Bride of the Shining Mountains (The St. Claire Men) (47 page)

Stepping forward, Navarre grasped Jackson’s shoulder, sighing
wistfully. “Once again, Emil has won. If he has an ounce of sense he will be
glad of the son he has left. His second son is far the better man, in any
case.”

With that he turned and walked away. In less than a moment, the
fog had swallowed him up.

Down the way, the
Mirabelle
sounded her horn, her engines quickened, and the stem wheel that
drove her churned the brown water. Before she pulled into the channel, Jackson
turned once more to Reagan.

“Abe didn’t hurt you? Or Navarre?”

Reagan shook her head. She wouldn’t tell him what Navarre had
planned for her. He’d absorbed too much already, and that particular knowledge
could only bring more pain. “I’m cold and wet, but I’ll be just fine now that
you’re here.”

Jackson pulled her close, burying his face in her tumbledown
tresses.

A crowd had gathered on the breast of the levee: Bessie, G. D.,
Emil, Kevin, even Antoine Garrett, and Madame and Monsieur Chouteau, who had
noticed the commotion from their gallery and came to investigate.

Emil was the first to reach them, stumping along in the forefront,
looking windswept but strong. “Navarre?” he said.

“Gone,” Jackson said simply. “He saved my life, Papa—” Jackson
broke off, feeling suddenly awkward.

“Glad,” Emil said, with a jerk of his arrogant chin. “Glad to... have
you . . . son.
Papa,
please. Yes,” he said, smiling. “Papa.” He grasped Jackson’s
hand, then Reagan’s, and his eyes were suspiciously moist when he turned away.

Madame Chouteau fixed Jackson with a stem look. “Is there any
truth to this latest scandal swirling ’round your handsome head, young sir?”
she demanded brusquely. “Did you really purchase this poor young woman on the
auction block?”

Jackson and Reagan exchanged warm glances. “Aye,” he admitted.
“It’s true, I swear it. I bought my bride, and given the same set of
circumstances, I’d do it again without hesitation, without a moment’s thought,
and the devil take what the gossips think. I love her, Madame Chouteau... and I
intend to make her my wife the first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, Jackson,” Reagan said. “Do you mean it?” Laughing, he swept
her up and into his arms, kissing her soundly while G. D. whooped and shouted
and the gathering cheered. “Just try to stop me.”

Belle Riviere Saint Louis, Missouri September 29, 1830

On her flight from Saint Louis, the
Mirabelle
struck a
sawyer and sank somewhere south of Natchez. All hands, captain, crew, and its
sole passenger were lost to the swift current caused by recent storms. By all
accounts, Navarre Broussard had drowned that fateful September evening. The
river seldom gave up its dead, yet Jackson erected a headstone to his father in
any case, beside that of his mother, gone these many years. Then, with a
determination that was new to him, and which astounded even his harshest
critics, he went on with his life.

As was customary, rumors persisted.

Some claimed to have seen a man matching Navarre’s description
south of New Orleans. Jackson, when approached on the matter, could neither
confirm nor deny it, but stated quite flatly that he had other concerns that
took precedence, such as the twelve pounds of squalling infant he was, at the
moment, trying to quiet.

“Ssshhh,
ma petite.
You will wake your
maman,
and Papa promised that she could sleep late this morning.”

Little Miranda Rose was not in the least impressed. Born in late
July, the child had Reagan’s sable hair and, God help them all, her father’s
temperament. “At moments like this one, I almost wish your uncle Gabriel were
home from the Shining Mountains. He always had a way with women. Then again,
you really should stay away from him. He’s a habitual bachelor, you know; he
would only break your heart, and Papa does not wish to have to shoot him.”

At that Miranda yawned, and Emil, who sat reading the newspaper
with Josephine at his feet, harrumphed. “She
could
do worse. You cannot
contract... marriage .. . too young, Jackson.”

Jackson was properly horrified. “Papa! She’s just five weeks old!”

The old man just smiled. “Give her... to me. I will quiet.”

Jackson sent a frown in Emil’s direction. “I can manage, Papa.”

Emil was completely incorrigible where his granddaughter was
concerned, and completely enamored. But he looked dubious as Miranda squalled
even louder, all but drowning out the sound of the brass door knocker.

Jiggling the baby, Jackson made his way to the door.

A trio of men stood on the gallery, two just coming into manhood,
the third a score of years older than Jackson himself. Jackson recognized the
trio, but stopped short of welcoming them in. He did not exactly harbor a
grudge, for after all, Luther, Luck, and Lafe had been instrumental in bringing
Reagan into his life. Neither would he let them off the proverbial hook so
handily. Pulling his aloof air around him like an oft-worn cloak, he looked
down his nose at Luther, jiggled Miranda, and waited.

Luther fished in the breast pocket of his broadcloth coat and came
away with a pair of round-rimmed spectacles, which he perched on his thin nose.
“Durn thangs,” he said, taking them off again. “Can’t see any better with ’em
than I can without.” Squinting at Jackson, he tried again. “We’re lookin’ for
the Broussard place. We was told it was hereabouts.”

“This is
Belle Riviere
, Miranda’s ancestral home. What is
it you want?”

Luck nudged Lafe and whispered something in his ear, managing to
knock his new beaver hat off his head. “Is not!” Lafe said, retrieving his
prize.

“Is too!” Luck shot back, looking smug in his swallowtail coat and
gray-striped pantaloons.

Luther silenced both with a look. “Yer pardon. My boys is a bit
excited at the prospect of seein’ their sister. Does a Reagan Dawes by chance
work here?” He squinted at Jackson again, tilting back his head. “Hey, aren’t
you the fella that bou—”

“I am Reagan’s husband,” Jackson informed him coolly. “And this is
our daughter, Miranda.”

“Jackson!” Reagan called from the top of the staircase. “Jackson!
What on earth have you done with our daughter?” In a moment she appeared, as
sleek and as beautiful as she had been the day he married her, only with a new
fullness about her bosom, due in no small part to the squirming infant in his
arms. “Oh,” Reagan said. “I didn’t know we had comp’ny.”

“I was just about to send them away,” Jackson said. “But then,
they are here to see you, so perhaps you should decide if they stay or go.”

Reagan descended the final tread and started across the foyer.
Jackson counted her steps. One... two... three...
shriek!
While he
watched, she dashed headlong, grabbing Luther’s gnarled hands, hugging her twin
brothers until they begged for air and sought to escape. “Oh, thank God! You’re
alive and well! I feared you’d been taken by the Blackfoot, or worse!”

“Taken with the Shoshone, is more the like,” Luther said. “Luck
got his heart broke over a little In’jun gal, and has since sworn off women.
We’re takin’ him home so’s he can mend. It’s a sad case, all right.”

Jackson humored his wife as she ushered them in, plying them with
questions, exclaiming over their newfound prosperity. Yet nothing could entice
them to stay more than an hour or two. “We’re bound for Bloodroot,” Luther
said. “But before we left town, we thought we’d stop by and see how you were
faring—”

Lafe nudged him, frowning, and with a sigh, Luther broke off.
“Well, if the truth be known, we all feel a trifle guilty for the way we parted
and all, and we was thinkin’ that if ye weren’t content in your new life... well
. . . there’s always a place for you with us, back home in Kentucky.”

“Thank you, Luther, Luck, Lafe.” Bending, Reagan kissed each cheek
in turn. “But I’m happy here. Truly.”

She smiled up at Jackson, taking his hand in hers, pressing a kiss
on his knuckles.

Much later, long after Miranda had been placed in her cradle, with
Bessie to watch over her dreams, Jackson led his lady wife out into the garden.
The moon was rising in the east, a full, glorious moon that silvered the
crushed-shell path on which they strolled. “I was thinking of taking a trip in
a month or so,” he told her, “just as soon as Miranda is old enough to travel,
and you have completely recovered. I thought we might take a steamboat south,
perhaps visit Catherine and Jason and the first
Belle Riviere
. Then, if
you’re up to it, we could amble on up to Kentucky. There’s some choice land to
be had still, if a man has the wherewithal to purchase it. I was thinking it
might make a fine place to spend our summers. That is, if it pleases you?”

Reagan threw her arms around Jackson’s neck, rising on tiptoe,
kissing him deeply again and again. “Have I told you just how much I love you?”

“Indeed, you haven’t,” Jackson said. “And though I am anxious to
hear it, I would much, much rather you showed me.”

Laughing, Reagan glanced back at the great house, the windows of
which spilled buttery lamplight onto the lawn, then playfully pulled him off
the path and into the bushes, from which the sound of their laughter soon
turned to contented sighs.