Bride of the Shining Mountains (The St. Claire Men) (44 page)

At first he thought it just the wind, a trick of the storm-swept
night... but then it came again... eerie, unsettling, too real to be passed off
or ignored.

Jackson turned back just as the lightning flashed outside and a
peal of thunder rattled the floorboards underfoot, a perfect backdrop for the
ragged figure in the old beaver hat scratching at the windowpanes.

As Jackson tripped the latch and swung the windows wide, the old
Peoria stepped back into the safety of the shadows, motioning with one gnarled
hand.

Without a second’s hesitation, Jackson stepped into the deluge.
“Mother of God, Joe, where have you been?” he said, trying to be heard over the
rising wind. “I’ve searched for you everywhere.”

The old man smiled and nodded. “A wise fox has many dens, Jack
Broussar’. Joe watched and waited, but Jack Broussar’ and his woman are never
alone.”

“Come inside and warm yourself,” Jackson urged him. “I’ll get you
some food and a whiskey. You’re safe here. You have my word upon it.”

Joe just shook his head. “Do not trust in the past, Jack
Broussar’. Good and evil have two faces. Nothing is as it may seem.”

Without further preamble, Joe took Jackson’s hand, placing a small
but weighty object in his palm. As Jackson stared down at it, the lightning
flashed again, the blue-white glare glinting off the signet ring that lay
nestled in his hand. His belly knotting, Jackson’s fingers closed around it.
“Where did you get this?”

“The place of many furs, the night Clay Broussar’ died. Joe
watched from the cover of the bales.”

“Mother of God,” Jackson said softly, listening as the old man
explained what he had seen, hoping there was some mistake. He did not want to
believe that Navarre was capable of callously taking a life—most especially the
life of someone Jackson loved.

Then he remembered the cabin along the old south road, reduced now
to blackened beams and cold gray ash, the fact that Crazy Abe—who seemingly had
disappeared in the days since—had been there, in the company of Jackson’s
beloved uncle. Navarre’s caustic criticisms of Clay over the years all came
winging back to smite him at that
moment...
the
evidence lying in his palm and the hard truth written on his friend’s weathered
countenance niggling away at his denial until there was nothing left to cling
to.

Seeming to sense Jackson’s inner turmoil, Joe laid a hand upon his
shoulder. “Listen to your heart, Jack Broussar’. It alone will lead you to that
which you seek.”

Joe turned away, melting into the storm and gone in an instant.
Jackson did not attempt to stop him, knowing that Joe had accomplished what
he’d set out to do. He had given him the one thing he’d striven so hard for in
the weeks since his return to Saint Louis, the key to the mystery surrounding
his brother’s death and the annihilation of his good name.

Quietly closing the French windows behind him, he started toward
the stables. One way or another, tonight would see the end of it. He would find
Navarre and have his truth.

How strange that he found no satisfaction in the prospect.

Reagan stood at her bedchamber window, staring out at the garden
and the stables beyond...
her
garden, her mind amended.

Jackson had insisted on giving her an engagement gift, something
elaborate, shockingly expensive, anything her heart desired.

Reagan had surprised him by asking for cuttings, saplings, and
seeds. Hardwoods from Kentucky, primroses, and trilliums... hosts of trilliums,
like the ones that sprang from the woodlands near her cabin home in early
spring.

Bemused, he had given the garden into her care, and had set out to
hire a gardener to assist her that very same day.

Thrilled, Reagan had thrown her arms around his neck, covering
his face in kisses... at which point Jason St. Claire had taken the hint, and,
grasping his wife by the hand, he led her from the room.

Reagan still could not seem to believe it. The garden was hers.
The house was hers. Jackson was hers, and hers alone.

The candlelight in the room transformed the windowpanes into
small, incandescent mirrors, which gave back Reagan’s reflection in a host of
hand-sized squares.

Was it really her reflected there?

The woman in the glass panes was dressed in a luxurious white
velvet gown, with glittering diamonds at her throat, and appeared more a
princess than simple country maiden Reagan Dawes. “It feels like a fairy story
gone all awry, and when I close my eyes I’ll be whisked away, back to the cabin
in Bloodroot.”

Outside, a closed conveyance rattled down the street. Long and
dark and lumbering, it slowed as it passed the house; then, turning the comer,
it disappeared from sight. Doubtless it carried more guests to the ball being
held in their honor.

The mantel clock struck half-past the hour of eight. Reagan
sighed. It was time to go, time to face the world as Jackson’s betrothed.

She was nervous as a cat as she took a deep breath and started
down the stairs, and the thought that Jackson would be waiting for her at the
bottom of the long staircase was her only comfort.

Far below, a crowd had gathered, a sea of strange faces, bright
with rum punch and curiosity. Reagan searched the throng, finding Catherine and
Jase, Emil and G. D., the latter of whom winked and offered a deliciously
wicked smile, Madame Chouteau, Madame Girard, Eloise Stimple, and at least a
hundred other faces she failed to recognize.

But the one face she needed to see was conspicuously absent.

She searched the crowd, frantic now, her steps slowing.

Any moment now he would push through those gathered and approach
the steps to take her hand. Any moment now... Still, Jackson didn’t come.

Another step. And then another.

Uncertain, Reagan faltered. The crowd grew silent.

Where was he?

Where
was
he?

He’d promised.

He’d promised to be here, waiting. Promised to make this the most
memorable night of her life.

Glancing around, she swallowed hard, trying to act as if nothing
were amiss.

G. D. pushed through the crowd, rising to her rescue. “Since it
seems our host has stepped out for a breath of air,” he said, offering his arm,
“I would be honored to act in his stead.”

A breath of air. Rain lashed the windows, the wind howling around
the eaves. Everyone present knew that he was lying, but the look on his face
defied anyone to remark upon it.

Flashing G. D. a grateful smile, Reagan placed her hand upon his
coated arm. “Where is Jackson?” she whispered.

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” G. D. replied,
“but
the boss’s loss is indisputably
my gain.” He signaled the musicians, who struck up a slow, lilting waltz, and
without preamble led her out onto the ballroom floor.

Reagan managed the dance quite nicely, without crushing his toes,
and was just getting accustomed to the rhythm when Jason St. Claire cut in. He
was a handsome man in his mid-fifties with hair that was starting to silver,
and eyes of a clear crystalline blue. He gallantly led Regan through the dance,
but there was no doubt in her mind that the light in his remarkable eyes was
for Catherine.

A number of partners followed, young men eager to step out with so
lovely a companion, older gentlemen hoping to prove that they could still cut a
dashing figure.

And still Jackson did not come.

Reagan cut short her reel with Monsieur Chouteau, and found her
way back to G. D.’s side.

At that same moment, a boy of about fourteen entered the room,
heading straight for Reagan. His hair was plastered to his scalp, and rain
dotted the shoulders and collar of his old woolen coat. “Are you Reagan Dawes?”
he said in a voice loud enough to carry over the music.

Reagan nodded. “What is it? Is something wrong?” Her imagination
was running wild. Was Jackson hurt? Had some tragedy befallen him?

“Papers for you, miss,” the boy said. “A bill of sale—a memento
from an auction sale a while back.”

“An auction?” Reagan’s stomach clenched painfully.

“Aye. The rendezvous auction where Mr. Broussard bought and paid
for the pleasure of your company.”

The musicians’ latest offering died a slow, discordant death, and
in the interim a ripple of sound moved through the assemblage, like the low
drone of distant bees.

Reagan heard it as if from far away. She saw the boy’s leering
face as he thrust the bill of sale into her hand, yet somehow it all seemed
strangely distorted.

If only Jackson were here, she kept thinking. Somehow he would
make it better; somehow he’d make all of the unpleasantness go away.

But he wasn’t here, and her panic was rising.

G. D. had the boy by the scruff of the neck. “Who sent you here
with this piece of trash? Who, damn it?”

Unable to bear the weight of the curious stares any longer, Reagan
lifted her skirt in both hands and ran from the room, not slowing until she
reached her bedchamber.

Annette had doused the lamp, and the room was cast in shadow.

Not that it mattered.

There was no one to see as Reagan closed the door and slumped to
the floor, racked by uncontrollable sobs.

Hugging her upraised knees, she cried out her heart, and it was
not until her tears slowed that she became aware of another presence in the
room. Dashing the moisture from her eyes, she raised her head, half expecting
to see Jackson.

Then she recognized Abe McFarland, and a scream was torn from her
throat.

Jackson had searched everywhere for his uncle, beginning with the
town house. Dragging Navarre’s manservant, Pierre, out of bed, he had
questioned him thoroughly while the old man shivered and shook in his
nightshirt and cap, and all to no avail. Pierre could tell him only that
Navarre had gone out, information that was of but little use.

Feeling frustrated, Jackson left the town house and began a
methodical search of Navarre’s usual haunts, including the house of his friend,
the eccentric Philippe Ormond, who lived a good ten miles north of the city.

But Navarre was nowhere to be found.

It was nearing midnight when Jackson abandoned his search and rode
home to
Belle Riviere
.

Because of him, the ball held to formally announce their
engagement lay in ruins, and he would be lucky indeed if Reagan hadn’t thought
the better of his proposal and run away to the Shenandoah Valley with G. D.

Steps dragging, he stabled Euripides, rubbed him down with a
handful of straw, and made his way through the garden to the rear of the manse.

The windows of the great house glowed with lamplight, yet when he
slipped in the back door, he noted that the house itself was oddly quiet.

Bessie and Emil sat at the kitchen table, the former plying her
handkerchief, mopping the tears that trickled over her weathered cheeks; the
latter looked defeated, and sat with his head in his good right hand.

Bessie raised her gaze, encountering Jackson’s, and snuffled
loudly. “What is it?” Jackson asked. “What’s happened here?”

Bessie groaned, while Emil patted her hand in an effort to calm
her.

“Will someone answer me? The house is silent as a tomb. Where are
all the guests?”

“Gone,” Emil said flatly. “A few frm out-of-tooown eez all eez
left.”

“Gone,” Jackson repeated. “Will one of you please tell me what is
going on here?”

“It’s the devil’s doin’s, dat’s what!” Bessie replied. “That
dirty-faced boy come traipsin’ in here with his bill o’ sale, spreadin’ some
cruel nonsense ’bout you buyin’ Miz Reagan at a fur auction! Poor Miz Reagan
look like she’d been stuck in the heart with a knife! Mr. G. D„ he grabbed dat
boy and shook him so hard his teeth like to rattle. No-good gutter trash!” she
grumbled, nearly coking on her sobs.