Bride of the High Country

by Kaki Warner

  Ida Throckmorton

  * * *

  Tait put it off as long as he could, but in mid-June he finally told Doyle and Horne he would be passing on the Denver project due to other commitments.

  Doyle accepted his decision without argument. But Tait sensed it further widened the distance between them that seemed to grow a little more every day. That bothered him. Not because the friendship was crumbling, but because for Lucinda’s sake, he needed to know what Doyle was up to.

  He could almost feel the danger closing in around her—Doyle, the Pinkertons, whoever sent Smythe. Her friends couldn’t watch over her twenty-four hours a day. He needed to either stop the Denver project from moving forward and find whoever had sent Smythe, or go to Colorado and protect her himself.

  Toward that end, he went to Doyle’s townhouse in the last week of June. “Afternoon, Quinn,” he said, removing his hat. “Mr. Kerrigan in?”

  Quinn glanced at the hallway behind him, then made a tipping motion with his hand as if he were drinking from a glass. “He’s in, sir,” he said in a low voice. “But I’m not sure he’ll be making much sense.”

  Tait set his hat on the carved entry table. “Drunk?”

  “Getting there. And laughing. Kind of odd, you ask me.”

  Tait frowned in the direction of the long hallway that led to Doyle’s office. “What set him off?”

  “Something in the latest Pinkerton report, I think. Should I have Cook send in food? That might help settle him down.”

  Tait nodded. “And tell Mrs. Bradshaw a big pot of coffee, too.”

  “Mrs. Bradshaw left over two months ago.” At Tait’s expression of surprise, Quinn leaned forward to whisper. “Mr. Kerrigan blamed the housekeeper for his wife leaving. Had quite a row, I heard. Don’t know all the details since I came after, but it was bad enough that half the staff left.” He straightened. “I’ll see you get coffee, sir.”

  Doyle had always been a drinker. In the past, Tait had rarely noticed alcohol altering his behavior. But the humiliation of his wife’s desertion had left him with a moroseness that often erupted in anger he seemed barely able to control. Tait sensed it was only a matter of time before the Irishman hurt himself or someone else in one of his drunken rages.

  But today, Tait noticed as he walked into the office, Doyle seemed a happy drunk, so whatever news was in the Pinkerton report, it couldn’t be all bad.

  “Tait!” Doyle called jovially when he saw him come through the door. “Conas tu?” He held up the bottle of amber liquid. “Ar mhaith leat uisce beatha?”

  Assuming he’d been offered a drink, Tait shook his head. Taking a seat in one of the chairs across from Doyle’s desk, he set his cane on the floor, stretched out his game leg, then sat back, hands resting idly on the arm rests. “You’re certainly in a fine mood today.”

  “And so I am, laddie.” Grinning, Doyle slapped his free hand on the folder sitting on top of his desk. “I found her.”

  Tait felt a coil of tension tighten in his chest. “Margaret?”

  “Lucinda Hathaway. That’s the name she’s using now.” Doyle studied him over the rim of his glass as he took a sip. He set the tumbler back onto his desk and smiled—less in friendliness than in challenge. “But you knew that, didn’t you, boyo?”

  “That she was calling herself Lucinda Hathaway?” Tait nodded. “I did.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? It would have saved the Pinkertons a lot of time.”

  “I didn’t know it signified. Or that the Pinkertons were still on the case. Last I heard, you had called them off.”

  Doyle studied him a moment longer, then making one of those abrupt changes in mood, laughed. “No matter. I’ve got her now. It’s like God Himself has put her in my hands, so it is.”

  “So where is she?” Tait asked, hoping Doyle didn’t hear the urgency in his tone.

  “Town in Colorado Territory called Heartbreak Creek.” Another laugh, this time laced with menace. “An apt name, I think, considering how she’ll feel when I’m through with her.”

  The coil tightened. “You’re going to Colorado?”

  “Not yet. I’ll keep her watched to make sure she doesn’t try to run again. Then once this Denver deal gets going, maybe I’ll go over there—pay her a little visit. What’s that saying about killing two birds with one stone?” He emptied his glass and set it down with a thump. “I’ve heard the Rocky Mountains are so big a person can disappear into them and never be seen again.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  The Irishman shrugged.

  “Hell, Doyle, why don’t you just let it go?”

  “Let it go? She stole from me, man! How can I let that go?”

  Realizing his fingers were digging into the upholstered arms of the chair, Tait forced his hands to relax. “But you don’t even need her shares anymore,” he said, hoping to mask his desperation under a tone of reason. “The vote last week went your way anyway.”

  “After I had to buy almost half of them back, damn her to hell!” Doyle lifted the glass, saw it was empty, then drew back his arm as if he intended to throw the tumbler across the room. Instead, he set it carefully back onto the desk. “Did you know she took out loans against the certificates in Philadelphia and again in St. Louis? Even discounted, it cost me a fortune to get them back.”

  “If you have the stocks, why pursue her? Why not put this behind you and move on?”

  “Never!” Doyle slammed his fist so hard onto the desktop papers bounced. “She had a grand time, so she did, making a fool of me and spending my money. Well, now the piper must be paid. We Irish have a saying. ‘Fillean meal ar an meallaire’—evil returns to the evildoer. But it’s not just going to return, boyo, it’s going to rain down on her head. I swear on my mother’s name, Tait, by the time this is over, Margaret Hamilton, or Lucinda Hathaway, or whoever the hell she is, will regret the day she ever crossed Doyle Kerrigan.”

  “Doyle—”

  A knock interrupted him. Quinn stepped in with a tray of sandwiches and a pot of coffee.

  “Take that away,” Doyle ordered when he saw it. “And get me another bottle, Quinn. I’m in a drinking mood, so I am.”

  Seeing he could talk no sense into the drunken Irishman, Tait left and went directly to the brownstone on Sixty-ninth Street.

  As soon as the door opened, he shoved past Pringle. “Get her. Now.” Without waiting to see if the butler obeyed, Tait went straight into the front room. Too agitated to sit, he stood at the window, one hand resting on the head of his cane, the other in his pocket, idly turning a coin in his fingers.

  At a sound behind him, he turned to see Mrs. Throckmorton coming through the doorway. “‘Get her’?’ What am I—a sack of potatoes in the pantry?” But her pique faded when she saw his face. “Oh, my dear boy. What’s wrong?”

  “He found her. Doyle knows she’s in Colorado Territory. In a town called Heartbreak Creek. He’s sending Pinkerton agents to watch her.”

  Her color faded so abruptly the two lightly rouged spots on her cheeks stood out like round, rosy bruises. “Oh, no . . .”

  Seeing her falter, Tait limped forward. It was a measure of her agitation that this time the old lady allowed him to assist her into her chair.

  “What are we going to do?” she asked, once Tait settled across from her.

  Before he could answer, the door opened and Pringle shuffled in with the usual tea and whiskey tray. This time, the liquid in the bottle was the color of horse piss. Tait figured by the end of the week, he’d be drinking straight water.

  “Shall I set another plate for dinner?” Pringle asked in a bored tone.

  “Is Cook still ill?”

  “So she says, madam. Although she seemed well enough earlier in the day when she departed with a carpet bag in her hand. Shall I count the fla
tware?”

  “She left?”

  “I do not know. There is, however, a consensus below stairs that she has eloped. But rest assured, madam, the upstairs maid has whipped up something for your dinner. I cannot say for certain what it is. She’s Scottish, you see. Something boiled, I think. With an odor of fish.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “That’s all right,” Tait cut in. “I won’t be staying long.”

  After Pringle made his excruciatingly slow exit, Tait said, “If you’re short of personnel, Mrs. Throckmorton, I know of an excellent housekeeper who might be seeking employment. In fact, you probably met her at the wedding. Mrs. Bradshaw.”

  “I do remember her. The hooligan’s housekeeper, wasn’t she? I wondered why any decent woman would stay in his employ.”

  “He pays well.”

  “He would have to, I daresay. All right, you may send her around.”

  Tait said he would see if the woman was available, then turned back to the more pressing matter. “We must warn Lucinda that Doyle knows where she is and that he’s sending Pinkerton agents to report her movements. I’ll write to her directly.”

  “First you should probably read these.” She pulled three envelopes from her skirt pocket. “They all came on the heels of one another. I started to send for you, then remembered you said you’d be working on some issue up north for a couple of days.”

  Tait had gone up to Newburgh to assess an accident in a machine shop he and Doyle owned. Luckily, no one had been hurt and the damages were minimal. He’d returned home the next day.

  She handed an envelope to Tait. “This came late last week. The next arrived two days ago. The third, this morning. Read that one first.”

  With some apprehension, Tait pulled out the letter and began to read.

  Dearest Mrs. Throckmorton,

  It was lovely hearing from you again. Your letters always give me a lift.

  My Heartbreak Creek family continues to grow. Not long after I bought the hotel, Edwina and Pru came into town, bringing with them the entire Brodie brood, along with a striking Indian gentleman named Thomas Redstone. He looks very fierce in his Cheyenne Dog Soldier regalia, and appears to be quite taken with Pru.

  Robert Declan Brodie, Edwina’s husband—who also carries the nickname of Big Bob because of his imposing stature—seems an honorable, dependable sort. From all appearances, his marriage to Edwina is working out well, although the children are somewhat resistant to the idea of a new mother. (Did I tell you their natural mother was killed by Indians several years ago?)

  Maddie continues to take the most astounding photographs. Her editor is hinting that he may publish a bound copy of her work. Naturally, she is thrilled with the prospect. She recently commissioned the construction of a little wagon that she plans to use for her photographic expeditions. I fear for her safety, but she insists she has always been greeted with great courtesy wherever she goes, so I try not to worry too much.

  The hotel restoration goes slowly, but a thorough cleaning, a fresh coat of paint, some furniture wax, and a few potted plants have already done wonders. I long for you to see it.

  As always, I miss you terribly.

  Margaret

  Tait folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope, wondering what the urgency was. Granted, Lucinda’s letters to her guardian were more newsy than those she wrote to him, but still, he saw nothing in the missive to account for the anxiety he saw in Mrs. Throckmorton’s eyes.

  “Now read this.” The frail hand held out the second letter.

  Tait took it and read:

  Dear Mrs. Throckmorton,

  I am writing this two days after my earlier letter. An awful thing has happened!

  While the Brodies were in town, their ranch was attacked by a renegade war party of Arapaho Indians led by a terrible man named Lone Tree. And now, Pru has been abducted by the same vile creature!

  Edwina is in a terrible state, as are we all. Although wounded in the abduction, Thomas Redstone, the Cheyenne warrior I mentioned earlier, has gone to find her. And this morning, Declan Brodie left with a dozen army troopers to search also.

  I can scarcely believe this dreadful thing has happened—especially now that Edwina has just informed me that this Lone Tree person is the same man that Declan thinks killed his first wife. It sounds like a plot in one of those lurid western dime novels, does it not? But sadly, it is all true. I will write more when we have news.

  Please keep us in your prayers,

  Your devoted Margaret

  Tait looked at Mrs. Throckmorton in astonishment. “A woman’s been abducted? I thought the Indian trouble had been settled over a year ago. My God, is Lucinda in danger?” He didn’t realize he was halfway out of his chair until Mrs. Thornton motioned him back.

  “Relax, dear boy. The woman’s been found. Read on.” She held out the last envelope.

  Dearest Mrs. Throckmorton,

  So much has happened here I hardly know where to begin.

  First of all—wonderful news! Pru has been saved! She will not talk about her ordeal, which we can see weighs heavily on her, but we respect her wishes and rejoice that she is still alive.

  That is the good news.

  The bad news is that Declan Brodie returned with another woman who had been taken captive by the same Indian. His first wife, Sally!

  You can imagine our shock. With the return of his previous wife, Declan’s marriage to Edwina becomes invalid. To complicate matters further, it was immediately apparent that the poor woman was dying of consumption. How can Declan cast her aside now?

  Then two days ago, Lone Tree attacked again! This time, he broke into the hotel, gave Sally a mortal beating, and took Edwina and Declan’s seven-year-old daughter, Brin, hostage.

  Luckily he didn’t get far before Declan put an end to him. So now Sally is resting in the church graveyard, and we have a wedding to plan. And soon! Since we only recently learned Edwina is in a family way.

  So all’s well that ends well. A harrowing experience, and one that serves to remind us how fragile life is, especially in the Wild West. I am so grateful my Heartbreak Creek family is safe—and am now even more determined than ever to make this town a happy place once again.

  Toward that end, I am pleased to report my efforts are progressing nicely. And just in time, since the mine is closing. We have already garnered interest from two railroads. I will give you more details as they come to fruition.

  Thank you for your prayers.

  Devotedly yours,

  Margaret

  PS: Alas, if it’s not one thing, it’s another. Apparently some man has been tracking Maddie. I suspect it is her long-lost husband. But if he expects to find the same docile little wife he deserted back in Scotland, he’ll be mightily surprised. I’ll keep you apprised. M.

  Tait looked up, his mind spinning from all he’d read. Indian attacks, abductions, wives coming back from the dead, husbands stalking wives . . . good God. What kind of place was this Heartbreak Creek? “What is this plan she has to save the town?” he asked, passing the letter back to Mrs. Throckmorton.

  “I don’t know. But it sounds as if it involves a railway, does it not?”

  That’s what Tait was afraid of. Surely her little canyon wasn’t the same one Doyle and Horne were considering. That would be too coincidental. Yet he knew there weren’t that many passes—or canyons—through the southern Rockies that would be suitable for a railroad. God help her if they were working toward the same route; the best way to send Doyle into a murderous rage was to get between him and his money.

  “I’ve got to go to her,” he burst out, reaching for his cane. “Warning her about Doyle won’t be enough. I should be there.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” Tait looked at her in astonishment
. “To stop her before this railway venture puts her in the path of her enemies. To protect her from Doyle.”

  “And who will protect her from you, Mr. Rylander?”

  “Me?” Yet even as he said it, Tait felt the heat of guilt rush up his neck.

  “I’m not a fool, dear boy. I know you’re in love with her. I also know you are obsessed with her past. If you expect to win her, you must put that aside. For her sake, as well as your own. If you are unable to do that, don’t go after her.”

  “I assure you, Mrs. Throckmorton, your ward has nothing to fear from me.”

  “No?” The old lady smiled in a way that reminded him again how astute she was. “Then perhaps I should be worrying about protecting you from her.”

  * * *

  As soon as he reached home, Tait went directly to his office, sat down behind his desk, and pulled out several sheets of stationery.

  His frustration was at a boiling point. Mrs. Throckmorton had convinced him not to go haring off to Colorado but to stay in Manhattan where he could watch Doyle and search for whoever had sent Smythe. Yet the drive to do something almost overwhelmed him. He needed to see her. Talk to her. Make certain she was safe. But instead of being able to touch her to reassure himself, all he had in his grasp was a piece of paper.

  Dipping his pen into the inkwell, he began to write down everything he wanted to say to her. Using words he might never have been able to speak aloud, he told her about the lonely days and restless nights, the ache in his heart that never seemed to go away, the need that consumed him and made a mockery of his empty life. He wrote how much he admired her intellect, her courage, and that smirky smile that made him laugh. He told her he loved her and was convinced she loved him, too, and that they were destined to be together. He told her everything that was in his heart, and for an hour, he bled inky letters across the white pages.

  When at last he put down the pen, he felt drained and emotionally exhausted, but also relieved to have finally sorted through the chaos in his mind.