Bride of the Shining Mountains (The St. Claire Men) (39 page)

A half hour later, Reagan made her way up the stairs, her
footsteps dragging on the carpeted treads. The house was quiet, expectantly so.
The young master of
Belle Riviere
, sole possessor of Reagan’s heart,
had yet to return from his mysterious errand, a fact that made Reagan edgy,
unable to relax.

Weary beyond belief, aching in every muscle and bone, she sighed
deeply, drinking in the quiet elegance of her surroundings.

If not for a single twist of fate, she would have been on the
eastern shore of the Mississippi at this very moment, seeking a bed under the
cold and brilliant stars instead of a warm feather nest.

It was odd, but she felt safe here, welcomed... as if the same
forces she had feared the night of her arrival were aware of her and Jackson,
and approved.

That thought jelled in Reagan’s mind as she took the last tread,
emerging into the upstairs hallway; at the same time the door to Emil’s suite
creaked open, and Emil appeared in the slit, beckoning to her with his good
left hand. “So,” he said, “it eez trrrue. Jackson ffounnnd you owwt—brought
yoou back.”

“I found
him
was more the like,” Reagan muttered, reluctant to divulge the
details of their harrowing escape.

Emil, however, would have none of it. “Tell me, Reaagggan Dawes,”
he ordered imperiously.

Reagan sighed, giving him a brief account of what had happened at
Whiskey Joe’s cabin, but stopping short of Navarre’s involvement. By the time
she’d finished, the old man was trembling so violently that she had to help him
back to his chair. “I’ll find Mr. Garrett,” Reagan said, concerned.

But Emil waved the suggestion aside. “A mooo-men,” he said. He
closed his eyes, breathing deeply. When he looked at her again, he seemed
calmer, and his speech was more succinct. “First Clayton... and now
J-Jackssson.” He shook his head, and his dark eyes glittered. “Why? Why
b-b-both mmmy s- sons?”

Reagan bit her lip, hesitating.

“You know. Tell me.”

“There was someone standing over Jackson when I arrived—someone I
recognized. It was his voice that lured me to the cabin. At first I thought
that it was Jackson, but when I drew closer, I saw that it was not.”

His silver brows gathered in an ominous scowl. “Navarre!”

Reagan gave the barest of nods. The fury in his voice was like a
chill wave washing over her, underscoring her apprehension, fortifying her
fears. “I saw him clearly—heard the venom in his voice. Is there some reason he
would wish to harm Jackson?’ ’

“A-avarice,” he said. “Greed, jealousy, revenge. Heee would wrest
from me, every-thing I p-possess, and d-ds- troy w-what he c-cannnot.”

Avarice, greed, jealousy, revenge...
The words rang in Reagan’s weary brain long after she’d returned
the old man’s pistol and exited the room. And not even a leisurely soak in a
steaming tub could erase the tension that gripped her as she lay curled in the
big bed and called them up again.

Avarice, greed, jealousy, revenge...
Avarice and greed she could comprehend. It hardly mattered that
Broussard Furs had filled Navarre’s coffers as well as his elder brother’s.
There were individuals in this world who could never get enough. If Emil was to
be believed, then Navarre was one of them. But jealousy? Jealous of what? What
did Emil have that Navarre would covet? A home, a breathtakingly beautiful
wife, two very different sons? And why revenge? Revenge for what?

Some imagined slight? Family strife, or the ingrained rivalry
inherent in most siblings?

Somehow Reagan did not think so. It had to go deeper than that.
Much, much deeper. And whatever it was, she was becoming more certain by the
moment that the incident tonight at Whiskey Joe’s had its roots firmly planted
in the distant past.

This grand old house was harboring a
secret...
a truth
that had proven to be the wedge that had driven Jackson and his father so far
apart....

Reagan did not hold with keeping secrets.

No matter how deeply one buried them, secrets and lies had a way
of finding their way into the open, and she could not help but ponder as she
drifted off to sleep if this particular truth, once exposed, would heal
Jackson’s emotional scars and mend the rift between him and Emil, or forever
tear them apart.

The townhouse was dark when Navarre returned home, except for the
single taper burning on the commode in the foyer, thoughtfully provided by his
valet. Unsettled by the evening’s events, he took up the taper and made
straightaway for the
grande
salle,
where a bottle of Napoleon waited.
The candle cast a small circle of golden light sufficient for the task at hand
and nothing more. The outer perimeters of the room were cloaked in shadow, as
black as pitch and every bit as impenetrable.

Ignoring the lack of light, Navarre splashed brandy into a
tumbler, tossed it back in a single swallow, then refilled his glass more
slowly as he felt the warmth, the strength, the false sense of security seep
through his veins.
Calm,
Navarre, calm,
he thought. There was nothing to be
gained by giving in to panic, despite the fact that he had inadvertently
claimed two more lives and still did not have the ring.

Yet true calm seemed wont to elude him. Shaken by the knowledge
that Whiskey Joe was still out there, still a tangible threat, that Abe
McFarland had seemingly made it his life’s work to watch his every move, he
touched the taper’s flame to the standing candelabrum, watching as the wicks
caught and the tiny flames leaped, one by one, to glowing, vibrant life.

In his mind’s eye he saw the cabin’s roof collapse with a hail of
orange-red sparks... sparks that lit up the night sky like so many dancing
fireflies. With the ignition of each tiny flame, the shadows retreated a little
farther, the last one casting its iridescent glow upon the man waiting
silently, patiently in the gold damask wing chair.

Catching sight of his unexpected guest from the tail of one eye,
Navarre spun toward the threat, the candle dripping scalding wax onto his
trembling fingers. “Good evening, Uncle,” Jackson said.

“By the grace of God, nephew,” Navarre said softly. Traces of
ashes and soot darkened Jackson’s face, hands and throat; a telltale thread of
dried blood had trickled across his temple. Navarre blanched, and for a moment
he could not seem to find his tongue. A vision of Whiskey Joe’s cabin flashed
behind his eyes, the tall young man who entered, and whom Abe McFarland had
laid low, who lay senseless inside that same cabin as Abe had set fire to the
structure.

The irony of what he’d very nearly done settled on Navarre like a
thousand-pound weight, crushing the breath from his lungs, making him groan
inwardly with the sheer burden of it, and all the while Jackson watched him,
unflinchingly, missing nothing.

“Are you quite well, Uncle? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

Sensing the trap, Navarre neatly sidestepped it. “Do forgive me. I
was not expecting company at such an hour. You gave me quite a start. What
brings you here, Jackson, and in such a disheveled state?” He sniffed the air.
“Is that smoke I smell?
Bon Dieu,
has something untoward happened at
Belle Riviere
? I must
confess, I would not miss the old place overmuch if it went up in flames, or
your papa, for that matter, yet I do hope you had the foresight to salvage your
maman
’s portrait.”

Much to his dismay, the boy did not even crack a smile. He just
continued to watch him with that unnerving green gaze, so like Miralee’s that
it was a fresh stab to Navarre’s heart every time he looked at him. “Where have
you been, Uncle?”

“I should like to ask you the same thing,” Navarre said evasively.
“You come to my home and sit in the dark, looking for all the world like a
chimneysweep, you do not laugh at my jokes... in short, you do not seem
yourself, and I grow more concerned by the second.” He made a great show of
narrowing his eyes.
“Dieu,
is that blood at your temple? Stay where you are. “I’ll summon
Pierre, send for the physician.”

Navarre hurried from the room, yet as he passed Jackson’s chair,
his nephew stopped him with a single sentence, quietly spoken. “Whiskey Joe’s
cabin burned to the ground this evening.”

For a moment Navarre stood very still; then he slowly schooled his
features into a frown, like that of dawning comprehension. “Whiskey Joe?” He
made a noise of utter disgust. “Well, well. That relieves my mind considerably.
Oh, please, spare me that look of consternation. Despite your curious attachment
to that ancient, besotted relic, the town is better off without him. Why, he
has not had a sober day in nearly thirty years. It is hellishly ironic,
however, that happenstance did what the whiskey seemingly could not.”

“It was not happenstance.”

“Your pardon?”

“The fire was deliberately set.”

Navarre’s mind was spinning. “Are you certain the old man didn’t
fire the place as he lay smoking, or perhaps the chimney caught? Such things
happen all the time.”

“I’m certain,” Jackson said, his voice betraying nothing of what
he felt: disbelief, confusion, hope that Reagan was mistaken, that it was all
nothing more than a misunderstanding, and the terrible nagging certainty that
his beloved uncle was hiding something, some dark truth that he did not wish
him to know. “You see, there was a witness. A witness who swears that you were
at Joe’s earlier this evening in the company of Abe McFarland. I was ready to discount
that particular bit of information as too incredible to be believed. Yet when
I entered a moment ago, I thought saw a man who looked like Abe riding away
from here. That brings me back to my original question, a question you have yet
to answer. Where have you been, Uncle?”

Navarre flinched as though Jackson had struck him. Stiff with
indignation, he stared down at Jackson. “And you would take the word of this...
this
person...
over that of your own flesh and blood?”

“I am but seeking the truth,” Jackson replied, coming out of his
chair to loom over his uncle. “If you were at Whiskey Joe’s tonight, then I
wish to hear it from you.”

For a long moment they stood, their gazes locked, so alike in
temperament and physiognomy that they more resembled sire and progeny than
uncle and nephew. “Very well, then. I
was
there, momentarily,” Navarre reluctantly admitted. “As it
happens, I was on my way to Philippe Ormond’s when I saw someone lying stricken
on the portico of the very house you mentioned. I paused to investigate, and
took the wretch for dead. Thinking there was nothing more that I could do, I
departed the scene and went on to Philippe’s. I assure you I did not set fire
to anything. I daresay it would require more effort than I am willing to
expend.”

They stood a moment, toe-to-toe, tension bristling between them.
Navarre shifted, then straightened. “If that is all that you require of me, and
you will not permit me to send for the physician, then I must beg your leave.
The hour grows late, and I should like to seek my rest.”

Jackson was far from satisfied as he took his leave. In that first
moment when Navarre had caught sight of him, something had flared in his dark
eyes... some stark reality Navarre seemed reluctant to face. Something that had
terrified him. Jackson had seen it plainly.

But what could it possibly be? Had Navarre suddenly realized that
Jackson had been the faceless wretch he’d abandoned on the old south road?

Or was there something more? Something deeper, darker, more
complex?

Could Reagan be right about Navarre? Was he in league with Abe
McFarland? Had he stood idly by as Abe fired the cabin, knowing full well it
was occupied? Was he capable of such cold-blooded cruelty?

And if so, then why? What could he possibly hope to gain from a
late-night visit to the home of a man he himself had referred to as an ancient,
besotted relic?

The questions flailed at him as he rode back to
Belle Riviere
,
dancing like dark specters around the perimeters of his conscious mind.
Gulping the crisp night air into his aching lungs, he pushed the events of the
evening aside, forcing himself to focus on the only clue he had, the one thing
that had not changed.