Bride of the Shining Mountains (The St. Claire Men) (42 page)

“Dawes...”
Madame
Stimple was saying. “It is not a name with which I am familiar.”

Across the board Madame Chouteau chimed in, while her husband
frowned in her direction. “Merciful Mary, it isn’t Irish, is it?”

Dragged from her musings, Reagan stiffened. “Scotch-Irish, there’s
a difference.”

“Precious little, besides their level of ingrained tenacity. They
both seem overly fond of the whiskey—a crude drink, and so American.” Madame
Chouteau’s pointed glance slid to Jackson, who returned her stare
unflinchingly. A blush rising to her withered cheeks, she tore her gaze away,
returning to her quest for information. “Has your family been here long, my
dear?’ ’

“Since before the war for the continent,” she said tightly.
“You’ll remember it well, I’m sure. We fought the French and sent their
insolent arses packing back to the Canadas, which, I might add, is precisely
where they belong.”

Madame Chouteau coughed and sputtered, while her husband thumped
her back, and her fellow inquisitors exclaimed their shock and concern.

Across the board, G. D. Strickland raised his glass in mock
salute. “To Kentucky,” he said, grinning impishly. “Some fine, spirited fillies
have sprung from that dark and bloody ground.”

Unable to bear another moment in the company of Madame Chouteau
and Eloise Stimple, Reagan made her apologies and, pleading a migraine, fled to
her bedchamber and blessed quiet.

Josephine was sprawled upside down on the foot of the old rice
bed, but when Reagan entered the room, she righted herself. Yawning widely, she
jumped down, padding lazily to the French doors, where she stood twitching her
tail and blinking at Reagan.

“I can see that you’re bent upon escape,” Reagan said with a weary
sigh. “How would you like some company? I could do with a walk under the waning
moon. Who knows, maybe the night air will help to clear my head.”

Lifting the soft woolen shawl from the trunk at the foot of the
bed, Reagan opened the French windows and followed the feline down the gallery
stairs.

As she cleared the first landing and started down the garden path,
something stirred in the shadows at the corner of the building. Slowly
separating from the concealing darkness, the watcher straightened, taking on
human form, and, keeping well back, trailed along in Reagan’s wake.

The garden had become a sanctuary, an earthly haven where—if she
faced away from the glowing lights of the manse, and did not look too hard—she
could feel nature’s glory all around her. She felt close to the earth
out-of-doors. The trees, the rocks, the rain, and the wind helped to ground
her, to remind her who and what she was... not less than those mean-spirited
old biddies in the parlor, just different.

Worlds apart.

Josephine dashed off in hot pursuit of a mouse.

Tilting her head back, Reagan breathed deeply of the cool night
air, savoring the sweet, heady smell of autumn that seemed to linger
everywhere, willing the tension that had gripped her throughout the evening to
slowly drain away.

“I know it may not seem it, but they’re the same stars that shine
down on the Ohio, the Potomac, the Allegheny.”

Reagan felt his presence an instant before she heard his voice,
warm and smooth as sun-warmed honey, sounding close beside her. A sharp prick
of disappointment worked its way through her, disappointment that it was G. D.
Strickland and not another who had followed her out, and stood talking of familiar
places under the starlit heavens. “In my heart, I know it,” she said, “yet
somehow—”

“It does not seem the same.”

She nodded, barely surprised that he seemed to know what she was
thinking. He stood beside her, his face tipped up to the night sky, as the
silence stretched long between them. When he spoke again, his voice had lost
its honeyed warmth, gaining instead a gravity that seemed unlike him. “Are you
happy here, Reagan?”

It was the one question she could not answer honestly. “I don’t
know how you mean.”

“I think you do,” he said. “But I’ll elaborate, in any case. If
your heart is elsewhere, if you do not wish marriage to a stranger, you do not
need to stay a moment longer.”

“G. D.—”

“Gabriel. Call me Gabriel.”

“Very well, then, Gabriel. I appreciate your concern, but it’s
just not that simple.”

“You don’t owe Seek-Um your life, your future, if that’s what
you’re thinking. He might have extended a helping hand to a stranger, but that
doesn’t mean that he owns you.”

Reagan made no reply. He couldn’t possibly know how complex her
life had become, how tangled her emotions. And even if she’d had the urge to
try to explain, she knew that he would never understand. A woman like her
falling in love with a man like Jackson made no earthly sense. Unfortunately,
the heart often wandered down dangerous paths, and there was nothing she could
do to change that. Aloud, she said, “I really should be getting back.”

She turned to go; at the same time, something squealed loudly in
the yew hedges. The sound was sharp and piercing, so unexpected that her shawl
slid from her shoulders, eluding her grasp. No matter how much she told herself
that Josephine had nabbed her mouse, that it was nothing more, Reagan could not
seem to curb the impulse to step back, into G. D. Strickland’s arms.

Just before she spun to face him, she caught a glimpse of
something in the shadows near the garden wall. It was sinister and unexpected,
and it sent a jolt of chilling fear through Reagan that seemed to freeze the
very core of her being. She grasped the lapels of G. D.’s coat in both fists.

“You all right?” G. D. asked low, turning her in his arms, using
one knuckle to tip up her chin. “You’re trembling.”

“I was startled, was all. For a moment I thought I saw—” Reagan
broke off, glancing past his shoulder at the spot by the garden wall, searching
the shadows, finding them empty. Had she really seen the figure of a man, or
had she been so unnerved at seeing Navarre again that she had merely imagined
it?

G. D. was watching her intently, a deep line of concern etched
between his brows.

Collecting herself, Reagan shook her head. “I guess it was just
the shadows—a trick of the light, or perhaps the lack of it.”

He seemed to accept her explanation, yet he didn’t let her go.
Instead he reached out, his hand finding and cradling the turn of her jaw, his
thumb tipping her chin ever so slightly upward as his tawny head came down.

The kiss was soft and questing, oddly sweet, almost innocent, a
word she would never have employed to describe its giver. A moment, and it was
over. “I just wanted you to know that you have other options. We’re cut from
the same bolt of cloth, you and I—not satin or lace, but linsey-woolsey and
leather. I think we’d deal well together. I think you know it, too.”

Suddenly Jackson was there, his expression murderous as he thrust
Reagan aside and swung at G. D., a vicious blow that caught the Virginian on
the point of his chin and knocked him off his feet.

Before G. D. had time to recover, Jackson stepped in for another
blow; at the same time Reagan screamed and grabbed his arm. “Damn it, Jackson,
stop it! Haven’t you done enough?”

Jackson’s glower was fierce. “Go back to the house and wait for me
there.”

“Wait for you to kill him?” Reagan shot back.

G. D. picked himself up and stood rubbing his jaw. “It’s all
right, sweetheart. I expect that I had that one comin’.” Jackson smiled at the
statement, but there was not a shred of humor in the expression. “You play the
gallant so well that one might be led to believe your offer genuine. Only
someone who knows you would realize what a sham it truly is!”

G. D. drew himself up, bracing his hands on his hips. “You don’t
know a damn thing, Seek-Um.”

“I know enough to want you well and gone from here,” Jackson said
with a snarl, all trace of civility, vanished. “You’re fired. You may pick up
your pay voucher at the warehouse first thing in the morning. Now be so good as
to pack your things and get out.”

G. D. stood his ground, refusing to budge. “Your objective was to
find the young lady a husband, someone to take care of her and take her off
your hands. Well, boss, you’ve found your man. I’d like to be the first to
offer for her hand.”

“Go to hell.” Jackson started to turn away. G. D. grabbed his arm,
preventing it.

“It’s a legitimate offer!”

“An offer that I refuse! Stay the hell out of this, G. D.!”

G. D. struck a belligerent stance. “Just what are you saying,
Jackson? Are you telling me that you would sooner see Reagan wed to a stranger
than married to me?”

Pushed beyond the bounds of restraint, Jackson seized Strickland’s
lapels in both hands and slammed him back against the gnarled trunk of an
ancient oak tree. “I am telling you that I love her, damn your eyes, and I will
not relinquish her to any man!”

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, and
Jackson could have bitten his tongue in two. He let go of G. D., who was
grinning like a jackass, and turned toward Reagan, who stood with one dainty
hand pressed to her mouth.

Her eyes were glittering with anger, and she quaked like a leaf in
a strong northwestern wind.

Not like this, was all Jackson could think. She could not find out
like this. Mother of God, he’d waited for what seemed an eternity, hoping for
the perfect moment, and now it was all destroyed. Not knowing what else to do,
he looked at Reagan, a silent plea for mercy, a supplication... then looked
past her and gave a heartfelt groan.

A weeping Annette stood on the lawn just outside the kitchen
entrance, flanked by Bessie, who planted her hands on her ample hips and sent
words of praise heavenward. “Thank you, Lord Jesus! An’ I won’t even complain
that you took your own sweet time!”

Jackson reached for Reagan’s hand, hoping against hope that the
moment, their glorious moment, was not shattered beyond all repair. Yet before
he could attempt to repair the damage, before he could do more than murmur her
name, Reagan gathered her skirts in both hands and ran for the gallery stairs.

It was a long while that Joe waited in the shadows of the yew
hedge, clutching his beaver hat to his breast with one hand and the white man’s
trinket tightly in the other. He’d come to see Jack Broussard’s woman, to place
the trinket in her hand, certain she would comprehend and know just what to do.
And then the others had come to shatter the stillness, and while he waited, the
moment passed and Jack Broussard’s woman was gone.

Joe glanced at the gleaming ring nestled in the palm of his hand.
He knew how important it was, far too important to trade for whiskey, even
though his craving was deep and insatiable.
Patience . . .
Patience
was everything. Men who hurried spent their lives too quickly, made mistakes.
Joe had the wisdom of the ages at his withered fingertips. He knew that the
best and wisest thing would be to find a safe place to watch and wait for the
perfect moment.

“Kaintuck, wait!” Jackson’s voice rang out behind her.

Her cheeks burning with embarrassment and anger, Reagan did not
slow her breakneck pace as she hurried up the stairs and across the
second-floor gallery, not pausing until she had reached the dark quiet of her
bedchamber. Once she was safely inside, she closed and locked the long French
windows, then crossed the room to her door and, turning the key in the lock,
flung herself full-length on the bed. But she’d barely had time to catch her
breath when a heavy hand rattled the gallery knob.

“Reagan,
cher,”
Jackson pleaded. “Please. Let me in. We must talk about this.”

Reagan remained stubbornly silent. She didn’t trust herself to
talk, especially not to Jackson. She desperately needed time to compose
herself, time to gather her thoughts, to sort through her feelings.

Jackson was seemingly just as determined to gain entrance. He
rattled the knob again, his beleaguered sigh coming clearly through the glass
panes. “For the love of God, will you open the damnable windows?”

Open the windows and what? She’d gotten what she wanted. He’d said
the words she’d longed to hear, and suddenly Reagan was terrified... scared
witless that it had all been a mistake, that given a moment to think it all
over, he would wish to recant the words, and in that moment she was certain
that if the worst happened and he took it all back, she would curl up on the
bed and die. “Go away!” she said, not willing to risk it, a hot rush of
irrational tears welling up in her eyes. “Jackson, please, just leave me alone.”