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Bride of the High Country

Page 25

by Kaki Warner


  “Thank you, madam,” came the muffled reply as footfalls shuffled slowly toward the back of the house.

  Waving away Tait’s offer of assistance, she propped her cane against the armrest of her chair and sank into the cushioned upholstery.

  Tait did the same with his cane and settled across from her. He had given up the crutch a week ago. Although his knee was still weak, as long as he kept it wrapped and took care on stairs, he got by. But he doubted he’d ever run again.

  “You have news?” He tried to keep from sounding too anxious. It had been almost a month since Lucinda’s telegram to Mrs. Throckmorton. Tait was starting to worry that something might have happened.

  “I do. And you may not like it.” Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out an envelope. But instead of giving it to him, she spread it flat on her lap. “Three weeks ago, not long after your first visit, I received another wire from Margaret, telling me she was fine and that she was anxious to hear from me. She included an address where I could reach her.”

  Tait sat upright. “Three weeks ago? Why didn’t you—”

  “Calm yourself.” She waved him back into his chair. “I know I said I would give you her direction as soon as I heard from her. But how could I do that without her permission? Margaret is a very private person.”

  He knew that well enough. Biting back his frustration, Tait motioned to the letter in her lap. “Is that her response? What does she say?”

  “She’s in a safe place. A small mining town in the mountains. Her English friend is with her, so she’s not entirely alone.”

  “Where?” he demanded. He needed to write to her straight away. Words were already forming in his head. Questions, regrets, apologies. The need to talk to her, even by letter, was burning a hole in his mind. “Where can I write to her?”

  “She asked me not to tell you.”

  Tait blinked. “What?”

  “I will read what she wrote in regard to you. If you wish to respond, you may include your pages with mine when I write back to her. I’m sorry, but that’s the best I can do.”

  “She actually said I couldn’t correspond directly with her?”

  She gave him a pitying look.

  Damnit! He would have lurched from the chair if he’d thought his knee would hold him. How could she shut him out this way? Why wouldn’t she at least listen to what he had to say?

  But wasn’t that precisely what he had done to her?

  Christ. With a sigh, he slumped back, his hands gripping the armrests. He’d hear what she wrote, then send a response back. It rankled to have to go through her guardian, but he would do it, and gladly, if that was his only choice. “Read it, then. Please.”

  Mrs. Throckmorton unfolded the letter, scanned down several lines, then began. “‘I was sorry to hear that Mr. Rylander was injured.’” Pausing, the old lady looked up to explain, “I told her that you and Smythe had fought, and that when you fell off the train, you were injured.”

  Tait nodded, and waved for her to continue.

  “‘Please tell him I appreciate his efforts on my behalf.’” Another pause. “Of course, I didn’t tell her that Smythe was dead, since at the time I wrote, you hadn’t yet heard from Mr. Yoder. Nor did I mention that Smythe had been sent by someone else to silence her. Until we have further information, I think it’s best not to add to her worries, don’t you agree?”

  Just read the damned letter, Tait wanted to shout. “Yes. Continue, please.”

  She looked back through the script to find her place. “Here comes the part about you. ‘But I must warn you to be wary of him,’ she writes. ‘Mr. Rylander has a charming and amiable way about him that invites trust. But there is also an unyielding, unforgiving side of his nature that prevents him from seeing any view of the world other than his own.’”

  Mrs. Throckmorton sighed and shook her head. “I think that’s rather harsh of her, don’t you?”

  Tait forced a smile, even though impatience was churning in his gut.

  “Yes, well.” Clearing her throat, she continued. “‘I had counted him a trusted friend but was deeply disappointed to learn he held no trust in me, which caused us to part on less than cordial terms. For that reason, please do not give him my direction. I am starting a wonderful new life here and have no wish to drag into it any unpleasantness from the past.’” Mrs. Throckmorton set down the letter and gave Tait a look of regret. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rylander.”

  Unpleasantness? Their parting was probably the worst day in his life—other than when he was shot and hanged, of course. He had insulted the woman who had haunted his thoughts for a year, fought a knife-wielding brute on the back of a moving train to protect her, then had taken a fall that would probably leave him permanently crippled. And now she wouldn’t even speak to him?

  He had never met a more hardheaded woman.

  It was probably a good thing she wasn’t standing in front of him. He might have shaken her hard enough to loosen her teeth. “That’s it?” he managed through tight lips, a rebuttal to those absurd statements already forming in his mind. “That’s all she wrote?”

  “Oh, she goes on about her friend—did I tell you she was a photographer? I’ve never heard of such a thing, but Margaret seems to like her very much. Apparently she’s estranged from her husband, a Scottish soldier or some such. They’ve also befriended two other women, half sisters, one of whom is Negro—can you imagine that scandal?—and the other who is a mail-order bride to a rancher with four children. Southerners, both, so I guess we shouldn’t be surprised. Oh, do forgive me—I forgot you’re southern, too. At any rate, Margaret is apparently doing well, and we should be happy about that.”

  Something in Tait’s expression caused the elderly woman to reach over and pat his hand. “Don’t be too disappointed, Mr. Rylander. After all, she did say you were charming and amiable, didn’t she?”

  Tait showed his teeth in what he hoped would pass for a smile. “Yes, she did. Bless her heart.”

  The next day he returned to the Sixty-ninth Street brownstone with several pages of script sealed in a small envelope. “When will you be posting this?” he asked as he handed it to Mrs. Throckmorton. He hoped she didn’t intend to delegate the task to her irascible butler. Pringle was beyond incompetent.

  The crafty old lady gave him a sly look. “And I suppose you’re hoping I’ll give it to you to post so you can take a peek at the address.”

  “Not at all,” Tait lied. It was disturbing that he was so transparent even a doddering old lady could see through him. But he’d been greatly distracted of late, fretting over this thing with Lucinda, positioning himself to end his partnership with Doyle while still staying close enough to learn what the Irishman intended to do about his runaway bride, and trying to figure out who had sent Smythe. His life has fallen into such disarray he wasn’t sure what he was doing, or where he was headed half the time. But he sensed that everything in his future hinged on Lucinda. And that disturbed him most of all.

  “By the way,” Mrs. Throckmorton said, regaining his attention. “I’ve been thinking about that man you asked about. That politician, Franklin Horne. And I do think Margaret mentioned him. Right after the wedding, in fact.”

  “What did she say?”

  “I don’t remember her exact words, but as I recall, it was something about overhearing two men talking about Kerrigan being a runner in his youth. One of them was Franklin Horne, and she said he and Smythe were cut from the same cloth. She seemed quite upset about it. Does that help?”

  “It might.” Or it would if he knew what Smythe’s connection to Lucinda had been. But so far, neither Lucinda nor her guardian nor the absent Father O’Rourke had told him anything.

  “I shall post this today,” Mrs. Throckmorton said, slipping his letter into her pocket. “But don’t expect an immediate reply. Even with mail go
ing by rail now, it takes time. And she may not answer you. For such a gentle-appearing creature, Margaret can be quite strong-minded at times.”

  Tait nodded, well aware of that trait but finding it strangely appealing—when it wasn’t directed at him.

  * * *

  Almost three weeks after her arrival in Heartbreak Creek, Lucinda awoke with an idea blossoming in her mind. The seed had been planted that first day when she and Maddie had decided to stay on in Heartbreak Creek. It had quietly germinated since then, and now that the railroad trestle had been repaired and the other passengers had moved on, it burst into full bloom.

  Rising from the bed, she went to the window of the bedroom in the Presidential Suite that she had taken over after Edwina and Pru had left. It was another lovely day. The clarity of the skies in Colorado Territory never ceased to amaze her. She had never seen such a vibrant blue, and there was so little haze in the air she could see for miles once she left the narrow confines of the high canyon walls. Despite the ramshackle appearance of the town, the surrounding landscape was shockingly beautiful—high peaks, stark bluffs, and tall, stately firs and spruces crowded against the frothy creek. And east of town, where the canyon widened into a long rolling valley that stretched all the way to distant slopes, the view seemed to go on forever. For a woman who had spent so many years locked in a city, the openness of it struck a chord within her.

  Smiling, she thought of Mrs. Throckmorton and how drawn her guardian seemed to be toward this country. It wasn’t surprising. The Rocky Mountains were magnificent—raw and savage and untamed—a stark contrast to the gentler peaks of the Appalachians. At times the sheer size and scope of these mountains seemed a bit intimidating, yet, despite that, she felt a kinship here, a sense of belonging. Perhaps because everything was new and untainted by the past, or because the vastness of it hinted at limitless possibilities, or because the challenge of it called to her spirit. Whatever the reason, it breathed life into her.

  And hope.

  Here, she could start over for the last time, and maybe, in doing so, she could find the home she’d been seeking. But first, even if it took every dollar she’d gained from the railroad shares, she would have to create a home worth having.

  Resolved, she hurriedly dressed, then tiptoeing past Maddie’s closed door, went downstairs.

  “Yancey,” she said, rousing the elderly man from a doze behind the front desk. “Who owns this hotel?”

  The old man yawned and squinted an eye and scratched at his bald pate. Thinking was always a chore for Yancey. “Used to be owned by a fellow from Denver. But last I heard the bank took it over. Might ought to check with Emmet Gebbers.”

  “The mayor?”

  Lucinda had met most of the people in town when she and Maddie had attended services at the Come All You Sinners Church of Heartbreak Creek. Pastor Rickman and his wife, Biddy, had proudly introduced them to the choir ladies; the mayor and his wife; a handful of merchants and ranch families; Doc Boyce and his wife, Janet; and the few miners from the Krigbaum Mine who didn’t spend all their free time in Red Eye Saloon. It wasn’t a robust community.

  “Emmet’s also the banker,” Yancey told her. “Heard he and the missus used to be missionaries, but after they lost their only son in the war, they sort of lost the calling. Yep. I think the bank owns the hotel now. Why you asking? Know someone who might be interested in taking it over?”

  “I might.” Smiling, she turned toward the wide hallway leading toward the dining room. “If Mrs. Wallace comes down, tell her to join me for coffee.”

  “Think whoever buys it might still let me work here?” he called after her.

  “You never know.”

  A while later, when Miriam—the maid, cook’s helper, waitress, and general workhorse of the hotel—came to clear the dishes, she handed Lucinda a thick envelope Yancey said had just been delivered by the mail courier from Denver.

  Lucinda recognized the spidery handwriting as that of Mrs. Throckmorton. Delighted, she tore open the seal. A second envelope fell out, along with several sheets of script in her guardian’s hand. She stared in consternation at the name Lucinda written in bold letters across the second envelope. Only one person acquainted with her guardian knew her as Lucinda. Heart pounding, she set it aside and opened Mrs. Throckmorton’s missive first.

  May 1870

  My dearest daughter,

  I hope this finds you in good health and spirits. I am glad you are making new friends—but a mail-order bride and her mixed-blood sister? Even for southerners, that seems a bit eccentric, don’t you think? The Englishwoman sounds nice, although regrettably near to being a bluestocking.

  Maddie? Hardly. Prudence, perhaps. She was certainly the smartest.

  As you instructed, I did not give Mr. Rylander your direction, but have allowed him to enclose his pages with mine. I do not know what caused the rift between you, but he seems anxious to mend it. I advise you to consider what he has to say, especially in regards to the dangers that surround you.

  Lucinda frowned. What dangers? Was Smythe still after her?

  Since his return to Manhattan, Mr. Rylander has become a frequent visitor in my home. I find him most pleasant—much more so than that Irish hooligan—and I am convinced he has only your best interests at heart.

  Ha! Don’t believe it. He’s simply trying to wheedle information from you.

  The weather has been quite unsettled of late, with heavy rains and high winds that have caused my old bones to ache. Cook has been ill with a bad cold this past week, and Pringle remains his usual irascible self. Were he not so enamored of me, I would be forced to let him go. I am simply too soft of heart, I suppose.

  Lucinda chuckled. Since when?

  Do please tell me more about your beautiful mountains in your next letter, my dear, so I can picture you standing before them in my mind.

  As always your devoted guardian,

  Ida Throckmorton

  Lucinda carefully folded the letter and tried to breathe past the clog of homesickness that gripped her throat. She vowed that someday, when all this was behind her, she would bring the dear woman to Colorado to see these magnificent mountains for herself.

  But homesickness quickly changed to anxious anticipation when she broke the seal on the second letter. With trembling fingers, she unfolded the pages and began to read.

  Lucinda—

  No salutation, no date, only her name. Arrogant toad.

  You call me unforgiving? If so, then it is a trait we seem to share. But in my defense, please allow me to express my deepest regrets for my reprehensible behavior when last we were together. I offer no excuses for there are none that would justify the cruelty of my parting words.

  He was certainly right about that, at least.

  I can only say that, as usual, you caught me off-balance. You’re very good at that.

  So now he’s saying it was her fault? Ridiculous.

  And although my final statement was true—I still don’t know who you are—over the weeks since I made that ill-advised comment, I have come to realize that who you are—or were—is not as important as it once was. Not because I no longer care—you know that’s impossible, don’t you?—but because it no longer relates to your safety.

  Smythe is dead.

  Air rushed from her lungs. Dead? Smythe? Lucinda let the letter fall to her lap and pressed a hand over her racing heart. When? How? Had Tait killed him when they fought on the train? With trembling hands, she lifted the letter again.

  I only recently learned he did not survive our fall from the train. And even though he is no longer a danger to you, the man who sent him to silence you still is.

  What man? Doyle? Horne? Staring blankly out the dining room window, Lucinda probed her mind for a reason why Doyle Kerrigan, or Franklin Horne, or anyone else would want to “silence” her. Had she seen or
heard something at the engagement party or at the wedding that she didn’t even remember? Or did it go all the way back to those terrifying days at Mrs. Beale’s? But what? And who? Smythe and Franklin Horne were the only two people still alive that she remembered from that horrible time, and until that shocking moment at the engagement party, she hadn’t seen or spoken to Horne in fifteen years. What could she possibly know that would suddenly make her a threat to him? Or anybody?

  Unless it wasn’t Doyle or Horne who had sent Smythe, but someone else.

  Like Mrs. Beale. Perhaps she wasn’t dead. If Smythe had survived the fire, maybe that evil woman had, too.

  Filled with dread at that thought, Lucinda continued reading.

  If you are unwilling, or unable, to answer my questions, I will not press you. But be warned I am committed to learning the identity of your pursuer, if only to assure myself of your safety.

  Thank you for that, at least, she told him silently.

  As for this method of communication through Mrs. Throckmorton—I will, of course, do as you wish in that regard. And although I will also do my best to avoid mention of the extreme closeness we enjoyed during that final unforgettable evening on the train, I cannot be certain a chance word won’t alert your guardian should she “accidentally” look through my letters before forwarding them on to you.

  Why, that blackmailer!

  But be advised, Lucinda. We are not finished, you and I. Unlike your greengrocer’s son or Doyle Kerrigan, I will not let you go that easily, nor will I walk away without at least trying to convince you to give me another chance to win your affections.

 

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