hard to be deserving of Maddie’s admiration.

  By the time they arrived in St. Louis, over four hundred miles and several days after leaving Columbus, Lucinda was convinced she had made her escape. With grim determination, she put Smythe . . . and Tait . . . behind her, and looked ahead to her grand new life.

  They would be changing trains in St. Louis, and she and Maddie had decided to take a break from travel and enjoy at least one night on solid ground. Maddie was anxious to take photographs of the plush gambling riverboats plying their trade on the Mississippi River, and Lucinda had things she needed to attend to, as well. So, after hiring a cart and a trustworthy boy to help Maddie with her equipment and keep an eye on her, Lucinda picked up her valise of railroad shares and headed to the nearest bank.

  Bankers in St. Louis, she found, were not as particular as those in Philadelphia, and were even more susceptible to female manipulation. Probably because there were fewer women available the farther west they traveled. Using the same ruse she had employed at the Girard Bank—but with less bosom flaunting—she was able to exchange five more of the twenty-share certificates for another line of credit. It was absurdly easy and made Lucinda wonder how banks ever stayed in business. In less than an hour, she was back on the street, fortified with four more stacks of crisp bank notes and several rolls of double eagles, and headed for the nearest Western Union office.

  After sending a wire to Mrs. Throckmorton, assuring her that she was well, in the company of a dear lady, and headed toward the mountains, she went to round up Maddie for supper.

  She found her surrounded by gawkers, mostly men, and taking a portrait of four scantily clad women hanging their plump assets over the railing of a riverboat gambling den moored at the busy wharf.

  “Oh, Lucinda,” she cried, when she saw her marching toward her. “I have met the most astounding people.”

  “I can see that. Are you ready to go? It’s getting late.”

  “We might as well. I’m almost out of albumenized paper. Isn’t this marvelous? I so adore the West.”

  “How can you be sure?” Lucinda asked drily, as she helped her pack her camera and folding table onto the cart she had hired. “We’re not even there, yet.”

  “Truly? Well, I adore it anyway.”

  Twenty-four hours later, they were seated in the dining car of the westbound train, steaming toward Kansas City and the setting sun.

  Lucinda’s spirits continued to rise. Her escape had been successful; she had seen no sign of Smythe or lurkers who might have been Pinkerton men. Their George said no one had been asking about them. In fact, she thought, glancing around the crowded dining car, no one even remotely suspicious seemed to be taking the slightest interest in them.

  “Do you see him?” Maddie whispered, leaning across the table.

  “See who?”

  “Whoever it is you keep looking for.” Maddie grinned and popped a slice of stewed carrot into her mouth. “I know it’s not Smythe. I’ve been watching for him, too, and have seen no one even remotely matching his description. Besides, he never brought that melancholy look to your face. So it must be someone else. Your lover? A smitten swain you’re trying to forget?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  The Englishwoman laughed. “You’re a terrible liar, Luce. And far too beautiful not to have a dozen brokenhearted men in your wake. So who are you trying to avoid?”

  There was only one man in Lucinda’s past that mattered, and it was she who had been left with the broken heart. But realizing her companion wouldn’t rest until she heard at least part of the story, Lucinda admitted to being nearly a bride.

  “How near?”

  “I realized at the last minute he was not for me,” she hedged, not wanting to go into a lengthy explanation about the unregistered marriage license. “So I left him at the altar, so to speak.”

  “Never!” Maddie blinked at her through eyes as round and bright as new brown buttons. “What did he do?”

  “He sent Pinkerton detectives after me.”

  “No. I mean what did he do to make you change your mind?”

  Lucinda thought for a moment. “He was harsh with his employees. He saw me as little more than his entree into society and a screen for underhanded business dealings. And he had an unsavory past, which I only learned of as we were about to begin the ceremony. In short, he wasn’t the man I thought he was.”

  “Well.” Maddie sat back against the cushions, her expression one of utter amazement. “You are quite the bravest person I know. I wouldn’t have dared.”

  Lucinda refrained from rolling her eyes. “This from a woman who crossed an ocean and half a continent by herself, rather than ‘molder in a drafty castle.’ That’s brave.” Or foolish. Lucinda still wasn’t certain which.

  Maddie waved the notion away. “I’ve found that putting one’s person in peril is not nearly as frightening as putting one’s heart at risk. In the former, one might only endure a momentary injury. While with the latter, there is the possibility of suffering a lifetime of loneliness and regret. Unless one died, of course. Then that would make loneliness rather a moot point, don’t you think?”

  Lucinda sipped from her glass, then returned it to the table. She might not be as observant or perceptive as her new friend, but she knew regret when she saw it. “You still love your soldier husband, don’t you?”

  Maddie stabbed her pork chop when a sudden lurch almost sent it sliding off her plate. “Perhaps. But that’s all in the past.”

  “And if he realizes his mistake and comes after you?”

  The Englishwoman took a tiny bite and chewed thoughtfully. After swallowing, she dabbed her mouth with her napkin and sighed. “I very much doubt he would—realize his mistake, that is. Being a military officer, he would probably perceive my leaving as a treasonous act of desertion, rather than a natural consequence of his neglect. But should he attempt reconciliation”—a crafty smile came over her face as she speared a green bean—“he will have to woo me all over again before I would even consider taking him back.” The smile faded. “Although I hope he doesn’t. He’s a very good wooer, and I’m dreadfully weak where he is concerned. I should hate to go through all that heartache again.”

  Lucinda understood that kind of weakness all too well. She wondered what she would do if Tait realized his mistake and came after her. Would she ever be able to trust him again? Would he trust her? Probably not, unless she told him everything about her shameful, sordid past, which she would never do. Seeing the disgust in his eyes would be a crushing blow, one from which she would never recover.

  No. Better to be alone. She didn’t need a man to give her life meaning. In fact, now that she was rich, she didn’t need a man at all.

  * * *

  Tait arrived in Pittsburgh so s
ore he could barely hobble into the Grand Park Hotel. Since there was no screw railway available, he rented the largest accommodations available on the ground floor, then asked the concierge to send a physician, tailor, barber, and a full meal to his suite as soon as possible.

  The physician came first. Deciding Tait should leave in the neat stitches Mrs. Yoder had put in his chest, shoulder, and arm for a few more days, he checked Tait’s head wound, which he said was healing well, although there might be a few headaches now and then. His bruised ribs no longer needed support, but his knee was still too swollen to properly assess, so he advised keeping it splinted for a few more days. Pronouncing him well enough to travel, the doctor gave Tait a bottle of laudanum for the pain, then left, much richer than when he arrived.

  The tradesmen came next. Once Tait was shaved, trimmed, and measured for new clothing—for which he had to pay double to ensure that they would be ready by the following afternoon—he ate a full meal, washed it down with a goodly dose of laudanum, then collapsed on the bed for his first painless, dreamless night in almost a week.

  By seven the next evening, he was on the train back to New York, determined to find out who had hired Smythe and why, and wondering how he could convince Doyle to give up on his runaway bride and the five hundred shares of Hudson and Erie Railroad stock she just happened to take with her when she left.

  Twelve

  The first thing Tait did after stepping off the ferry onto Manhattan Island was to hire a hansom cab to take him to Mrs. Throckmorton’s Sixty-ninth Street brownstone.

  He was convinced Lucinda would stay in touch with her guardian. She had seemed deeply concerned when Mrs. Throckmorton had taken ill after the ceremony. So concerned, in fact, Tait was beginning to think her worry might have been genuine and that it had been the old lady who had instigated the escape and not her ward.

  Or maybe that was just what he wanted to believe.

  Either way, he was certain if anyone knew whether Lucinda was all right or where she might be headed now, it would be Mrs. Throckmorton.

  When the cab stopped at the curb in front of the brownstone, Tait wrestled out the makeshift crutch, then used it to pull himself up, almost pitching forward on his face when it slipped into a crack in the walk. He straightened, cursing under his breath, and vowed that as soon as he finished here, he would see a doctor about his knee. The swelling had gone down somewhat after several days of sitting idle on the train, but it was apparent he had suffered substantial damage to the joint. He figured his last waltz was behind him. He just hoped he’d still be able to sit a horse.

  Finally making it up the steps, he knocked on the front door. It was several minutes before Pringle, Mrs. Throckmorton’s stuffy butler, swung it open. Masterfully veiling his surprise at Tait’s battered appearance, he raised bushy white brows in his usual expression of pinch-lipped disdain. “Yes?”

  “Is Mrs. Throckmorton at home?”

  “She is.”

  When it was obvious the pretentious bastard had said all he intended to, Tait lost his patience. “I need to see her. Now.”

  Pringle’s expressive nostrils twitched. “May I say who’s calling, sir?”

  “Goddamnit, Pringle, you know who I am.” Thrusting the end of the crutch past the butler, he shoved open the door and hobbled inside. “Just get her. I’ll be in the front room.”

  With a sniff, Pringle closed the door, and moving at a snail’s pace to show his affront at such harsh treatment, he turned toward the stairs. “I’ll see if she’s available.”

  “Tell her it’s about her ward.”

  Pringle’s speed increased to a turtle’s pace.

  Tait limped into the front receiving room, where coals were glowing in the grate even though the early April afternoon was sunny and mild. Not wanting to go through the painful process of sitting, then rising again when the old lady arrived, Tait crossed to the window. Leaning on the crutch, he stared blankly out at the street, troubled thoughts running through his mind.

  It had been a difficult decision to come back to New York rather than go after Lucinda. In the railroads’ rush to cross the continent, rail service became less dependable and the schedules more erratic the farther west they pushed the tracks. With fewer trains running each week, even assuming he correctly guessed her route, he might have had to travel for weeks before he caught up to her.

  But after giving it much thought, he decided he would be more help to her if he came back here and convinced Doyle to give up on recovering the stocks and let her go. Plus, here in New York, he would have a better chance of finding out who had sent Smythe.

  He didn’t see how the bastard could still be alive. But if he had survived the fall from the train and the tumble down the slope, where was he now?

  “Pringle says you have news of Margaret?” a voice snapped behind him.

  Moving awkwardly, Tait turned to find Mrs. Throckmorton glaring at him from the doorway. When she saw the crutch and the stitched cut on his face, her scowl deepened. “Were you accosted?”

  “I fell off a train.”

  The thin, blue-veined hand not gripping her cane flew to her throat. “Margaret? Is she—”

  “She’s fine,” Tait cut in. “At least she was when I left her.”

  “Left her where? Where is she now?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  “Oh, dear. I think—oh, my—I need to sit down.”

  Alarmed by the sudden paleness in the elderly woman’s face, Tait hobbled over to assist.

  She curtly waved him aside. “Stay back before you fall on me and end us both.” With a groaning sigh, she collapsed into one of the two chairs flanking the fireplace. When Tait continued to linger nearby, she impatiently motioned to the other chair. “Oh, do sit down. I detest hovering.”

  As soon as Tait was settled, she leaned forward in her chair, hands clasped on the head of the cane positioned by her knees. “You went after her, didn’t you? I thought you might. Did that Irish parvenu send you, or did you go on your own?”

  “I—”

  “On your own, I suspect. I saw the way you looked at her, you sly thing. Tell me everything that happened.”

  Tait leaned forward in his own chair. “Have you heard from her, Mrs. Throckmorton? Is she all right?”

  The pale blue eyes widened. “Why wouldn’t she be all right? You’re here—that nasty Irishman is here—why wouldn’t she be all right?”

  “Have you heard from her?” Tait pressed. He could see his tone alarmed her, and tried to soften it. “It’s important, Mrs. Throckmorton. I need to know she’s all right.”

  “Oh, dear.” Slumping back in the chair, she let the cane lean against the cushions by her hip and pressed a hand to her neck. “Something’s happened, hasn’t it?”

  “I hope not. When did you last hear from her?”

  “Several days ago. She sent a wire to my banker to pass along to me. She was leaving St. Louis in the company of an Englishwoman she had met on the train. They were heading west toward the mountains.”

  “Thank God.” If she had made it all the way to St. Louis, then Smythe was probably no longer a threat. Closing his eyes, Tait let out a deep breath, only then realizing that he’d been holding it. It was shocking, the depth of his reaction. And revealed to him in the starkest, most elemental way how important Lucinda’s safety was to him—how important she was to him.

  “You care about her, don’t you?”

  He opened his eyes to find that sharp gaze fixed on him in a manner that reminded him of Lucinda. Despite her age, this woman was almost as astute as her ward. “I do.”

  “Then tell me why you left her. And why you think Margaret might be in danger.”

  “Lucinda.” He smiled wryly. “Lucinda Hathaway is the name she’s using now. Clever lady, your ward. Full of surprises.�
�� His smile faded. “But I wasn’t the only one following her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He told her about tracking Lucinda to Philadelphia, and how the conductor on the train to Harrisburg had said another man had been asking about her, too. “English, gray-haired, missing two fingers. Said he was looking for his sister.”

  “Margaret has no brother. Or any blood relatives, as far as I know. And I have certainly never met anyone by that description.”

  “Lucinda has. Said his name was Smythe.”

  “Smythe!” She seemed to shrink in the chair, her skeletal fingers plucking at the lacy collar of her dress as if it cut too tightly into her throat. “Oh, dear heavens . . .”

  “Ma’am, are you all right?” Tait struggled to rise, afraid this time the crafty old woman truly was sick. “Shall I send for Pringle?”

  With a trembling hand, she waved him back into the chair. “No, no. He’s useless anyway.” Raising her voice, she called toward the door. “Do you hear that, Pringle? I know you’re out there, eavesdropping. Do make yourself useful and bring me a cup of tea.” She glanced at Tait, then added, “And that bottle of Scotch whiskey the judge kept in the drawer of his desk.”

  A low muttering as footsteps shuffled down the hall.

  Mrs. Throckmorton turned back to Tait. “Are you certain it was Smythe?”

  “Lucinda seemed convinced it was.” Seeing her color had returned, Tait settled cautiously back, keeping his injured leg stretched straight before him, which seemed to ease the pain a bit. “You know him?”

  “I know of him. Oh, poor Margaret. She must have been terrified.”

  “She was. Why? What did he do to her?”

  The blue eyes shifted away. “What did she tell you?”

  “Only that there was a fire fifteen years ago, and she thought he’d died in it. Who is he?”