Bride of the High Country

by Kaki Warner

  She felt like she’d fallen into the middle of a night terror.

  Finally, after questioning everybody who could sit long enough to talk to him, the marshal decided he didn’t know who to arrest for killing Silas’s brother—Maddie for shooting him, the dog for tearing up his throat, or Wallace for finishing him off with a bayonet. So he left, taking the body with him.

  It didn’t feel real. Any of it.

  It was a subdued group that headed back to Heartbreak Creek the next day. Lucinda felt like her entire world had spun out of control. At that moment, she didn’t care about railroads and broken dreams or Pinkertons or Doyle and Horne or even her poor battered family . . . she just wanted Tait.

  Nineteen

  Tait arrived in Heartbreak Creek late in the afternoon during the last week of October. He’d had to ride the last twenty miles by horseback, and when he swung out of the saddle, his knee was so sore it almost buckled beneath him.

  But he was here. Finally.

  He limped into the Heartbreak Creek Hotel, not sure what to expect after Lucinda’s descriptions to Mrs. Throckmorton. But it was as nice as any of the western hotels where he’d stayed, and a damn sight cleaner.

  He could see Lucinda’s touch in the potted plants and the chair cushions and the fringe hanging off the shade of a floor lamp beside the front desk. It was purple, and seeing it made him smile.

  The desk clerk looked up as he approached. “Help you?” he asked, showing gapped, brown-tinted teeth in a friendly grin. The child sitting on top of the counter beside him swiveled to regard Tait out of curious gray eyes a shade lighter than his own. With the slouch hat and tattered overalls, Tait wasn’t sure if it was a boy or girl.

  “Is Miss Hathaway available?” he asked.

  “Nope.”

  “When will she be?”

  “Hard to say.”

  Tait wondered if a cuff upside the man’s bald head might jar loose a more helpful answer.

  “Who are you?” the child asked before he could act on the impulse. A girl, he guessed. And destined to be a beauty if she ever cleaned herself up.

  “A visitor.”

  “Visiting who?”

  “Miss Hathaway.”

  “What’s wrong with your leg?”

  Tait hadn’t much experience with children and found it disconcerting to be grilled by one. Which seemed to amuse the desk clerk no end.

  “Chick has a peg leg,” the girl went on. “Made of pine. What’s your leg made of?”

  “Skin and bone.”

  “Like Ma, when she’s not growing babies.” She sent a sage nod to the clerk. “Talks funny like Ed, too.” Turning back to Tait, she said, “Can I see it?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Enough, Brin. If you’ve come for the doings,” the clerk said to Tait, “the wake is over. Even all those funny-talking Scots are gone, wanting to be clear of the mountains before the big snows come. Miss Hathaway is in back with the other ladies cleaning up. They should be done soon. Need a room?”

  Tait hoped not. He had plans to share one with Lucinda. “Is the dining room open?”

  “Nope.”

  “They got pickled eggs and pig feet in there,” the child chimed in, pointing toward a door in the staircase wall, through which Tait could hear the plinky notes of an out-of-tune piano. “Tastes like do-do, R. D. says. Yancey likes them, though, even if they make him gassy as old Cooter Brown. Right, Yancey?”

  “Brin, mind your words. Your ma would come at you with a bar of lye soap she heard such talk coming out your mouth. And Cooter Brown was a drinker, not a farter.”

  “Probably trying to get rid of the taste of pig feet. They live in do-do, you know.”

  Wondering if he’d walked into a lunatic asylum by mistake, Tait turned toward the door in the staircase wall.

  “Can’t go through there,” the old man called. “Miss Hathaway locked it permanent. You’ll have to go around front.”

  Glad to escape, Tait went back out the double doors and turned toward the splintered sign swinging above the boardwalk that read RED EYE SALOON and showed at least a half-dozen bullet holes.

  The saloon was smoky and noisy and surprisingly crowded for such a deserted-looking town. Most of the tables were filled with dirty men wearing the high boots and slouch hats and frayed homespun that Tait had seen in other mining towns. But sitting at a corner table in back, two well-groomed men met his gaze with curious glances of their own.

  Definitely not miners. Pinkertons? But why would Pinkertons still be on the job if Doyle had fled the country?

  Tait angled toward the bar, which sported a big jar where chunks of tattered flesh-colored meat and boiled eggs hung suspended in a pale yellowish liquid.

  His appetite fled.

  The barkeep, a burly man with a bald head and the widest mustache Tait had ever seen, sauntered up. “What’ll you have?”

  “Brandy?” he asked hopefully.

  The man stared at him for a moment, then burst into laughter. “You’re joking, right?”

  “Rye, then.”

  “Coming up.”

  He hated rye whiskey but had found it the common fare in the poorer establishments. He figured it couldn’t be much worse than Pringle’s watered-down swill.

  He took a sip, shuddered, then looked into the cracked mirror behind the bar to find the two men at the corner table staring back at him. They were hard to miss. Both were big. And both were clean. A rarity, it seemed. One had dark hair and eyes and an air of authority about him; the other had gray in his hair despite his youthful face, and dark brows and stubble. He was also wearing a kilt. They both rose and started his way.

  Not sure what to expect, Tait braced himself, making sure his right arm was free and his bad knee was slightly flexed. But he doubted even in his prime fighting days he could have handled both men, as big as they were. He wished he hadn’t given up his cane. It might have evened the odds a bit.

  But instead of coming up on each side, as they would have if they meant mischief, they came to his left side, and stood waiting for him to acknowledge their arrival.

  Tait gave a friendly nod.

  “You a Pinkerton?” the man with gray in his hair blurted out, rolling the r in a thick brogue.

  Tait shook his head.

  “Did you hire the Pinkertons?” the larger man asked. “We heard there might be some in the area.”

  “No.” Then Tait saw the badge on the man’s vest and it all fell into place. “You’re the sheriff, aren’t you? The one married to the pregnant lady.” Turning to the other man, he added, “And you’re the photographer’s Scotsman. Lord something or other.”

  “Bluidy hell.”

  “And who are you?” the sheriff asked.

  Tait grinned. “Tait Rylander.”

  They stared at him without recognition, which was a bit deflating. “From New York.”

  “Oh, aye,” the Scotsman slurred, nodding to the sheriff. “The one Miss Hathaway left at the altar. Maddie told me all about it, so she did.”

  “That was my business partner,” Tait corrected. “She changed her mind after she heard he was a runner and ran off, so he sent Pinkertons to find her. But now that he’s gone back to Ireland, there shouldn’t be any agents still hanging around.”

  Judging by their expressions, he hadn’t explained that as well as he might have. “So what are you doing here?” the sheriff asked.

  “I’ve come to marry her.”

  “Miss Hathaway? Blond? Owns the hotel?”

  Tait nodded.

  “Bluidy hell.”

  The two men looked at each other, then back to Tait. “Does she know that?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I think I need another drin
k.” Lifting a hand, the sheriff motioned toward the table he and the Scotsman had left. “Join us, Mr. Rylander?”

  Tait couldn’t tell if it was an order or an invitation, but he nodded anyway.

  After they had taken their seats and the barkeep had delivered a bottle of Scotch whiskey—from the Scotsman’s private reserve, it seemed—the sheriff introduced himself as Declan Brodie, owner of the Highline Ranch and temporary sheriff of Heartbreak Creek, and the Scotsman as Angus Wallace, Lord Ashby, or Ash, as some folks called him, an ex-cavalry officer and now the new Earl of Kirkwell. “That’s why he’s wearing a skirt.”

  “’Tis no’ a skirt. ’Tis a kilt, ye daft numptie.” Scowling, the Scotsman took a deep swallow.

  Tait gave his name again, and added that he was late of Manhattan Island but expected he would be residing in Heartbreak Creek from now on.

  After carefully setting down his glass, the earl folded his arms on the table and gave Tait a hard look through alcohol-reddened green eyes. “So . . . you’re no’ a Pinkerton, then?”

  “No,” Tait said patiently, wondering if the man was a heavy drinker. He was certainly doing a fine job of it tonight. “I’m a lawyer and railroad investor. Or was. Not sure what I’ll be doing now.” Other than reacquainting himself with Lucinda, and hopefully soon.

  “I always wanted to be a Pinkerton, so I did.”

  “You haven’t always wanted to be a Pinkerton,” the sheriff argued. “You only recently found out about them. And I doubt you could be one anyway, since you’re a lord.”

  “Bugger that.” The Scotsman slapped a big hand on the table. “I’m a soldier and bluidy peer of the realm. I can be any fookin’ thing I want, so I can.”

  Sheriff Brodie sighed and turned to Tait. “Forgive the language. He’s had a hard day. We just laid his brother to rest.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Tait told the Scotsman.

  “Aye . . . well.” A deep sigh. “’Twas time, I suppose. The puir bastard’s been dead these six months, so he has.”

  “And you’re just now burying him?”

  The earl reared back, his dark brows drawn into a scowl. “Dinna be foul, ye bluidy foreigner. He’s buried in Scotland as he should be.”

  Between the thick accent and the slurring from drink, Tait could scarcely understand the man. But he thought maybe he’d just been insulted.

  Brodie rested a staying hand on the ex-soldier’s broad shoulder. “Today was more of a memorial,” he told Tait. “Ash piped him to his rest this morning. And this afternoon, before his Scottish family headed back home, the ladies cooked up a nice feast in honor of the new earl and countess.”

  “Aye.” The earl slumped back in his chair. “Donnan was a guid brother, so he was. I’ll miss the bastard. Verra much.”

  Tait looked over as three boys shuffled hesitantly into the saloon, their eyes round as marbles as they looked around the smoky room. They were obviously too young to be regulars, although the oldest was tall and gangly and sported a bit of dark fuzz on his top lip. He seemed vaguely familiar to Tait. The other two—a blond, who had stopped to gape at a poor painting of a nude woman, and a smaller boy, whose face was partially hidden by a fall of brown hair—bore little resemblance to the older boy.

  “Hell,” the sheriff muttered, catching sight of the newcomers as they angled toward the table where the three men were seated. “What are you boys doing in here?”

  The blond gave Tait a hard study. “Who are you?”

  “Mind your manners, Joe Bill.” Brodie waved the youngsters forward. “This is Mr. Rylander, boys. Tait, these are my sons. Robert Declan Junior is the oldest, although he prefers R. D. Best shot in the family.”

  Tait saw why the boy looked familiar. With his dark hair and eyes, the boy was a younger, ganglier version of the sheriff.

  “This one’s Joe Bill.” Brodie gave him a sharp look. “Best watch him. Never seen a kid run faster, especially when he’s in trouble.”

  Apparently taking that as a compliment, the boy grinned, showing a hodgepodge of baby teeth, permanent teeth, and missing teeth. “Ed know they got nekkid ladies in here?” he asked his father.

  The Scotsman perked up. “Naked ladies. Where?” He swiveled in his chair to study the room. “I dinna see any.”

  “Over there.” Joe Bill pointed to the painting.

  “No, she doesn’t,” the sheriff said sternly, gripping the boy’s shoulder in warning. “And she’d best not find out, or I’ll know how. Lucas, step closer.”

  The youngster with the brown cowlick moved forward and regarded Tait out of solemn eyes that seemed to take in everything.

  The sheriff pushed the hair off the boy’s wide, intelligent forehead. “You need something figured out, come to Lucas, here. Helluva thinker. And tinkerer.”

  A pleased flush stained the boy’s cheeks. He mumbled something Tait didn’t catch.

  “Now what are you boys doing in here?” the sheriff asked. “You know you’re not allowed.”

  “Ed’s looking for you,” the oldest, R. D., said.

  “She’s getting cranky,” Joe Bill warned. “You better come.”

  Before Brodie could respond, a woman’s voice rose on the other side of the closed door leading into the hotel. “Declan Brodie, if you’re in there, you better come out right now. The boys have run off, and I’m tired, and Brin is ready to go home. And Ash, you better watch out. Maddie’s looking for you. Tricks chewed one of Lucinda’s potted plants.”

  “Bollocks.”

  “His dog,” the sheriff explained to Tait as he rose. “R. D., bring the buckboard around and you boys load up.”

  As the youngsters trooped out, the earl rose with a weary sigh. “A bad day just keeps getting worse. And I had such grand plans for tonight, so I did.”

  “In your condition?” The sheriff chuckled. “I doubt it.”

  The Scotsman drew himself up to parade stance. “I’m a fookin’ Hussar, ye daft cow herder. We can do anything, anytime, anyplace. Just ask us. Or my sweet lass.” Then he threw back his head and laughed so hard he almost toppled over.

  “You go on.” Tait waved them toward the door. “I’ll pay up. And if you see Lucinda, don’t tell her I’m here. I want to surprise her.”

  The Scotsman grinned, and bending over, lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “Then try the hallway behind the front desk, third door on the right.” Frowning, he straightened. “Or maybe the left. I canna remember.”

  “He mixes up his rights and lefts sometimes,” the sheriff said, shoving the Scotsman toward the door. “It’s on the left. But I’m not sure you should go barging—”

  “It’ll be fine,” Tait cut in, and hoped that was true. “I told her I was coming. Just not when.”

  The lobby was deserted when Tait entered with his saddlebags after taking his horse down to the livery. Grateful not to have to contend with the desk clerk and curious Brin, he went down to the third door on the left and opened it.

  It was an office. Her office. He would know that Attar of Roses scent anywhere. Moving inside, he closed the door, set down his bags, and looked around.

  It was well furnished with a desk and chair, several bookcases, a table by a tall window, and a couch. Efficient, feminine, tasteful. Just like Lucinda. On the wall beside the desk, a door stood ajar. He crossed over and peered inside.

  Her bedroom. Deserted. The thick red robe he remembered well lay thrown across the brass foot rail. Heart pounding, he stepped into the room.

  It was lit by a single lamp. He saw slippers by the bed, a hairbrush on the night table, a familiar vial of perfume on the bureau. His body instantly reacted to memories of it. A sound caught his attention. Every sense alert, he turned toward a closed door with a light showing along the bottom. From behind it came the sounds of splashing water and a woman humm
ing softly.

  He closed his eyes as images burst into his mind—Lucinda, slick with water, her blond hair piled up on her head, loose tendrils sticking to her damp neck. A soapy cloth moving over her shoulders, down to her breasts, circling . . .

  With a curse, he opened his eyes. The urge to see her, to assure himself that he had finally found her again, almost sent him across to that closed door. But he would wait. Let her come to him. This was too important to rush.

  Reluctantly, he left the bedroom and returned to the office. Standing at the window, he stared blankly out at the darkening sky and wondered what he would do if she sent him away. He had banked everything on this moment, this woman. There was nothing more important to him right now than Lucinda.

  It seemed forever before he heard soft footfalls approaching from the bedroom. Then a gasp. Bracing himself, he turned. “Hello, Lucinda.”

  “Tait!” She stared at him, her hands pressed against the robe over her stomach, her expression showing both shock and . . . panic. Why?

  She was even more beautiful than the woman who had drifted through his dreams for over a year.

  “You’re here,” she blurted out.

  “I am.”

  “Why?”

  That threw him off balance. There were countless reasons, but he decided to give the most urgent. “To protect you.”

  “From what? I read that Doyle has fled to Ireland.”

  “From Horne.”

  That panic again.

  “He was in Denver,” Tait explained. “That’s why I didn’t want you to go there. But being you,” he added with a wry smile, “of course, you went anyway.”

  She didn’t smile back. “What was he doing in Denver?”

  “Promoting some railroad venture he and Doyle were putting together. And to find you.” Why were they talking about Denver? Why wasn’t she rushing over to throw her arms around him? And why did she look so afraid?

  “Find me?”

  Hoping the direct approach would end this wary dance, he said, “I know it was Horne who sent Smythe to silence you, Lucinda. And why.”