Bride of the Shining Mountains (The St. Claire Men) (45 page)

Jackson was stunned. “Mother of God. This cannot be happening
now.”

Word would have gotten out sooner or later, when the trappers
returned from the mountains. But he’d thought to be safely married by that
time. He just hadn’t expected it to happen so soon.

Without another word he started from the kitchen. But he hadn’t
even reached the door when Bessie called him back. “Mr. Jackson, it won’t do no
good to go up there. Miz Reagan ain’t here, son.”

“Not here. What in the hell are you talking about?”

It was Emil who answered. “She’s gone. Reaagan run upstairs. When
Stricklan’ follow, Reaagan gone.”

Cursing viciously, Jackson strode from the room, down the hall,
and up the stairs. In the kitchen, chair legs scraped the wooden floor. The
thump of Emil’s cane and the sound of Bessie’s snuffles followed in his wake,
marking their progress through the manse.

Reagan’s bedchamber was exactly as she’d left it. The bed was
neatly made, and nothing was out of place. The only thing to indicate that she
would not walk into the room at any moment was the piece of foolscap that had
been placed upon her pillow. Jackson picked it up.

I could not stay after tonight. Go on with your life.

Jackson stared at the curling flourishes on the letters. It could
have been Reagan’s handwriting. After all, he had never seen it. Yet somehow
Jackson wasn’t convinced.

There was something about this whole situation that didn’t sit
well with him. There were but four people in all of Saint Louis who knew about
the auction: himself and Reagan, G. D., and Abe McFarland.

And while G. D. would not hesitate to steal Reagan from under
Jackson’s very nose, he would never be so deliberately cruel to her.

Which left Abe McFarland.

Abe and Navarre.

The foolscap fluttered to the floor, discarded, forgotten. Jackson
methodically rifled through the contents of Reagan’s armoire and tall chest of
drawers, and found the homespun garments—her “travelin’ clothes”—tucked away in
the bottom drawer.

Emil appeared in the doorway. Bessie hovered somewhere in the
background. “What weel you do?”

“Find her, bring her back.” Jackson pushed past his father on his
way to his bedchamber. “Where is Strickland?”

“South road. L-look for Reaagan.”

“When he gets back here, tell him to meet me down by the
warehouse. I have an uneasy feeling that Reagan did not leave of her own accord,
and I may need his help.”

The old man’s brows drew down. “You think some-one took Reaagan?”

Jackson gave a grim nod, shrugging out of his finery, donning a
plain linen shirt, nondescript dark coat, and wide leather belt, through which
he seated his matching heavy-bore pistols. Then, reaching into the pocket of
the forest green velvet coat he had recently removed, he found the signet ring
and placed it in his father’s hand. “Whiskey Joe was at the warehouse when Clay
was killed. He picked it up when Clay’s killer lost it.”

“Navarre.” The sound was like the growl of a wounded beast, low
and piteous.

From the doorway, Bessie snuffled loudly. “Not now, Lord. T
his
can’t be
happenin’, please.”

“I am not sure why, but Uncle Navarre is up to his ears in this.
’Twould seem that he killed Clay, and I am certain he’s in league with Abe
McFarland. Though I hate to think it of him, I fear that if I find Navarre,
I’ll find Reagan.”

Tremors shook Emil’s frail body, but his eyes glowed with a feral
light. “
I
 know why,” he said succinctly. Then, to Bessie, he said, “You
must tell heem. He has a right... to know.”

“Mr. Emil, please. It can’t do no good diggin’ ’round in de past
now! What’s done is done, an’ there ain’t no goin’ back! We’ve got to
concentrate on gettin’ Miz Reagan back—”

“It must be now,” Emil insisted. “He must know the truth about his
past—about his
maman,
and Navarre.”

Jackson stilled. “What about Navarre?”

This time it was Bessie who answered, her words coming out like a
low, grieving moan. “I swore to Miz Miralee dat I would carry this secret to my
grave! On her deathbed she made me promise you would never know!”

“Know what?” Jackson said. “What secret?”

“Your mama was a good woman,” the old woman confessed tearfully,
“a God-fearing woman, but she had the misfortune to fall in love with the wrong
man. It was just a few months before she married Mr. Emil, and because the
young man she set her heart on was a younger son, her papa denied consent for
them to marry, and he gave her in marriage to Mr. Emil instead.”

“What in the hell are you trying to tell me?” Jackson demanded,
impatient to be gone, feeling precious seconds ticking away.

Bessie continued, undaunted by his words, and something in her
tearstained face froze Jackson to the spot. “Always the dutiful child, your
mama married Mr. Emil, but she never was happy in her marriage. Oh, for a while
she pretended, and tried to be a good wife... den dat young man what stole her
heart came back from the mountains, and God help her, from the moment she laid
eyes on his handsome face again, she was lost. Dat man was Navarre Broussard.”

Jackson felt a chill of pure foreboding come over him. He was
afraid to speak, strangely afraid of what would come next.

Bessie sniffed loudly, her dark eyes filling up with tears. “Mr.
Navarre got a child on your mama that first year she was married, a child born
of a forbidden and ill-fated love, and son, dat child was you. Dat’s why she
put dis here house in trust for you before she died, and left you her fortune.
She was afraid... afraid dat if Mr. Emil turned away from you, you’d be left a
pauper, fatherless, alone.”

“Is this true? Is Navarre my father?” The query was unnecessary,
an afterthought really. The truth was written on Emil’s lined countenance.

Jackson might have laughed had the situation not been so dire.
Suddenly it all made sense, the feeling that no matter what he did, he could
never belong, the dull ache in his chest when he was a boy, sprung from the
certainty that his papa had never loved him—not really, not like he’d loved
Clay.

For a moment Emil stood, his mouth working but no sound issuing
forth. Then gradually he recovered. Slowly he reached out and cupped Jackson’s
ruined cheek, tears shining in his eyes. “S-Sor-ry, Jackson. Sor-ry—for
everything.”

Reagan awoke to the vague sensation of motion. It was dark—very
dark—but there was a subtle rumbling beneath her feet, like that of a coffin
rolling on wheels. The odd notion refusing to leave her, she searched her mind,
grasping any cognizant bit of recall as to how she’d come to be here in this
stifling, airless box.

Then, as if in reply to her unspoken dilemma, flint struck steel
beside her, the sparks igniting a scrap of cotton from a tinderbox. In turn,
the flame was touched to the wick of a hanging lantern, shedding light on the
interior of the closed barouche, as well as on Reagan’s recent recall.

She remembered the ball, Jackson’s absence, the moment of her
downfall, and that great, smelly beast of a man, Abe McFarland, who she could
only surmise—since the interior of the coach did not reek of anything
unpleasant—sat on the box of the lumbering conveyance.

In the corner opposite, Navarre sat watching her, a pleasant,
almost amiable expression on his face. “I’m glad to see you are finally coming
around. For a moment there, I feared you would will your spirit into departing
your body, simply to escape our simpleminded friend out there.”

“It was you who sent the bill of sale,” she surmised.

He stroked his smooth-shaven chin, seemingly pleased with himself.
“A stroke of genius, that, and one more debt owed to Abe McFarland. Had he not
imparted his tale of unrequited love, you would not have been humiliated in
front of the entire town, the very people you were working so hard to impress.
Consequently, you would not have seen fit to run away.”

“But I didn’t run,” Reagan countered, “and Jackson will know it.
He won’t stop until he finds me.”

“He’ll no doubt try, yet I cannot imagine he’ll think to look
where I am sending you. Your suitor, it seems, is eager for a new start, as far
away from Saint Louis as he can manage. New South Wales should do nicely, don’t
you think?”

“New South Wales,” Reagan repeated dully. She’d heard of it a long
time ago. Something her mother had said about it being founded on a penal colony.
An island a world away from Jackson, with no escape from Crazy Abe.

“I thought you would appreciate that,” Navarre continued. “It’s a
long and costly voyage, but never fear. The arrangements have all been made.
There’s a steamboat due to dock here any moment, which will carry you both
downriver. In New Orleans you will board the ship that will take you well away
from here.”

“Why would you do this?” Reagan managed to squeeze the query
around the lump in her throat. “What have I done to deserve this?”

“The answer is simple, my dear,” Navarre replied, still smiling
pleasantly. “Like too many others before you, you got in my way, poking your
nose into places it did not belong, aspiring to rise above your station in
life.”

“I never wanted his money, if that’s what you think,” Reagan shot
back.

Only his heart. It was all that had ever mattered to her.

“No, but it might have gone better for you if you had. Avarice,
you see, I can understand and deal with. Ah, but love... love is quite another
matter. Put simply, I cannot allow Jackson to take you to wife. You are not
good enough for my son.”

Reagan sat very still, yet seemingly the look on her face betrayed
her.

“Are you shocked?” he asked. “Well, so am I. I thought you might
have guessed by now, or at least suspected.” “Does he... does Jackson know that
you’re his father?” Reagan could not resist asking.

Navarre’s smile deepened, becoming cryptic. “Not yet. But he will.
Rest assured, Miss Dawes,
everything
will work out in the end.”

The barouche rattled to a stop. A few seconds later the door
opened, and the doorway filled with the six-foot-seven-inch frame of Abe
McFarland. He leered at Reagan, but directed his words to Navarre. “Steamboat a
comin’. I’ll have that pouch with the gold now.”

Navarre reached into his many-caped coat and came away with an
oilskin packet, which he thrust at Abe.

Abe thumbed through the paper notes, his frown of deep
concentration slowly dissolving, a look of suspicion taking its place. “Wildcat
notes. You give me wildcat notes? Specie ain’t no good, Navarre. Hard cash
money is what we parleyed for.”

“You bargained for the chit and a new life, which is precisely
what you shall have. What you make of the opportunity I have provided once you
arrive in New South Wales, I shall leave to your discretion. Take it or leave
it.” Navarre fingered his walking stick as if he would have liked to strike
the big man with it, while the moment drew out, and the tension mounted.

In the interim, a throaty bellow blew off the water, along with
the labored
chug, chug, chug
of a steam-driven engine. Over Abe’s shoulder, Reagan saw the
bright golden glow of the ship as it rounded a bend in the river, heard the
protesting hammer of the pistons as it reversed its great stern wheel and
headed for shore.

Abe lifted and flexed his huge hands, his anger evident. “I told
you not to try and cheat me, little man. Either give me my due or I’ll take it
outta your hide.”

Navarre’s silver-headed walking stick came up so swiftly that
Reagan thought she dreamed it, striking Abe under the chin, forcing his jaws
together with an audible snap. Abe spat blood, reaching for the weapon, but
stilled when he saw the pistol in Navarre’s left hand.

“Ignorant lout,” Navarre said with a sneer. “Did you honestly
think you could succeed in blackmailing me? You saw what happened to Heath. A
man with a brain would have taken his fate as a lesson, and left it at that.”

Reagan saw Abe’s face flush dark, and recognized an opportunity.
“He’s made you look the fool. You gonna let him get away with that?”