Bride of the Shining Mountains (The St. Claire Men) (35 page)

“It is your choice!” Reagan said, exasperated now. “You need not
be alone. You have a son who loves you, your brother Navarre, Mr. Garrett,
Bessie, and the others. You have a family... as does Jackson. He’ll do just
fine without me.”

Emil harrumphed and jerked his chin, his words no less arrogant
for the fact that they were slurred. “No Navarre, crackbbbrrrainn twit!” He
made a disgusted motion with his hand. ‘What you know? No c-courrage. Tuck
tail, run-waaay He shuddered with the effort at speech, and for an instant set
to grumbling beneath his breath. When he spoke again, he jabbed a hand at the
window, the panes of which were growing dark. “No haws,” he said emphatically.
“Noooweaaponnn! Peril owwt thhhere, yyouu. You arrre afffool.”

“I’ve been lookin’ out for my own interests for more years than I
can count,” Reagan assured him, despite her own self-doubts. “And I was doin’
just fine before Jackson came along. I can take care of myself.”

Flashing her a dubious look, Emil leaned over in his chair,
fumbling with the drawer of his bedside table.

Reagan was strangely relieved. She’d made a mistake in coming
here. Unlike Jackson, Emil could see through her bravado to the desperate,
frightened young woman beneath, and she felt a sudden wild urge to flee his
presence, to go as far and as fast as she could, before his logic and plain
truth could penetrate her grim resolve to go.

She was just about to act upon her urge when Emil found what he’d
been looking for, a rather large wooden box some four inches in depth, which he
held out to her.

Reagan reluctantly took it and, at his urging, opened the lid,
staring in disbelief at the pair of dueling pistols tucked away inside. “I
can’t take these.”

“Weaaponn,” the old despot stated flatly.

Reagan shook her head, fighting against the tears that stung the
backs of her eyes. “You don’t understand. I’m not coming back. Not for a long
time. Maybe not ever.”

“Unn-stand,” Emil insisted. “Easier run-hide than to ffface
in-si—” He thumped his chest with his good hand to make his meaning clear.

He knew her heart, knew that she was running away to keep from
facing her greatest fear: that Jackson could not love her— not the way she
needed him to—not ever.

Reagan raised her chin, and a spark of defiance shone in her eyes.
“Yes, well. I expect I’m not alone in my cowardice. You’ve found yourself a
hidey-hole to hibernate in, when you ought to be tryin’ to fix things with
Jackson.”

He said nothing to that, but she could see that the barb had hit
its mark. Something shone in his dark eyes for a moment, a lingering trace of a
keen regret that was there, then quickly gone, leaving Reagan to wonder if
she’d seen it at all or merely imagined it.

A blink of an eye and he was himself again, arrogant, imperious,
intent upon having his own way in everything. “Can shoot-ride?”

Suddenly tired of fighting, Reagan sighed. “Well enough to keep my
seat, and to keep some fool jackass from stealin’ the horse out from under me.”

Emil gave a satisfied grunt. “Stables t--h-henn. Take hawse.” They
were both silent for a moment; then, slowly, he extended his good hand.

For a moment Reagan stared at the appendage; then, a lump gathering
in her throat, she reached out, placing her hand in his, feeling his fingers
close around it. “Stay safe, Raggga-nn Daw,” he said. “Stay safe.”

Whiskey
Joe was an obstacle thrust directly into his path by an unkind twist of fate.
And Navarre could not let him walk away... not when there was a chance that Joe
could tell Jackson the truth about Clayton. Con
science
had no part in this night’s work.

He reined in his mount a little distance from the clapboard shack,
dismounting in the road, then leading the horse off into the deep shadows of
the woods. Abe McFarland was never far behind.

At the edge of the woods, they stopped.

“That’s Whiskey Joe’s place,” Abe said, turning a suspicious eye
upon Navarre. “What business might a fine, upstanding gentleman like you have
with a drunk old In’jun?”

“Suffice to say you and Joe have something in common. You have
both stumbled onto information that I would far rather did not meet the clear
light of day.”

“You gonna knock him in the head with that little stick of you’rn?”

“Would it matter greatly to you if I did?”

Abe turned his head and spat a stream of tobacco juice. “I don’t
have no truck with no In’juns,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’m just here to
make sure you don’t renege on our bargain.”

Navarre gritted his teeth, but said nothing. He would find some
way to rid himself of Abe McFarland, though he had to admit, the prospect of
sending him off with Reagan Dawes was tempting indeed. There was something
about the chit that he just didn’t like.

First things, first. He would see to Whiskey Joe, then worry about
how to deal with Abe McFarland.

Tying off his horse’s reins, Navarre left the cover of the wood
and started toward the shack. Lamplight spilled from the windows, pooling on
the weed-choked dooryard, and a thin wisp of smoke curled from the chimney.

Navarre’s approach was stealthy. Years in the wilderness had
taught him to tread carefully, noiselessly, walking toe first, as an Indian
walked, lessons the bumbling ape crashing along behind him had apparently neglected
to learn.

Navarre thrust a hand down to indicate that Abe should tread more
carefully.

Abe snapped a stick, which cracked like a gunshot in the silence.

Navarre turned slightly, placing a finger to his lips, and Abe
passed gas noisily.

His temper flaring, Navarre spun on his partner, and collided with
a solid wall of flesh. Navarre’s fingers itched to ply the silver-headed
walking stick, and only the suspicion that Abe could snap him like a twig kept
him from it. “Make yourself useful!” he grated out through clenched teeth. “Go
around the back.”

Abe just stared at him for a long moment, as if he could not quite
comprehend what Navarre was suggesting. His stare was vacant, and had Navarre
not been so angry, he might have been frightened. In that instant he felt a
tiny twinge of pity for the object of Abe’s affections. Reagan Dawes was not a
suitable choice for Jackson, yet neither did she deserve Abe McFarland. “Don’t
think you can leave,” Abe said at last. “I’ll be watchin’.”

With that, he ambled off, making more noise than a bear in a thick
stand of woods. Navarre sighed and, turning, made for the shack.

Once he was certain that Abe was in place, Navarre tried the door,
which was barred from within. He rattled the latch, calling out in his most
persuasive voice,
^“
Joe? It is I, Navarre Broussard, Jackson’s uncle.
I wonder if I might have a word with you?”

A shuffling sound came from within, furtive and quick... and then
a heavy, waiting silence. “Joe? Come, come. Open the door, will you? Surely you
know there is nothing to fear.”

Nothing, not a breath, not a whisper of sound was heard by way of
reply. Curiously, the door was unbarred, allowing him to simply walk in.

A tallow lamp burned on a small rough-hewn table, casting its
smelly light on the dingy little room and its meager contents. A few rusted
traps hung on a square-headed nail by the hearth, along with a bearskin coat
awaiting the chill of the coming winter. On the mantel was a strange collection
of keepsakes: a tortoiseshell rattle, the skin of a black snake, and a handful
of smooth, round stones.

Whiskey Joe was nowhere to be seen.

Navarre searched the room, tearing the furs from the pallet in the
comer, ripping open the straw tick, scattering its contents.

No ring. No Joe. And Abe McFarland had come to loom in the
doorway, like some great, hulking bird of prey, waiting and watching for him to
falter, for the chance to pick his bones.

“Damn him! Damn him!” Navarre shouted, sweeping the keepsakes from
the mantel, scattering the stones, crushing the tortoiseshell rattle underfoot.
^“
It is not here! It is not here!”

“You sure you know where Lil Sister is?” Abe said doggedly.

“Imbecile!” Navarre shouted. “Get out!”

Hoof beats pounded along the south road. Navarre waited for the
traveler to pass by, and cursed when the animal slowed just outside. “The
light, the light! Douse the light! We cannot risk being found here, the two of
us together! Mother of God, what else can go wrong this night?”

As he blew out the lamp’s flame, Abe shifted his bulk to the left
side of the doorway; Navarre pressed himself against the wall on the right.
Footsteps crossed the portico. The intruder paused, possibly surveying the
door, which hung askew, barely supported by its last remaining hinge. Then he
stepped cautiously inside, and Abe loomed up behind him.

Jackson sensed that something wasn’t right the moment he set foot
on the portico of Whiskey Joe’s cabin. He had seen the lights from the road,
lights that someone extinguished as he approached, and unless he was mistaken,
that someone was not Whiskey Joe. Against his better judgment, he stepped into
the darkened room. The taint of smoke and tallow hung heavily in the air, along
with something else, something sweet and noxious and familiar at once.

Bear fat... and the rank sweat of someone who hadn’t bathed in
weeks.

A frisson of alarm surged through Jackson. At the same time, he
clawed for his pistols, and was roughly seized from behind and hauled off his
feet.

It was like being caught in the jaws of an enormous vise. His
assailant had him around the ribs, and was slowly squeezing the breath from his
body. With his arms pinned at his sides, Jackson’s struggles were ineffectual.
He tried to break the man’s hold, felt the blood gather in his face and throat
until he thought his head would explode, heard the drone of a million bees
swirling as oblivion rushed up to claim him, and he went limp in Abe
McFarland’s arms.

Abe released his hold, flexing his arms as his victim slumped to
the floor. “You want to hit him with your fancy little stick, Navarre, or
should I pop his ribs for him?”

“There is no need for that,” Navarre replied, as he bent over the
shadowed form. The unfortunate fellow had fallen half in, half out of the
doorway. It was too dark to ascertain the man’s identity. Yet, by pressing a
finger to his throat, he readily determined that his heart was still beating.
“We’ll leave him to his fate. I congratulate you on a job well done. Perhaps
you can be useful to my cause, after all. Now, be a good fellow and go fetch
the horses.”

As Abe ambled off, Navarre could not resist a parting word of
advice for the crumpled figure. “How fortunate for you that I find no fun in
pointless murder. Out of the sheer goodness of my heart, I spare your wretched
life,” he said, “and leave you with this: there are some things, like this part
of town, for instance, that are far  better left alone.”

At that same instant, a little distance to the north, a lone
traveler trotted along on the back of a jet black mare. The moon, hidden by a
cloudy sky, shed precious little light over the countryside south of town. The
shadows loomed ominous and black as pitch on both sides of the lightless track,
and it took every ounce of fortitude Reagan possessed not to turn the mare
around and fly back to the welcoming warmth and relative safety of
Belle
Riviere
.

As a child she had hated and feared the darkness. Aware of her
irrational fear, playing upon it in ruthless brotherly fashion, the twins had
locked her in the root cellar late one moonless evening. Trapped in the dank
blackness, the earthy smell redolent of the grave filling her lungs, she’d
been forced to listen to the evening closing in all around her. The stirrings
of the nocturnal forest creatures in the underbrush had raised the gooseflesh
on her arms and prickled the fine hairs at her nape. Two hours had passed from
the time Reagan was missed to the time Luther forced a confession from the
miscreants who’d imprisoned her... without a doubt the longest hours of her
life. In due course, her mother had come with lantern to rescue her. Yet she’d
never quite forgotten how alone and how frightened she’d felt trapped there in
the darkness.

Much like she did now.

Her escape had been successful. She’d made a clean break, and
would be safely on the eastern shore of the Mississippi and hell-bent for
Kentucky before Jackson ever realized she was gone. If she traveled hard, she
would reach the Ohio River within a day or two and be home in a week, maybe
two, depending upon the weather and the condition of the roads.