Bride of the High Country

by Kaki Warner

  Tait could see the Irishman was enjoying himself, and that, more than anything Doyle could have said or done, killed any lingering respect Tait might have harbored for this cruel and soulless man.

  Doyle laughed. “So you know about Mrs. Beale’s, do you? And the auction for little Cathleen’s virginity? And the fine training she received at Smythe’s hands? Ah . . . I can see on your face you didn’t know that part. Horne said she had a talent for satisfying a man. A gift, really. He said—”

  Tait’s fist drove the words back down the Irishman’s throat with enough force to send his chair crashing into the bookcase behind the desk. Lucky for Doyle, Tait had had to lean over the desk to deliver the blow, or Doyle’s jaw would have been shattered.

  The door opened and Quinn rushed in. He gaped first at Tait, who was trying to staunch the blood from his torn knuckles, then at Doyle, who was struggling to disentangle himself from the chair amid an unending string of Irish curses.

  “Send in a bowl of warm water and some clean rags, would you please, Quinn?” Tait asked.

  “Ah . . . yes, sir.” He hurried away.

  “Ciarch ort,” Doyle mumbled, wiping a hand over his bloody mouth.

  “I warned you.” Picking up the Pinkerton file, Tait walked to the fireplace. Bending down, he struck a match and held it to the corner until the paper caught.

  “Feis ort.”

  As the flames engulfed the file, Tait dropped the folder into the grate, dusted his hands, and rose. He hadn’t wanted this to deteriorate to physical violence. The Irishman was no match for him in size or experience or strength, and Tait found it repugnant to use his fists on a man who was so drunk he could hardly stand. But the images Doyle’s words had planted in his mind had had such an explosive effect Tait had reacted purely on instinct. And rage.

  “Sit down, Doyle,” he ordered as he walked back to the desk.

  Still muttering under his breath, Doyle righted his chair, then sank down just as Quinn returned with a bowl of steaming water, a tin of ointment, and a stack of clean rags.

  As he set it on the desk, Quinn’s gaze swept over the bleeding Irishman before settling on Tait. “Do I need to stay, Mr. Rylander?”

  Less of a question than a subtle warning. Which surprised Tait, even though it made him respect the ex-Pinkerton even more for his loyalty to his employer, however misplaced. “No, Quinn. It’ll be all right.”

  “I’ll be outside, should I be needed.” With a last glance at Doyle, he left, this time leaving the door slightly ajar.

  A good man, Quinn. Tait wished he’d known him under other circumstances.

  After tending his knuckles, Tait wrapped them tightly with a strip of cloth, then shoved the bowl and ointment toward Doyle. “Clean yourself up.”

  “Pog mo thoin.”

  “Just do it.”

  Tait waited until Doyle had mopped up most of the blood streaming from his nose and split lip before he spoke. “We both know you don’t give a damn about Margaret. So we’ll put that aside and get to what’s bothering you the most.”

  Doyle glared at him in silence.

  “How many stock certificates are left unaccounted for?”

  “Why?”

  “So we can end this, here and now. How many?”

  Thirty minutes later, the negotiations were complete, the debt paid, and Lucinda was safe. At least from Doyle. Tait rose, a feeling of disgust churning in his stomach. But already this sordid scene was slipping behind him and his thoughts were racing ahead to what he needed to do.

  Two weeks—maybe less, if he didn’t make any stops—and he would be there beside her. That thought sent such a rush of emotion through Tait it swept away all the pain and despair that hung in this room. He felt new again. Hopeful. Like the moment he’d been awaiting all his life had finally arrived.

  “Good-bye, Doyle,” he said, and turned toward the door.

  “Faith, and you’re an ungrateful bastard. I saved your life, so I did.”

  Tait stopped. Curbing his impatience, he turned back. “Yes, you did. And I thank you for it.”

  “You thank me?” With a bitter laugh, the Irishman spread his hands in a gesture of disbelief. “You owe me more than that, so you do!”

  “And I’ve repaid you. Many times. But you’re a bottomless pit of need and greed, Doyle, and nothing I can say or do will ever fill you up. So I quit trying.”

  “I made you rich!”

  “No! I made you rich,” Tait shouted back. “Do you know how many times I had to give my personal surety on your dodgy deals? No one wanted to do business with Doyle Kerrigan unless they knew Tait Rylander was standing behind him.”

  “They hate the Irish—”

  “They hate a liar! A man whose word is worth less than the breath used to give it.” Seeing the sullen look in the Irishman’s face, Tait let some of his anger go. This was getting him nowhere. He didn’t know all the forces that had shaped this man he had once called friend, and he no longer cared. He had other things to do and places to go. A woman to win.

  But in deference to their long years together, he tried one last time to reach through the bitterness and selfishness to the man he hoped still dwelled behind the empty eyes and seducer’s smile.

  “You left your soul in Ireland, Doyle. I suggest you go back and try to find it before it’s too late.”

  “Go back?” Doyle laughed and reached down for the bottle beside his chair. “Just walk away from all I’ve built here? Pog mo thoin.”

  Tait opened the door. He looked back at the man slumped in the chair, head tipped back, the glass raised to his lips. “Then I pity you.”

  * * *

  Doyle’s words kept circling in Tait’s head as he hurried down the street. . . . Her training at Smythe’s hands . . .

  . . . Horne said she had a talent . . .

  . . . He held an auction for her virginity . . .

  He shook with rage.

  If the Pinkerton report was right that both Horne and Smythe had been at Mrs. Beale’s when Lucinda was there, then he now knew who her enemy was. The same man headed her way now.

  Franklin Horne.

  A sense of urgency quickened his limping stride.

  He had no firsthand knowledge of the Beale whorehouse since it had burned down long before he’d come to Manhattan. He had still been in North Carolina back in fifty-five, a young man of nineteen, newly orphaned by a freak flood and struggling to hold on to his parents’ store while studying the law. But Mrs. Beale’s reputation as the purveyor of the most debased and vile entertainments in Five Points was legendary. He could only imagine the depravity Lucinda might have witnessed or been forced to participate in, or the cruelties she had endured at the hands of Smythe and Horne. Not the kind of appetites a man running for a governorship would want made public.

  Now, along with who, he knew why.

  But he couldn’t let his mind go further than that. It was too much. He couldn’t bear to think of Lucinda suffering what she must have with no one there to protect her.

  But when he caught up with Horne . . . God . . . he would pay.

  On his way to Mrs. Throckmorton’s, he stopped at a Western Union Office and sent a wire to Lucinda in care of the Heartbreak Creek Hotel. He kept it simple and to the point: Do not go to Denver. I’ll be there soon. Tait.

  If he had time, he might write her a more detailed letter later. But for now, he hoped this warning would be enough.

  It was full dark when he arrived at the Sixty-ninth Street brownstone. But even in the dim light of the street lamps, it was apparent Pringle was in a snit. He didn’t bait Tait at all but did as he was told without a single sniff or snort or haughty glare. Tait understood why as soon as Mrs. Throckmorton came into the receiving room, looking every bit as cheerful as her butler was dour.


  “You are such a dear, Mr. Rylander,” she gushed, fluttering a lace-edged hanky in greeting as she swept into the room. “I cannot thank you enough.”

  “For what?”

  “For Mrs. Bradshaw, of course. The woman is a gem. A miracle worker. An absolute joy. Even Pringle is afraid of her.” Abruptly she stopped fluttering when her gaze fell on the stained rag around Tait’s hand. “Oh, dear! What have you done to yourself now?”

  “I just came from Doyle’s. He knows everything. That she’s Irish, and her name was Cathleen, and about . . . everything.”

  She seemed to deflate. “Mrs. Beale’s, too?”

  He nodded. He hadn’t been sure of how much Mrs. Throckmorton had been aware, but if she knew about Mrs. Beale’s whorehouse, then she probably knew all of it. He didn’t know what to say. What to think. What he was supposed to do with all this rage churning inside him.

  The old woman sank into her chair. “How?”

  “The Pinkertons are very thorough.”

  Damn them. The idea of strangers—men—pouring over the salacious details of the abuse Lucinda had suffered made Tait want to hit something.

  Slumping into the chair across from Mrs. Throckmorton, he propped his elbows on his knees and dropped his forehead into his hands. How could this have happened? To Lucinda? To any woman, much less a child?

  It shamed him. As it should shame any man.

  “It was Horne who sent Smythe after her,” he said once he’d gotten himself in hand. “I’m sure of it. He was there . . . back then. She probably saw or heard . . .”

  He couldn’t complete the thought. Letting his hands drop away, he looked up and saw his own pain reflected in Mrs. Throckmorton’s watery blue eyes. “She was just a child. How could she bear it?”

  Mrs. Throckmorton blotted her tears with her hanky, then gave him a tremulous smile. “Because she’s strong. Because she’s a survivor. And she never let it defeat her. Nor should you.” Reaching out, she took Tait’s undamaged hand in both of hers.

  Her fingers felt brittle against his, her skin cool and papery. But their grip was surprisingly strong.

  “Don’t fail her now, Mr. Rylander.” She stared hard into his eyes even as tears slid down her rouged cheeks. “If you do, I shall allow Pringle to push you down the steps as he’s been pining to do all these weeks.”

  Tait smiled grimly, despite the sudden sting in his own eyes. “I have no intention of failing her, madam. I intend to marry her.”

  “Humph.” Releasing his hand, she sat back. She took a moment to smooth a wrinkle from her skirt, then hiked her chin. “You shall have to ask my permission first, of course.”

  “I’m asking for it now, ma’am. But only as a courtesy. I will have your ward as my wife, with or without your blessing.”

  “Cheeky.”

  “Determined.”

  “She won’t be easy to win.”

  Tait smiled. “I have my ways.” Picking up his cane, he rose. “I’ll be leaving on the first ferry to Paulus Hook in the morning. But I could delay that should you want to go to Colorado Territory with me.”

  The old lady’s eyes clouded again. “I should like to, but you will travel faster alone, and it’s imperative that you reach Margaret as soon as possible.”

  Tait couldn’t argue with that. “If you decide to come later, I urge you not to travel alone. Bring Mrs. Bradshaw. She would be excellent company.”

  “But scant protection. And that would leave Pringle with no one to keep an eye on him.”

  “Then let him go,” Tait suggested. “He’s hardly indispensable.” Not with that attitude.

  “Oh, I couldn’t. The man dotes on me, you know. I suppose I could have Cyrus Quincy from the bank check on him.”

  Tait thought for a moment, then stepping to the escritoire against the window wall, pulled out a piece of stationery and a pen. After scribbling down a short note, he handed the paper to Mrs. Throckmorton. “I would feel better if you had more protection. Contact this man. I can vouch for his trustworthiness and experience. Buster Quinn would look after you well. Meanwhile, if you need to reach me, send a wire to either Pittsburgh or Columbus or St. Louis, and ask them to hold it for my arrival. I’ll check with the Western Union offices in each town as I travel through.”

  She studied the paper. “Buster. An absurd name. But perhaps I will.”

  Leaning down, Tait braced his hands on the armrests of Mrs. Throckmorton’s chair. He gave her a solemn look. “You will come, dear lady. And soon. Because there is no other but you that I and Lucinda Hathaway or Margaret Hamilton or Cathleen Donovan would have at our sides when we wed.”

  She batted at his chin with her hanky. “Don’t hover.”

  Laughing, he bent lower, pressed his lips to her soft cheek, then straightened. “Thank you for your kindness, madam. I value it highly.”

  “You should. Now go. My daughter awaits.”

  * * *

  Tait made one more stop on his way home. Even though the bank was closed at this late hour, he and his banker shared a long friendship, and Tait was comfortable dropping by his house uninvited.

  Luckily Geoffrey Brisbane was home. And it was even more fortunate that he had a safe in his study. Accepting Tait’s note in exchange for two thick envelopes of bank notes, he quickly wrote down all of Tait’s instructions relating to his Manhattan home and various accounts.

  “I don’t know when I’ll be back, Geoff,” Tait said, once all the transactions were completed and they were walking into the foyer. “But I thank you for disposing of the house and clearing any outstanding debts. As for the Rices, you have my instructions. If there is any problem or if you have questions, you can contact me in Heartbreak Creek.”

  When they reached the front door, the older man paused. “I have to say, Tait, all this seems rather impulsive. Especially for such a deliberate man as yourself. What has made you decide to take such a leap now?”

  Tait had to laugh. “You want me to say it, don’t you?” Geoff had long been after him to sever ties with Doyle and find another purpose in his life other than chasing the next business venture. “Okay, you were right. About Doyle. About settling down. About everything. You’re brilliant.”

  Geoff laughed. “Perhaps so. But I didn’t intend that you should go all the way to Colorado to prove it.” His smile faded into an expression of affection. He gave Tait’s shoulder a final squeeze, then opened the front door. “I shall miss you . . . both as an investing partner and a friend. I wish you luck, Tait.”

  “I’ll need it.”

  Before Tait made it up the steps of his home a half hour later, Elder had the door open. “Ceily was wondering if you was coming home for supper tonight. Want I should have her set a plate in the dining room?”

  “Have you eaten?”

  “Just fixing to.”

  “Then I’ll eat in the kitchen with you. I need to talk to you both.”

  “That don’t sound good.”

  A few minutes later, after Ceily had served up plates overflowing with collards, pork chops, mashed sweet potatoes—with molasses, of course—fluffy biscuits, and huge slices of pecan pie—also made with molasses—they were all seated around the worn table in the kitchen of Tait’s house.

  He looked around, a feeling of homesickness already moving through him. This had been his first real home since enlisting in the Union Army and leaving North Carolina forever. It had been a comfortable, happy place—mainly due to the efforts of these two people sitting here with him. They had anchored him, worried over him, and provided a safe refuge when the pressures of his business life seemed to weigh him down. He would miss them.

  “I’m leaving Manhattan,” he said.

  Ceily froze, a forkful of sweet potatoes arrested in midair. “Forever?”

  “Probably.” Tait braced
himself for the tears, admonishments, and appeals that were sure to come.

  Instead, Ceily let her fork clatter back to her plate and clapped her hands. “Praise the Lawd! See, Elder, didn’t I say everything work out? When, Mr. Tait?”

  It was a moment before Tait could form a response. “Actually, I’m leaving tomorrow, but—”

  “Wonderful! What about the house?”

  Leaning back in his chair, he studied the faces beaming back at him, a bit put off by such giddy delight at their impending separation. “Mr. Brisbane at the bank will be arranging for its sale. But you can stay on—”

  “Sho’ ’nuff, we’ll stay on and keep an eye on it. Ain’t that so, Elder? How long you think that’ll take, Mr. Tait?”

  “I’m not sure. Perhaps a month or two.”

  Ceily looked questioningly at her husband.

  He nodded back.

  They both grinned like possums eating persimmons.

  Resting a bony hand on Tait’s arm, Ceily gave him a broad smile. “That be fine, Mr. Tait. ’Cause we leaving, too. Been trying to get up the nerve to tell you.” Laughing at Tait’s look of surprise, she launched into some garbled account of her sister down in Alabama who had inherited a big house and wanted their help to turn it into a boarding house catering to rich folks who came to the Gulf on holiday.

  “Got it from a white woman—can you credit that, Mr. Tait? Just up and left it to her. Lawd, these times are a’changing, just like Mister Revels say. We been saving up a long time, and this the perfect place to spend it. Be a good life, Mr. Tait. Having our own house, maybe a little patch where I can grow me some vegetables, put up a chicken roost, maybe get a milk cow or two. We been thinking on it for a long time.”

  It struck Tait how far removed his life was from theirs, despite living in the same house. This was the first he’d ever heard of their aspirations, and it shamed him that he had never bothered to ask. But at least now, he might be able to help.

  Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out the envelope marked with their names. “Then I’m pleased to help you realize that dream,” he said, setting the envelope on the table by Ceily’s plate. “For all that the two of you have done to ease my life over these last years, I thank you.”