Bride of the High Country

by Kaki Warner

  “I can’t help it. I have to use the water closet.”

  “Again? At this rate I’ll never get this dress finished.”

  “It’s not as if I enjoy traipsing back and forth, you know. Declan said last night I must have woken him up five times. But then once he was awake,” she added with a sly grin, “he rolled over and commenced—”

  “Please. Spare us the details.” Lucinda made a shooing motion. “Go. And if you see Miriam, ask her to bring another pitcher of lemonade.”

  “Oh, grand. That’s just what I need. More lemonade.”

  As the door closed behind her, Maddie plopped into a chair with a deep sigh. “Trying to get that woman to stand still is like . . .” She paused, searching for the right words.

  “Lassoing a cyclone?” Pru supplied with a chuckle. “That’s what my momma used to say. Edwina has always been like that. Declan’s settled her down some, but he’s lucky to have four children around to help drain off some of that energy.”

  “Nonetheless, they do seem quite happy with one another,” Maddie observed. “Who would have guessed, after that first awkward meeting.”

  “Awkward? Lord, you don’t know the half of it. I felt like I was caught in the middle of a dog fight. And those children certainly didn’t help. They came at her like chickens after a June bug.”

  Lucinda laughed. “Yet she prevailed. I admire her for that. For having the courage to jump in with the sharks, as it were.”

  “More like landing in a nest of Louisiana alligators.”

  “All this to-do reminds me of my own wedding,” Maddie said, a dreamy look in her eyes that meant she was thinking about that rogue Scotsman.

  “Oh?” Lucinda teased. “Were you pregnant, too? Was your Angus a widower? Did he have four rowdy children?”

  “You are a cold woman, Lucinda Hathaway. I daresay you haven’t an ounce of romance in your heart.”

  “I should hope not. Romance is for fanciful novels and gullible young misses.” Yet, even as she spoke, Lucinda felt that spark of melancholy flare up again. Ignoring it, she sewed another stitch in the veil she was attaching to the coronet.

  The door opened and Edwina came back in, trailed by Miriam, bearing a fresh pitcher of lemonade and a plate of tiny sandwiches and pastries. Seeing that Edwina was tiring, Lucinda suggested a break while they ate, and had Miriam set up a table and bring in another chair from the office.

  “Our first Heartbreak Creek wedding,” Maddie mused.

  “But hopefully not our last.” Edwina raised her brows at Pru, then Lucinda.

  Lucinda shook her head. “Don’t look at me. I’ll never marry.”

  “Why not?” Edwina was so in love with her husband she thought everybody should have one. “You’re beautiful, rich, pointy—any man would be lucky to have you.”

  “Pointy?”

  “Don’t ask,” Pru muttered under her breath.

  “One lucky man almost did,” Maddie said.

  Lucinda sent her a warning look.

  Which she ignored. “Our Lucinda is the original runaway bride. Left him standing at the altar, so to speak.”

  Seeing the curious looks headed her way, Lucinda knew she would have to respond or Edwina would nag unmercifully. “Actually, I left him after the ceremony but before the signing of the marriage certificate. Since it was never duly filed, we are not legally married. I think that disqualifies me as a bride.”

  “But, Lucinda! You gave your vows. Before God.”

  Poor Edwina. She actually thinks God cares. But unwilling to be dragged into some theological discussion about God and sin and everlasting damnation or whatever it was southerners believed, Lucinda put on a regretful smile and said, “He was not the man for me. Luckily I came to my senses in time and was able to save us both from a lifetime of unhappiness and heartache.”

  That was a bit of a whitewash, but Edwina and Pru seemed to accept it, and although Maddie’s skeptical expression told Lucinda she didn’t, she said nothing more, for which Lucinda was deeply grateful.

  Happy to change the subject, she asked Maddie how her little gypsy wagon was coming along. In truth, she thought the idea of a woman traveling around the wilderness taking photographs was patently absurd and potentially dangerous. But she and Maddie had had this discussion several times in the past, and each time Maddie had stood firm. It was, after all, her life and photography was her passion. So how could Lucinda interfere?

  “I am assured it will be ready in time for a short expeditionary trip before we all leave for the statehood convention.”

  Most of them would be going to Denver. The only ones not attending were Pru, who would be watching over the children, and Thomas, who would be taking over deputy duties in Declan’s absence—and watching over Pru. As a delegate to the convention, Declan was going there to cast the town vote on the statehood issue, and because he couldn’t bear to be parted from his wife in her delicate condition, he had insisted Edwina come along, as well. He was such a dear.

  Lucinda was attending to meet with railroad investors about a route through Heartbreak Creek Canyon, and Maddie was going along to photograph the proceedings.

  It sounded like a grand adventure.

  “Maddie, you’re actually going into the mountains alone?” Pru looked more admiring than shocked, which disappointed Lucinda. She had hoped for an ally.

  “How else will I find trappers and mountain men and miners and buffalo hunters. Besides, I won’t be alone. Wilfred Satterwhite is coming with me for protection.”

  Edwina blinked at her in astonishment. “Wall-eyed Willy?”

  “You might as well take a corpse,” Lucinda muttered. “The man must be ninety.”

  “He’s a lively seventy-three,” Maddie countered, then added with a grin, “But not too lively, if you take my meaning. I would hate to have to fend off unwanted advances.”

  “From Wall-eyed Willy?” Edwina gave a dramatic shudder. “Just the thought of that gives me the shivers.”

  “Despite his unfortunate appearance,” Maddie defended, “Wilfred Satterwhite is a very nice man. Now stand up, Edwina. It’s getting late and we need to get this dress finished before you outgrow it.”

  “And we still must decide on the menu,” Lucinda reminded them.

  “And what decorations you want,” Pru added.

  With a labored sigh, Edwina pushed herself out of the chair and went back to stand on the crate so Maddie could finish the hem. “What a bother all this is becoming,” she said wearily. “It’s a wonder anyone ever gets married.”

  “My sentiments exactly,” Lucinda muttered. Yet, somewhere deep inside, the thorn of envy pricked her, and she wondered if she would still feel so disheartened about marriage if instead of walking down the aisle with Tait Rylander, she had been walking toward him.

  Lucinda—

  I am in receipt of your return letter, and I must say I was delighted to read that you have been thinking of my body parts. Was there one in particular that stood out for you?

  I freely admit I think of yours almost constantly—that dimple in your left cheek, that freckle on the underside of your left breast, and that tiny strawberry-colored birthmark high on the inside of your thigh. What? You didn’t know about that? Then it is my fondest hope that you will allow me to point it out when next we meet. (Incidentally, it tastes nothing like strawberries. More like . . . well, never mind. Just another thing we’ll have to explore together, won’t we?)

  Until then, and with the lovely image of you stretched beneath me, your head thrown back in abandon, your rosebud mouth open on a sigh of bliss, I shall retire to my lonely bed and dream of you. As always.

  Tait

  Seventeen

  September 1870

  My dearest guardian,

  How this summer has flown. Even tho
ugh the days are still warm and sunny, the nights are growing so cool the fur on Maddie’s mules is starting to thicken.

  I am happy to report that the wedding was a huge success. I vow I have never seen a lovelier bride, despite the fact that she sobbed throughout the entire ceremony. (Apparently it’s not unusual for some women to become extremely emotional during the prenatal state, especially at their own weddings.) Declan took it all in stride, although the children got into a bit of a flap when a bee took an interest in Brin’s bouquet. Thomas Redstone looked magnificent in his warrior costume and Pru—along with every woman in the church except for Biddy Rickman and the choir ladies—couldn’t seem to take her eyes off of him.

  As for me, the day was a bittersweet reminder of my own wedding—which started with such high hopes, and ended so badly. And yet, without that sad sequence of events, I wouldn’t be here today among dear friends, building a wonderful new life. My greatest regret is that you are not here to share it with me.

  I am sad to report that yesterday Maddie left in her new wagon on her first photographic expedition, heading north to the Alamosa River where gold was recently found. She takes with her a little dog she recently acquired, and an elderly man who will drive the wagon and watch over her. I daresay the dog, which is quite the yapper, will be better protection, although Maddie, who is the most courageous woman I’ve ever met, still insists she will be safe.

  Seeing her wagon drive away was difficult for me. She has become the sister I never had and I shall miss her terribly. At least I will have Edwina and Pru to keep me company, and the upcoming convention in Denver to occupy my mind.

  Missing you, too,

  Margaret

  * * *

  Tait knew something was wrong as soon as Quinn opened the door to Doyle’s townhome late in the afternoon during the last week of September.

  The man looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. There were shadows beneath his eyes, his suit was rumpled, and several day’s beard stubbled his chin.

  “Good God, man, what’s happened? Is it Doyle?”

  Tait hadn’t seen the Irishman for almost three weeks. He had come by on several occasions, but each time Quinn had reluctantly refused him entrance, obviously at Doyle’s instruction. But now with time running out, and the Colorado statehood convention looming in the near future, Tait was determined to find out what was going on.

  “Another Pinkerton report?” he asked, handing over his hat and cane.

  Quinn nodded. In a low voice, he said, “I’ve never seen it this bad, Mr. Rylander. I’m supposed to turn you away, but—” A crash from the rear of the house brought his head around. Turning back, he gave a deep sigh. “I don’t know what to do, sir. He’s run off most of the staff, and now with Mr. Horne gone—”

  Tait stilled. “Gone where?”

  “Colorado.” Quinn made a weary gesture. “Some railroad thing. Maybe you can talk some sense into him, Mr. Rylander. He’s liable to hurt himself, or someone else, he keeps this up.”

  Tait gave the other man’s shoulder a pat. “I’ll see what I can do, Quinn. Send in a pot of coffee, will you?”

  “Doubt he’ll drink it. He threw the last one through the window.”

  “Bring it anyway. And stay close, in case I need you.”

  “I will, sir. And you take care. He may be drunk but he’s still quick. Harry’s got the eye to prove it.”

  The reek of whiskey hit Tait as soon as he opened the door into the darkened office. Pausing on the threshold, he looked around. The room was a shambles. Chairs overturned, broken glass littering the marble hearth, more shards clinging to the mullions in the leaded-glass window that overlooked the back garden. Flies darted in and out of the shattered panes, while others buzzed lazy circles above whiskey spills and food drying on plates stacked on the side table.

  “Doyle?”

  Tait caught movement in a chair beside the hearth and turned to see Doyle push himself to his feet. He stood swaying, a half-filled whiskey glass dangling from one hand, a bottle from the other.

  “If it’s not my good friend, Tait Rylander, loyal as the day is long, so he is.”

  “Jesus, Doyle.” Tait gestured at the filthy room. “What are you doing?”

  “Ag ol uisce beatha—drinking whiskey. It’s what we Irish do, don’t you know?” Laughing, Doyle wove toward his desk and plopped into his chair with a groan. After clumsily refilling his glass, he held the bottle high. “Would you care to join me, boyo?”

  “No.” Picking his way through scattered books, papers, and empty bottles, Tait crossed to Doyle’s desk. As he lit the lamp, he saw a folder beside it with the distinctive Pinkerton open-eye logo printed on the front.

  A sense of inevitability came over him. A certainty that what lay inside the folder would put an end to this poisonous friendship built on greed and guilt and obligation. It was an ending he both welcomed and dreaded—the final irrevocable confrontation with this damaged, driven man.

  It had been a long time coming. Since before Margaret. Perhaps even beginning the day Doyle had cut Tait down from the hanging tree and said the words he would repeat many times throughout the years—always with a laugh and a clap on the back, as if it were a joke, when they both knew it wasn’t.

  You owe me, boyo.

  Well, no more.

  Bending, Tait picked up one of the toppled chairs and set it back on its feet before Doyle’s desk, then sat down, relaxed yet ready, every sense so focused on what was to come he could almost feel the nerves jumping beneath his skin.

  It reminded him of his fighting days.

  He studied the Irishman. It was apparent the man hadn’t shaved or bathed or changed clothes in days. From the look of it, he hadn’t slept, either. Tait had seen this dark side of Doyle only one other time—after he’d lost a business deal to another man and had realized it had all been a setup and they had been laughing at him the whole time. It had taken all of Tait’s skill as a lawyer and negotiator—as well as a hefty chunk of his cash—to keep Doyle out of prison.

  But this time, it looked even worse. “What’s wrong?”

  The Irishman didn’t answer.

  “A problem with the Denver venture?” It had to be, if Horne was already headed there. Just the thought of that bastard being anywhere near Lucinda made Tait’s jaw lock. He had to go to her. As soon as he finished here, he would make the necessary arrangements. He just hoped he hadn’t waited too long.

  “The Denver venture. Hmm . . .” Tipping his head back, Doyle squinted up at the ceiling. “Aye, there’s a problem, so it seems.”

  Tait wondered what demons frolicked in the Irishman’s head tonight. Like a child with a cruel streak and a trapped butterfly, Doyle did like his games. “What kind of problem?” he asked.

  “Competition. It seems someone is buying up the right-of-ways we need.” Turning his head, he looked at Tait, and what Tait saw in the Irishman’s eyes heightened his senses even more. “That wouldn’t be you, would it, laddie?”

  Not the question Tait had expected. “I passed on Denver, remember? I don’t even know what route you’ve chosen.”

  Doyle studied him a moment longer, then looked away. “No matter. Horne will take care of it.”

  “Take care of what?”

  Before he got an answer, a knock sounded. Quinn came in with a pot of coffee, two cups, and a plate of sandwiches on a tray. Tait told him to put it on the desk, which he did, then left, closing the door behind him.

  “You should eat something.” Tait offered the sandwich plate.

  Doyle surprised him by taking one. But after one bite, he set it aside. Tipping his head against the backrest, he closed his eyes.

  Silence. Tait poured a cup of coffee and shoved it across to Doyle. “Here’s coffee.”

  Doyle ignored it.

  Two minutes stre
tched to five. Tait wondered why he was staying.

  Then finally, in a voice so flat and weary Tait scarcely recognized it, Doyle said, “Why, Tait? Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

  “Find out what?”

  “That you were fucking my wife.”

  Tait rubbed a finger across his battered knuckles and imagined driving them into Doyle’s face. But knowing calmness, not violence, was the only way to reach Doyle when he was drunk, he kept his fury under control. “She’s not your wife.”

  Doyle opened his eyes and looked over at him.

  “The marriage certificate wasn’t witnessed,” Tait explained. “Or registered. Margaret is not, and has never been, your lawful wife. And if you ever speak about her that way again, I’ll put you on the ground.”

  Doyle continued to look at him. A sneer slowly curled his chapped lips. “You stupid bastard. You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”

  Tait didn’t answer.

  Which made Doyle laugh. “Well, here, boyo.” Slapping a hand on the folder, he shoved it so savagely across the desk it would have fallen to the floor if Tait hadn’t caught it. “Read all about your little love.”

  Tait looked at the folder in his hands. He could guess what was inside. Dates, names, every private thing she had worked so hard to conceal. The Pinkertons would leave no corner unprobed, no relationship undissected, no action unexamined. It was an invasion of the foulest kind.

  God help him, but he wanted to open it. To finally have all his answers laid before him. All he had to do was open it and the puzzle that was Lucinda would be revealed to him, and he would know all her secrets at last.

  He took a deep breath, let it out, and put the folder back on the desk. “I already know all I need to.”

  “Do you, now?” Leaning forward, Doyle folded his arms on the desk. “And did you know she’s Irish? Or that she’s no kin to the Throckmorton bitch? Or that her true name is Cathleen Donovan? Did you know that, boyo?”