Bride of the High Country

by Kaki Warner

  Win my affections? After all the pain he caused me? Never!

  Until then, I will be thinking of you—and the way your skin glowed in the candlelight, and the little sounds you made when my hands moved over your beautiful body.

  Tait

  PS: Below is my address should you wish to correspond directly with me, rather than through your guardian. I await your reply.

  That scoundrel! That unrepentant cad! How crass of him to mention—what sounds? The man was incorrigible.

  Yet, as she stuffed the letters back into the envelope, she couldn’t help but smile. How like him to try to manipulate her, first with flowery apologies, then coercion, and finally, with blatant sexual references.

  As if that would work on her.

  “What has put you in such a happy mood?” a voice asked.

  Startled into another blush, Lucinda looked up to see Maddie coming toward her. She was dressed for photography, with a heavy canvas apron tied over her dress, auburn curls sliding out from beneath her bonnet, and her stained work gloves hanging halfway out of her pocket. “Off to make tintypes?” she asked.

  “Cartes de visite of the miners. At least until I run out of albumenized paper. Hopefully the supplies I ordered will arrive today. What are you up to?”

  “I’m heading over to the bank. I have an investment idea I’d like to discuss with Emmet Gebbers.”

  Maddie raised her brows in surprise. “Here in Heartbreak Creek?”

  “Why not?”

  “Does that mean you intend to stay?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Maddie chuckled. “I knew it. You’re thinking of buying the hotel, aren’t you? I heard you questioning Miriam and Cook the other day. Come.” Taking Lucinda’s arm, she guided her out of the dining room and across the lobby. “While we walk to the bank, you can tell me why buying a rundown hotel in a near ghost town would appeal to you, of all people.”

  Lucinda smiled weakly. Maddie’s astuteness always caught her off guard. The Englishwoman showed such a carefree, cheerful nature it was easy to assume she harbored few serious thoughts. But Lucinda knew that was patently false. Maddie was quite observant and, with her sharp artist’s eye, was often able to see straight to the heart of a matter, while a slower mind might never make the connections. What might appear shallow or even ninny-headed at first glance was actually unguarded honesty. Maddie never hid what she felt and let every emotion show on her expressive face. She was as different from Lucinda as anyone could ever be—and Lucinda loved her for it.

  “You think I’m foolish for considering it, don’t you?” Lucinda asked as they stepped off the boardwalk and into the dirt street.

  “Not at all. You have to be from somewhere, don’t you? Why not here? Plus, it’s an excellent place to hide.”

  Lucinda was so distracted by that comment she almost stepped into a fresh pile of horse droppings. “Hide? Who’s hiding? I’m not hiding.”

  That soft chuckle again. “You’re on holiday, are you? Shall we expect other New York socialites with valises of money to come knocking on the door?”

  Lucinda’s distress must have shown, because Maddie’s smile faded. Reaching over with her free hand, she gently squeezed the arm linked through hers. “I’m sorry, Luce. I know you detest prying. And whatever your reasons might be for buying the hotel, I fully support you. In fact, I’ve toyed with the idea of staying in Heartbreak Creek for a while longer, myself.”

  “You have?”

  Maddie nodded. “My publisher has hinted that he is so pleased with my first shipment of portraits and tintypes and panoramic photographs that he might consider lengthening my stay from two years to three. If so, I would need a permanent place—one from which I could venture out on photographic expeditions, and also a place where I could have supplies delivered. The hotel would be perfect.”

  When they stepped up onto the boardwalk in front of the bank, Lucinda stopped and faced the kind-hearted woman who had become the first and dearest friend she had ever had.

  “Heartbreak Creek isn’t a terrible place,” she said impulsively. “It just needs a helping hand. And I . . .” Her words faltered. It was difficult to admit, even to herself, how much this broken little town had come to mean to her in just a few short weeks. In some odd way she didn’t fully understand, she felt a kinship to this poor, dying community of misfits. It was as if in helping to heal Heartbreak Creek, she might also be able to heal herself.

  A fanciful notion, to be sure. But still . . .

  “We can do good here, Maddie,” she burst out. “I have the resources and the business acumen to bring prosperity to this town. You have the artistic vision to make it beautiful again. Together we can make it a place we would both be proud to call home. And I . . .” Again, she faltered.

  But Maddie seemed to understand. “And you need a home,” she finished with a gentle smile. “As do I. So.” Her smile grew until it involved her entire face. Lucinda would have sworn the sun shone out of her lovely brown eyes. “Let’s have a go at it, shall we? You and Mr. Gebbers do whatever that business thing is, and I’ll document the transformation for the world to see. A town reborn. It has a nice ring to it, does it not?”

  “It does.”

  “Although,” Maddie added thoughtfully, “if the mine fails, we’ll have to come up with another way to bring prosperity back to Heartbreak Creek.”

  “I know. And I already have an idea.”

  “Of course you do. You’re brilliant, Luce. I have no doubt you can make this happen. But . . .” She sighed. “There’s still the problem of the water.”

  “There is,” Lucinda agreed. “But I have a plan for that, too.”

  Two hours later, Lucinda left the bank with papers that proclaimed her the proud owner of a rundown hotel and a silent partner in the newly formed Heartbreak Creek Development Company—led by Emmet Gebbers, president and minority stock holder—which already held two deeded right-of-ways through the canyon.

  Fifteen

  Mr. Rylander—

  Despite your insistence that we continue our acquaintanceship, I advise you to prepare for disappointment. Although our brief encounter was pleasant, in no way should you view it as a commitment toward—or even an interest in—a further relationship. I will never return to Manhattan, and I cannot see a man such as yourself ever making a home away from the city. In addition, a sound friendship must be based upon mutual trust and respect, which I fear is sadly lacking between us.

  I regret that you came to harm on my account, and am sorry for any distress Smythe caused you. But now that he is no longer a threat, there should be no need for further contact between us.

  I wish you well,

  Lucinda Hathaway

  PS: And just to be clear—it was you making those sounds, not I. In fact, at the time I thought perhaps you were suffering a mild case of dyspepsia. I’m relieved to learn it was just an overabundance of ardor.

  Dyspepsia? Overabundance of ardor?

  Tait was so astounded he could only stare at the words until they finally made sense.

  Then he began to laugh.

  Lucinda—

  Dyspepsia aside, it is physically impossible for me to utter notes that high. So unless some mechanism on the undercarriage of our sleeping car was squeaking rhythmically and loudly, I feel certain the noises in questions came from your own person. Not that I am complaining, of course. To bring a woman as guarded as yourself to a full-throated squeal is something in which any man could take pride, and I am certainly no exception.

  As to your comment that I would never make a home away from the city, I fear you are wrong about that, as well. I grew up in the shadow of the Smoky Mountains, and can assure you that I have spent many happy times in the wilds. In fact, after hearing Mrs. Throckmorton read aloud your glowing testimonials about the Roc
ky Mountains, I am seriously considering taking a trip out there myself. Should I do so, I will certainly do my utmost to spend time with you.

  Until then, I shall have to content myself with memories of you and how perfectly your breasts fit into my hands. As I recall, you enjoyed that very much. As did I.

  Tait

  * * *

  As summer approached, Tait’s knee continued to improve, especially after Greenwall prescribed a series of exercises designed to strengthen the muscles supporting the joint. Tait wasn’t able to completely discard the cane yet, but as his leg grew stronger, he began to rely on it more for balance than as a crutch. To compensate for his limited activity, he added his own exercise regimen of rowing a small skiff thrice weekly along the shore of the East River, which helped wear out his body but did little to quiet his restless mind.

  He scarcely slept through the nights anymore, either awakening with a choking sensation, as if the noose were tightening around his neck, or with rose-scented images of Lucinda so strong in his mind he could almost taste the salty tang of her skin, feel her legs wrapped around him, and see her rising above him, her round, full breasts swaying with the motion of the train.

  Overabundance of ardor, indeed.

  His relationship with Doyle was faring no better. Lucinda now stood between them, and often, when Tait looked at his partner, he felt as if he were seeing him through Lucinda’s eyes, and all the flaws and dodgy behavior he’d overlooked in the past now stood out in stark relief.

  Doyle must have sensed the growing distance between them, but he said nothing about it until a meeting in Doyle’s office in early June when Tait advised against investing in yet another railroad—this one almost two thousand miles away and much too close to Lucinda.

  “Jasus, Tait!” Doyle exploded, slamming a fist down on his desk. “What’s going on with you? Did you lose your balls in that fall, too?”

  Horne snickered.

  Tait turned his head and looked at him until the other man’s gaze slid away. He wasn’t as bothered by Horne’s sly attempts to undermine Tait’s influence with Doyle as he was by that vague, but undeniable, feeling of disgust that flared up whenever he was around the man. He had no name or cause for it, but it was so persistent he could hardly look at Horne without wanting to hit him.

  Turning back to Doyle, he kept his tone mild. “The railroads are expanding too fast. Rumblings of corruption are starting to shake up the money markets. I wouldn’t be surprised if, in a year, maybe two, it all comes tumbling down. We don’t want to be caught under it when it falls.”

  Doyle made a dismissive gesture with his cigar—an affectation he’d taken up to fit the railroad mogul image he was trying to portray—then poured another splash of whiskey into his glass, even though it was barely past noon. “Gould is still investing. You’re saying you know more than the nation’s leading financier?”

  Another snicker from Horne.

  “But why so far away, Doyle? Why Denver?”

  “It’s booming, Tait. Faith and now that they’ve settled the Indian problem and men are finding gold in the hills, people are moving there by the droves. Just last week the Denver Pacific completed the run from Cheyenne, and the Denver and Rio Grande is already laying tracks south. It’s ripe for investment, boyo. Horne, here, thinks if we can find a way across the lower Rockies, we’ll own the southern route to the coast. It would be worth millions.”

  “You’re starting another line? In Colorado Territory?”

  “So I am. And we’re calling it the Wichita Pacific.”

  We. So Horne was in on it. Tait sighed, wondering when Doyle would ever have enough—enough money, enough respect, enough distance from his impoverished beginnings. “How can you manage an operation that far away and still keep up with what you have going here?”

  Doyle emptied his glass, then leaned forward, cigar clamped in his teeth, arms folded on his desk. “That’s the beauty of it, Tait. There is no operation. We don’t have to actually lay the tracks—just control the right-of-ways.”

  “And how do you intend to do that?”

  Doyle poured another drink. “Horne, tell him.”

  “I’ve already got a fellow scouting the area,” Horne said, his small eyes darting back and forth between Tait and Doyle. “The Kansas Pacific crossed the Missouri into Colorado Territory several weeks ago. By the time it reaches the city of Pueblo, the Denver and Rio Grande should just about be there from Denver. If we can find a negotiable canyon or pass through the mountains directly west of that point, we’ll be able to open up the entire southwest all the way to the Pacific coast.”

  All these railroads and spur lines and crisscrossing routes were giving Tait a headache. “But I thought the Atlantic and Pacific was laying the southern route.”

  “They are,” Doyle cut in, his eyes whiskey bright. “But if we can give them a route through the mountains, rather than around them, it could save them time and money. A lot of money.”

  “Which we would get a percentage of,” Horne added, “by selling them the right-of-ways.”

  “Do you even have a route picked out yet?” Tait asked. This scheme was starting to look more farfetched with every word.

  Horne shifted in his chair, his pointed pink tongue flicking nervously along his bottom lip. “There’s several that look promising.”

  “So you haven’t even started buying up the right-of-ways that you’re hoping to resell?”

  “This fall there’ll be another statehood convention in Denver,” Horne defended. “I’m hoping to have everything bought and a proposal ready by then.”

  That was over three months away. A lot could happen during that time. By then, Tait might know exactly where in Colorado Territory Lucinda was, and who had sent Smythe to silence her.

  But what if it was Doyle? Or even Horne? Or someone he’d never met?

  “So, Tait,” Doyle pressed, an unspoken challenge in the slurred words. “You in or not?”

  Rather than arouse suspicion by refusing, Tait decided to play along to see what they were up to. “Let me think about it.” Of late, he had been trying to divest himself of speculative holdings, not add to them. It seemed he had neither the interest nor the inclination to play the money game anymore. Maybe he needed a new challenge, a deeper purpose than just amassing wealth.

  Or his fall had shaken him up more than he’d thought.

  Or he was just tired.

  Retrieving the cane from the floor beside his chair, he rose. “I’ll get back to you on it.”

  “Don’t take too long,” Doyle advised. “Horne will be busy soon with his campaign for governor, so he will. And we’ll want the right-of-ways in hand when the Colorado statehood convention meets this fall.”

  Promising to have a decision soon, Tait left Doyle and Horne discussing campaign strategy. As he crossed the foyer, Quinn, Doyle’s bodyguard-butler held open the front door. “Afternoon, Mr. Rylander. Shall I whistle up a cab for you?”

  “I’ll walk. Doctor’s orders.” But as he stepped out onto the entry porch, he paused and turned back. “Does Mr. Kerrigan seem to be drinking more than usual of late, Quinn?”

  The older man’s gaze slid away. “I don’t know about that, sir.”

  “Do you know if something is troubling him?”

  Tait thought Quinn would evade that question, too, but after a hesitation, the ex-Pinkerton lowered his voice and said, “His wife, I think. Something about her past. Whatever it is, he’s determined to find her. Even called in the Agency again.”

  Tait stared at him in surprise. “The Pinkerton Agency? Why?”

  “Wants a full report going all the way back to the twinkle in her daddy’s eye. But you didn’t hear that from me.”

  “Thank you, Quinn.” Tait continued down the steps to the street, his thoughts racing. Because Doyle hadn’t m
entioned Lucinda in weeks, Tait had assumed—hoped—he’d decided to let the issue rest. Apparently not.

  What had he heard? And from whom? Horne?

  He quickened his pace as much as his knee would allow. The Pinkertons and now this sudden interest in Colorado. He didn’t like the sound of that. After giving it some thought, he decided he wouldn’t tell Lucinda about the Denver project until he knew more about it, but he had to warn her about the Pinkertons. Hopefully then she would finally tell him what he needed to know to keep her safe. If not, he might have to go to Colorado, himself.

  June 1870

  My dearest daughter,

  You bought a hotel! How exciting. It sounds as if you will have much to do to return it to its former glory, but I am certain you will accomplish that in short order. Hopefully, Denver will have all that you need to bring it up to snuff. If there is anything I can send you from here, let me know.

  Mr. Rylander continues to come by regularly and is excellent company. He shows great interest in your letters, and is ever hopeful that you will someday allow him to correspond directly with you. I think he is quite smitten with you.

  The days have turned unseasonably warm, even for June. We are in desperate need of rain, although with the drier weather, the ache in my joints is much improved.

  I see from the society pages that Mr. Kerrigan is stepping out again, although he maintains the fabrication that his wife is visiting relatives in the Midwest. Your leaving was a terrible embarrassment to him, and I fear it will be many a year before he lives it down. I cannot in all honesty say I am sorry for that. Mr. Rylander continues to urge him to forget about the stock certificates and you. But I doubt the Irishman’s pride will ever allow him to do that.

  You are never far from my thoughts,