Bride of the Shining Mountains (The St. Claire Men) (14 page)

The American character differed vastly from that of the French
Creoles who had settled the town. Americans did not just settle the land; they
conquered it, and commerce, adventurers, and lawlessness had followed in their
wake.

The two cultures had not blended well, but for the most part they
had managed to peacefully coexist, and the resulting complexion of the town was
unique to Saint Louis.

The steep-pitched hip roofs, gray limestone, and Spanish stucco
dwellings that comprised the old French section had mellowed with age. Flanked
by walled gardens overflowing with greenery, the old, established dwellings
served only to complement the new brick and frame houses belonging to the
Americans. The overall effect was one of permanence and expansion, pleasing to
Reagan’s eye and to her frontier spirit.

Surveying the houses, she tried to imagine the sort of life
Jackson had led growing to manhood in this place. It was no secret that he was
well-heeled. The ease with which he’d plunked down two thousand five hundred
dollars in cash money for a woman he barely knew hinted strongly that his
family was well-to-do.

Dusk was rapidly descending as Jackson reined Euripides in before
the tall wrought-iron fence on the east side of First Street, between Chestnut
and Pine. Behind the fence was a sweeping lawn and a house of mammoth
proportions.

Built of the native gray limestone from the cliffs above the
river, it had elements of the Creole cottage so indicative of the old French
section, only on a much grander scale. It stood a full two stories, yet instead
of the lower floor being used as a basement, as was typical of the design, both
floors were used as living quarters.

For a moment Jackson simply sat his mount, watching the barn
swallows that dipped and swooped around the triple chimneys, periodically
disappearing into the foliage of the massive oaks that flanked the long double
galleries. Then, as the light faded and the candles and lamps flickered to life
behind the long French windows of the house, he turned to help her dismount.

Just standing outside the fence made Reagan decidedly nervous.
She wasn’t privy to his plans, but she had a sneaking suspicion that whatever
he had in mind, she wasn’t going to like it. “You didn’t tell me we was stayin’
in no hotel,” she said doubtfully, unsure of what etiquette might be required
in such a grand place as this.

“It is no hotel,” he said quietly. “It’s my home.” Swinging from
the saddle, he looped the reins around the fence and, at the same time, opened
the gate. “Welcome to
Belle Riviere
,
L’empire
Broussard.”

Josephine darted through the opening while Jackson awaited her
reaction, disappearing into the shadows of a giant oak.

‘‘This is
yours?”
The simple query was rife with an incredulity so potent that it
bordered on disbelief. “You’re joking,” she insisted. “You’ve got to be joking!
People don’t really
live
in places like this. They’re just for lookin’ at.”

The unmarred corner of Jackson’s mouth tugged upward. “Touché,
mademoiselle. You’ve touched upon the truth without even trying. The ‘living’
I have done has indeed been outside those hallowed walls. That unhappy truth,
however, does not change the fact that I own every stone and ounce of mortar in
it, every stick and blade of grass.”

“Jesu,” Reagan said softly, trying to swallow the lump congealing
in her throat. “You must be richer than God.”

“That would be my father’s position. I rank a few notches lower
than the Supreme Deity on the monetary scale. As firstborn, my brother Clayton
stood to inherit the bulk of Papa’s fortune, and if not for my mother’s
forethought, I might have been cut off without a penny. Upon my birth, she put
this house—given to her by her father, Matthew Parrish, on her wedding day—in
trust to me. Out of respect for her memory, Papa did not go against her wishes.
She lived but two years more, and succumbed to a bout of yellow fever.”

“But you all lived here,” Reagan said, hardly able to fathom
owning such a magnificent structure. It was grander than anything she’d ever
seen, and even outshone the Hermitage, Andy Jackson’s home. “Your father, your
brother, and you. They did not leave you alone at so tender an age?”

Jackson’s gaze turned inward, from the palatial house to the
small, motherless boy he’d been. He
had
been alone—in spirit, if not in body—more at ease in Bessie’s
kitchen than in his father’s glowering presence.

Bessie’s kitchen... it was the only place he’d felt any true
warmth. “We lived in residence together,” he replied mechanically. “In all
truth, aside from myself, I cannot say who resides here now.”

His faraway tone was not lost on Reagan, who, holding on to her
hat with one hand, tipped back her head, peering up into his shadowed face. His
features gave nothing away, but she sensed there was something that didn’t sit
well with him. “Are you all right?”

“What?” he said, seeming to come back to himself. “Yes, of course.
Why do you ask?”

“For a minute you seemed... different. Like you’d gone away
somewhere.”

He laughed a little, to put her at ease, Reagan thought. “It is
this place. It’s haunted, you know. The spirit of my mother and the essence of
past sorrows have seeped into its walls. On stormy nights when I was just a
lad, I imagined that I could hear her crying, and it made me ache inside, for I
knew she wept for me. Bessie, our cook, tried to reassure me that it was just
the wind, but I remained unconvinced. Yet that is of no import, just a young
boy’s fantasy.”

“Your mother was unhappy here?” Reagan prompted. Surprisingly
he’d opened up, giving her a glimpse of something beyond the man he was today.
That glimpse, so small, so insignificant, had whetted her curiosity.

“My mother was unhappy with my father, and my father was unhappy
with me.”

A simple truth, wholly lacking emotion, quietly spoken, yet
intensely profound. While they stood, the darkness gathered, the swallows
retreated to their nests, and the air took on the tension of an impending
storm. The lightning hadn’t begun yet. Not that it mattered. Reagan could feel
the brooding presence, could sense the electrically charged air all around
them. The tempest would come, and its violence would rattle the ground
underfoot, she thought. Then she frowned, wondering if perhaps she was wrong,
and the strange current she sensed had a completely different source... one
much closer at hand.

Beside her Jackson drew a deep breath and ran a hand through his
shoulder-length hair, seeming to shake off his reflective mood. “We should go
in. It’s getting dark.”

Reagan looked at the house and swallowed hard, but she couldn’t
quiet her nerves. The thought of passing over that threshold made her quiver
like a boneless thing. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.” He raised a
questioning brow at her. Reagan shrugged. “I ain’t exactly used to such lofty
accommodations.”

“You will adjust,” Jackson assured her. “Now come.” Taking her
elbow in his unrelenting grasp, he guided her through the gate and along the
flagstone walkway, not stopping until they had gained the first-floor gallery.

The door was bolted. Reagan took it as an omen, Jackson,
seemingly, as a personal affront. Releasing her elbow, he raised a fist and
plied the big brass knocker, and when that failed to get results, he hammered
the oak panel with his fist.

“Why don’t we go find a cozy place to lay-up for the night?” she
suggested. “We can come back in the mornin’. Better yet,
you
can come back in the mornin’.
I’ll just skedaddle.”

Giving in to her urge to flee, Reagan crept across the gallery
floor and down the steps. The time had come to part company with Jackson
Broussard. And though she felt a twinge of sadness at the prospect, it was
quickly swept away by the notion that it wasn’t really Jackson she was fleeing,
but an unwanted marriage, the prospect of which suddenly loomed very large.

All she had to do was slip through the gate and lose herself in
the shadows. Later, once she had gotten clean away and only had herself to be
concerned about, she would weigh her options and figure out what to do.
Slipping the latch, she swung the gate open, and at the same time a large hand
closed around the slim black bars, forcing it shut with an ominous click.
Reagan could have cried.

“Where do you think you are going?” he asked in a silken voice.

“As far away from here as I can get. That house of yours ain’t no
house; it’s a damnable palace, and in case you haven’t noticed, I ain’t exactly
dressed for the occasion.”

“
Isn 't,”
 he said, slipping back into the role of guardian with an ease
Reagan found maddening. “The house
isn’t
a house, and you
aren’t
dressed
for the occasion. I vow, I am
going to do something about your vernacular first thing in the morning, and
your manner of dress is not a valid reason to sneak off when my back is
turned!”

“I wasn’t sneakin’!” Reagan said. “Exactly.” She could feel her
freedom slipping away. In a moment it would be lost to her, and that thought
brought on a surge of panic so strong it was nearly her undoing. “Don’t make me
go in there, please.” She broke off and swallowed hard, Granny Dawes’s keening,
inhuman wail crowding the back of her throat.
Can’t you see? I don't belong here!

Jackson frowned down at her. “Here, what is this? Is that fear I
see?”

“I’m not afraid!” Reagan insisted. But it was a lie. She was
terrified—terrified that she would fail, become the object of ridicule, somehow
disappoint him. On the prairie he had desired her, and that desire had been
genuine, but their surroundings had been rough and uncultured... like she
herself. Surrounded by the elegance of his home, the fancy furnishings she just
knew waited behind that huge front door, her homespun, battered hat and
oversize boots would be glaringly out of place. She already felt inadequate,
and she hadn’t gone farther than the front porch... none of which she could
admit to Jackson, who continued to stare down at her as if trying to read her
thoughts.

Reaching out, he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, brushing
his fingers against the curve of her cheek as he did so. “You don’t
understand,” Reagan said, her voice small. “You could never understand. We come
from different worlds, you and I.”

“Yes. Yet in some ways we are more alike than you will ever know,”
he said. “We’re outcasts, both of us.” He looked deeply into her eyes, and
Reagan read in the dark depths the words he left unspoken.
Trust me.
Aloud he
said, “I can help you, Reagan. Let me help you.”

It wasn’t his words, but something in his tone that decided the
issue... some unspoken promise that went far beyond simple reassurance. Real or
imagined, it was enough to convince Reagan, who swallowed her pride and allowed
him to lead her back toward the house.

As they swept onto the gallery and Jackson resumed his thundering
knock, the first raindrops spattered on the flagstones. “Will someone open this
goddamned door!”

The dark energy Reagan noticed before seemed to gather, gaining in
strength, until the air around them crackled with it. It made Reagan edgy, and
only her pride and the certain knowledge that he would shrug off her concerns
kept her from begging Jackson to leave.

And it wasn’t just the coming storm. Something wasn’t right here,
and she began to wonder if perhaps Jackson’s assessment had been accurate.
Perhaps the grand old house was haunted. It certainly would have explained the
feeling of deep melancholy that swept over Reagan like a crashing wave, a
sense of lingering sadness that seemed to have seeped into the limestone walls.

It seemed almost as if... as if the house itself were in mourning...
as if some deep emotional wound suffered decades ago had yet to heal.

The notion lingered long after the latch was lifted and the door
swept open by a young man in black-and-white livery. He stood a full head
shorter than Jackson, who pushed his way past the servant, dragging a reluctant
Reagan along behind him. Once inside, Jackson propped his Hawken rifle in the
corner and pinned the servant with a look. “Would you care to explain why I
should require a battering ram to gain entrance to my own house?”