American Blood (34 page)

"What . . . what matter are you referring to?"

"This letter, of course."

"Oh, yes. Of course. Well, I . . ."

Delgado remorselessly pressed his advantage. "You once said that if ever you could be of service . . ."

"Yes, yes. I remember." Maitland sighed in pure anguish. He folded the letter and with resignation put it in his pocket. "I will see that it is printed, Mr. McKinn. You can rely on me."

Delgado wagged a stern finger at him. "In the next edition."

"Yes."

When he got back to the Bledsoe house, he learned that during his absence Jacob had finally collapsed. He was resting quietly in his bed.

"Did you tell him?" Delgado asked Sarah.

"I didn't have the chance to."

They had agreed it would be better if Jacob heard the truth about Jeremy's connection with
Annabel Christophe's death from one of them before he read it in the newspaper.

"I hope we are doing the right thing," said Delgado. He had been assailed by doubts all the way back from the
Enquirer
.

"I'm sure we are, Del. The people who matter will not think less of Jeremy, for he has done the honorable thing, and tried to set matters right. Or, at least, that's what we're doing for him. I think he would have done the same had he been clearheaded. But his hatred for Brent Horan clouded is judgment. His self-hate, too. Yes, I truly believe we are doing the right thing. It is Brent Horan who will be exposed as the scoundrel he is."

"Question is, how will Horan react?"

"Who cares?"

"I do, for one. So should you. Aren't you afraid of him, Sarah? Of what he might be capable of doing?"

"No, I most certainly am not."

"Well, I am. And just because you are a woman, don't think for a moment that you aren't at risk."

"He is an evil, wicked man, and if I can become the instrument of his downfall, then I shall consider myself a very fortunate person."

Delgado wasn't quite sure what she meant by that, but he was too preoccupied with his own thoughts to ask her.

Early the following day, Stephen Maitland personally delivered the morning edition of the
Enquirer
. Without seeming to, Delgado watched him and Clarisse slip lovers' glances at one another as he pretended to look at the paper, which Sarah had eagerly grabbed out of Maitland's hand. Delgado couldn't get used to the idea of Maitland and Clarisse being lovers; they were an odd cou
ple, indeed. But there could be no denying that the Creole Negress had strong feelings for the pale, gawky newspaperman. Truly, mused Delgado, love was blind.

"I hope this is what you wanted," said Maitland.

"Yes, quite," replied Sarah with a quiet kind of triumph.

"I suppose I ought to be getting back." Maitland gave Clarisse one last, longing look and took his leave.

At noon Jeremy Bledsoe was laid to rest in a churchyard, beside the grave of his mother. His father could not attend. Jacob was still unconscious, in a coma from which, according to the doctor, he might never emerge. Delgado was proud of Sarah. Through it all she bore up bravely. At least a hundred people showed up. Hugh Falconer was present, along with Lillian and Johnny. When the service was over, the mountain man found an opportunity to take Delgado aside while Lillian spoke with Sarah. Falconer looked as grim as Delgado had ever seen him.

"I know what you're trying to do," said Falconer. "You and Sarah."

"I don't know what you mean."

"You're striking back at Brent Horan. But it won't work. He doesn't care about his reputation. Not anymore. The man's dying."

"We just wanted the truth to be known."

"You're stirring up a hornet's nest."

"What do you suggest I do?"

"Either get out of town or kill him, Del. Before he kills you."

"That's what Jeremy told me."

"I know the two of you had become close
friends. I'm glad you agreed to serve as his second. At least he had a friend there when he died."

"I thought about shooting Horan. But I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I wasn't willing to give my life to save Jeremy's. What kind of friend is that? I'm a coward, Hugh."

"No," said Falconer firmly. "You're just too damned civilized for your own good. This was something Jeremy felt he had to do. Whether you thought it was right or wrong, you had to let him go through with it."

"Would you have?"

"You know how much I thought of him. But yes, I would have."

"I'm not going to run," said Delgado. "I feel as though I've been running away from something all my life. From the responsibilities that my father wanted me to shoulder. From everything that was going on in New Mexico. I didn't want to take a stand. Well, I'm going to this time. A person has got to be willing to fight for what he thinks is right, no matter what the cost."

"That's what it's all about in this country, Del."

"I know." It was all quite clear to Delgado now. America was a vision, a goal not yet attained, and being one of its citizens meant being blessed with an opportunity that most people in the world would never know—an opportunity to transform vision into reality. A reality of equality and prosperity for all. To pursue this dream was not merely a right, but the responsibility, of every American.

Diego Archuleta had said that all Americans were concerned only with themselves. But Delgado knew that wasn't true. He thought about Brent Horan and Langdon Grail, and, yes, to an
extent even Jacob Bledsoe and his own father. Such men proved that the idea of America, the
promise
, was more than the sum of its parts. And some of those men, like Horan, stood in the way. Delgado knew it was time he tried to right the wrongs he saw all about him. That was what his beloved Sarah was trying to do. America had its shortcomings, but they could be overcome, and he was ready to do his part.

True, this final reckoning with Brent Horan was in large measure a personal affair. But it was more than that. It was not the end of anything, but just the beginning. . . .

"Beware, then," said Falconer. "Keep alert. Horan is running out of time. He'll have to make his move soon. When he does . . ."

"Yes. I know where to find you. But this is something
I
have to do."

Falconer nodded. "But you may need to even the odds. Horan won't come for you alone. He's afraid of you."

"Of me? Don't be ridiculous."

"It's true. You see, he knows you're not a coward. And he knows you've beaten him at every turn. So I'm pretty sure that this time he'll have help."

Delgado took Sarah back to the house on Laurel Avenue. She said not a word, and seemed very tied and careworn. Delgado could think of nothing to say that would comfort her. He turned her over to Clarisse, who took her upstairs to her room, and went into the parlor to pour himself a stiff drink, which he badly needed. Clarisse had built up the fire in the hearth, and he settled in a chair near it and tried to relax. He found that to be a very difficult proposition. He kept thinking
about Brent Horan, hating the man more than he had hated anyone in his life. In fact, he was sure now that he had never really hated anyone or anything before.

Clarisse came downstairs. He called her into the parlor.

"Horan thinks he is being poisoned by one of his slaves," he told her. "He makes her taste his food and drink, and yet she has no ill effects. Still, he is convinced she is killing him."

Clarisse just stood there, inscrutable, watching him.

"Do you think that's possible?" asked Delgado.
"Could
she be poisoning him?"

"Oui
. It is possible, I think."

"But how?"

Clarisse shrugged. "There are a number of ways. She is perhaps using belladonna, a plant that grows wild in the marshes."

"Yes. The nightshade. I remember from my chemistry class at Oxford. Extracts of the leaves and roots were used in ancient times by women to dilate the pupils of the eye, which they thought made them look more desirable. Belladonna means 'beautiful lady' in Italian. But if she puts it in his food, why isn't she affected?"

"Perhaps she has built up a resistance to it. This can be done by taking small quantities over a long period of time. She would still become ill, but not as ill as he."

"I see."

"Or perhaps it is not poison at all. I know of this woman. She is called Naomi,
n'est-ce pas?"

"That's right."

"Her previous master sold her to the slave dealer because she practiced voodoo."

Delgado shook is head. "Voodoo or poison, whichever method she is using, she hasn't worked quickly enough to suit me."

"If that is all, I must go now to the kitchen."

Delgado nodded. The brandy conspired with the warmth of the fire to make him drowsy, and he soon drifted off into a fitful sleep, only to awaken with a start to find Clarisse touching his shoulder.

"She wishes to see you."

The clock on the mantelpiece told him he had slept for hours. He hurried upstairs, tapped on Sarah's door, and entered at her bidding. Sarah had not changed out of her dress of mourning black. She stood at a window, and he went to her. He could tell she had been crying, but she was calm and composed now.

"It's getting dark," she said. "I don't want to be alone."

Poor Sarah! She had lost her brother, and at any moment her father might succumb. He could not blame her for fearing the darkness, and for the first time Delgado became fully aware of the responsibility he now bore upon his shoulders. He was all Sarah Bledsoe had left.

He took her in his arms and held her close, and later he sat up on the bed while she slept with her head on his chest. He stayed awake through the night, holding her, protecting her, making her feel secure, and only when the first shreds of daylight came stealing through the windows did he leave her, still sleeping soundly. He went downstairs to find Clarisse, wanting coffee for himself and a nice breakfast tray for Sarah when she woke.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he turned the
corner into the hall and, hearing a telltale rustle of clothing behind him, began to turn around, catching a brief glimpse of a man wearing a white hood over his face, with holes cut out for the eyes—and then something hard hit him at the base of the skull, and he fell in an explosion of sweeping pain and blinding white light. The light faded to black, and he fell, and kept falling, falling, falling into oblivion. . . .

When he came to, he was momentarily disoriented. Sitting up, a moan escaped him as the walls began to spin and the floor beneath him felt as if it were tilting sharply one way and then the other. His skull felt as though it had been split in two. His vision slowly cleared, and he looked around and remembered where he was and what had happened, and the sudden fear nearly strangled him. He got to his feet, then stumbled and fell to hands and knees and got up again with Sarah's name on his lips, and somehow half ran, half crawled up the stairs to her room, her
empty
room. He ran next to Jacob's room and found Bledsoe in his bed, and his first thought was that
My God they've killed him
. But Jacob was still alive. These men weren't Diego Archuleta's rebel killers. No, Brent Horan was behind this. Delgado was sure of it. Jacob was still lost in the coma. Delgado thought bitterly that perhaps now that would be for the best if he never came out of it, because Sarah was in Brent Horan's hands.

He checked every room upstairs, even though in his heart he knew Sarah was gone. He found Clarisse downstairs, bound hand and foot and gagged, on the floor in the kitchen, and he untied her, removed the gag, and she told him what he already knew, that two men had grabbed her and
bound her, two men wearing white hoods with holes for the eyes cut out.

"They took Sarah," he said, his voice hollow, as though it reached his ears from the black depths of a bottomless pit.

"Horan," was all she said.

Delgado nodded and went up to his room and put on his coat. He made sure the derringer was in the pocket. Then he left the house. He borrowed a horse from the nearby livery and nearly rode it into the ground getting to Falconer's place.

As the two of them rode for Blackwood, snow began to fall. Delgado was oblivious to the cold. He was numb with fear. Fear for Sarah, for she was at the mercy of a man gone mad.

"He won't be alone," Falconer told him. "I reckon we'll have four or five men to deal with."

"Who are they?"

"Backwoodsmen, mostly. Men who've been beholden to the Horan family for years."

"How could they stoop so low as to do this for Brent Horan?"

"In one way or another they feel they owe him."

"Owe him enough to kidnap Sarah? Perhaps to die for him?"

"We'll find out soon enough," said Falconer.

2

They checked their horses where the road emerged from the dark old woods to angle across the cultivated fields toward the big white house. Delgado was inclined to go charging straight in, and when he saw the house, the urge was nearly
too strong to resist because he was sure Sarah was in there. In there, with Brent Horan, that dangerous lunatic, and Delgado was afraid of what he might do to her. Or might have already done. He still could scarcely believe Horan had sent his minions to abduct her. After all, that wasn't a very honorable thing to do—something a gentleman would never even contemplate—and Delgado realized he had been relying too much on Horan's carefully nurtured self-image. The facade had crumbled. Horan didn't care anymore. He could let his true self shine because he was dying, and because of the letter printed in the
Enquirer
, and because he would go to any lengths to destroy Delgado before he died. Which meant there was no telling what he would do.

But Falconer was wise in the ways of war, and Delgado curbed his impatience and waited while the frontiersman carefully surveyed the house and the approach to it. Delgado didn't see anything moving. The house was dark and seemed lifeless. Not even any smoke came out of the chimney. But Falconer could see things the average man would miss. Of this Delgado was convinced, and he waited, putting his trust, and Sarah's life, in Falconer's capable hands.