In the Season of the Sun (18 page)

Junie Routh scowled, and shook her head. “A duelist. I knew his kind in New Orleans.” Her gaze narrowed as she studied Tom's brash, darkly handsome features. “Don't take him lightly. He may look like a fop, but I'll warrant he's a crack shot. Remember, looks can be deceiving.”

“You're full of warnings tonight, Aunt Junie.” Tom patted her plump bottom. He holstered his loaded gun and leaned into her. “By the way, your trophy looks as if it could have come from a buffalo bull.”

“Maybe he was a bull of a man,” Junie said with a shrug.

“Why'd you cut it off then?” Tom asked, disbelief in his tone of voice.

“Maybe I just wanted something to remember him by,” said Junie Routh.

Tom chuckled and headed out the back door, his reckless laughter drifting back with the thunder. Lloyd Mitchell, the bartender, a portly man with brown bushy sideburns and a clean-shaven chin, slid a drink poured from Junie's private bottle down to the woman at the bar.

“That boy's bound for trouble, Miss Junie,” Lloyd said. He poured a drink for himself as well. After all, they were friends.

“And wouldn't I like to be along for the ride,” Junie Routh sighed and tossed down-the drink. She winked at the bartender and motioned for him to refill her glass. “Just wouldn't I.”

Coyote Kilhenny and Pike Wallace waited out the rain and kept vigil from the hurricane deck of the
Dew Drop
, a stern-wheel mountain boat leased by Nate Harveson and quartered for the winter here in Independence. With this boat and another like it, the expedition would set forth in the spring and run the treacherous Missouri up into the heart of the north country. Kilhenny's thoughts were on the months ahead when he spied Tom Milam out of Gully Town. He saw Tom in the glare of sheet lightning and called out to him. But to no avail. The downpour obscured his voice. Rain drummed a steady cadence on the roof overhead and formed a veritable cascade that spilled past Kilhenny and Pike Wallace and drenched the bow and main deck below.

Smoke curled from the clay pipes both men smoked. The aroma of tobacco mingled with the stench of ozone in the electrified air.

“Where's he bound, you reckon?” Pike Wallace asked.

“Harveson's maybe,” Kilhenny said. “I warned him about that gal, but he's as stubborn as—”

“You,” Pike chuckled, finishing the half-breed's sentence. “Tom's cut from the same cloth, mark my words. Even if you ain't his pa.” Pike nodded. “And he's the better for it. Tom knows how to keep alive. Not like his real pa, fixin' it so.'s you had to kill him just to keep the bastard quiet.” Pike Wallace colored; his voice trailed off as he realized he had touched on a sore point. “I didn't mean to—” he stammered.

“One day you'll ‘I didn't mean to' once too often, Pike,” Kilhenny said.

“C'mon, I practically raised you, me and your ma's people,” Pike chided.

“That's right. And it would grieve me to have to put you under.”

“You wouldn't do that.” Pike tugged his tam firmly down on his head and looked out at the rain. “Anyway, I ain't slipped but just that once.”

“I raised Tom like my own,” Kilhenny said. “Every man likes to think there's a little bit of himself to carry on when he's gone. As far as Tom's concerned, I'm his pa now. He trusts me.”

“What about Harveson? Do you trust him?”

“About as far as I can shoot. I aim to watch my back trail. But the situation has real possibilities. The way I see it, we aren't getting any younger. It's time to make my mark.” Kilhenny tapped the ashes from the bowl of his pipe. The tiny flecks of fire were extinguished by the rainwater spattering the deck. “Harveson can be a big help. At least his money can.”

“See here,” Pike said. “Harveson'll have an army around him should you try anything.” Pike Wallace continued to puff on his pipe. Wisps of smoke curled around his leathery features and silvery hair.

“Yeah, but I'll be choosing the men,” Kilhenny replied, a satisfied smile softening his rough features. “It'll be my army. The way I see it, Harveson has about thirty men already in town. We got three months or so to hire on the rest.”

“What do you want me to do?” Pike asked. He wouldn't mind ending his days a rich man. It beat running whores in Gully Town.

“You and Tom can head south. Make a run as far south as the Red River. Offer them buffalo hunters twice what they'll make in a year on the plains. And see if you can round up Walks With The Bear.”

“And it'll keep Tom out of trouble as well.” Pike grinned. “Oh, he won't like it.”

“He'll do what I tell him,” Kilhenny replied. “And Iron Mike, Spence Mitchell, and our friend Mr. Pritchard will range north and hire on who they can find. I stay on here and make the rounds of the freighters, riverboatmen, and drifters, and see what I can come up with. There ought to be a few
men
among them.” Satisfied with his plans so far, Kilhenny pocketed his pipe, and dug in his coat for a stoneware flask of brandy he had clipped from the bartender at the River Wheel Saloon. He uncorked the bottle and saluted the night and the dreary downpour and the golden days that he was positive lay ahead.

Pike Wallace waited his turn, confident, as always, he would share in the drink as surely as he would Kilhenny's dream.

19

H
iram eased back in his chair, closed his eyes, and inhaled the aroma of Thalia's freshly baked corn bread. Thunder rumbled and rain beat against the shuttered windows, but a fire crackled in the hearth and the broad-beamed kitchen table was set with a pot of butter beans, hot coffee, sweet cream butter, and now fresh corn bread.

“What are you thinking, old one,” Thalia asked as she worked her ample rear end onto the bench seat opposite Hiram.

“Oh, I'd like me some fresh-picked field corn, roasted and dipped in butter. Bite in and gnaw on the husk till the butter drip down my chin. Man oh man, what I wouldn't give for that and a summer day.”

“Well, buttermilk, corn bread, pork hock, and butter beans will have to do you,” Thalia flatly stated. “'Cause it's a long, cold row to hoe till summertime.”

Hiram opened his eyes, scooted up to the table, and smacked his lips in appreciation. Thalia had been in a sour mood for days now and he hoped to humor her.

“If there's anything better'n corn bread and butter beans, I haven't seen it.”

Virginia entered from the pantry. She held a crock of honey and with eyes lowered, took her place at the kitchen table.

“Seems everyone here has got a cloud hanging over 'em except me,” Hiram observed, looking from the maid to the cook.

“It over you too, but you can't see it,” Thalia said. She propped her arms on the table. Her chest was all bosom, round and ample; her backside, all derriere. She had a cherubic face and, normally, an easy smile, though it had been hidden of late. “Mr. Nate says he's takin' us all with him upriver to lawd knows where.”

“At my age, change is exciting,” Hiram chuckled and reached over to pat her plump arm reassuringly. “You've only seen half my years, but you're twice as worried.”

“I don't cotton to being murdered by savages. Them red heathen'll scalp us same as white folk.”

“Mr. Harveson is taking plenty of men along for protection. And if the ones I met are any indication of the sort, then it's the Wild Indian I pity, not us.” Hiram sliced a wedge of com bread, slathered enough butter on it to drip down the sides, and then smothered the wedge in an avalanche of pale green butter beans and a chuck of the smoked pork hock, made tender after several hours of simmering in the bean broth.

“You seen to Miss Abigail's bath, gal young'un,” Thalia asked, her gaze hardening. The rotund black woman had been relegated to cook now that she was too plump to waddle upstairs to tend to the rest of the household. Thalia had grown to tolerate the new girl and endured an uneasy coexistence with her for the sake of peace and quiet.

“Yes, ma'am, I took care of it.” Virginia nodded, opening the crock of honey and spooning out enough of the amber syrup to cover the wedge of com bread on the plate. “Is there any buttermilk left?”

“That's the trouble with womenfolk,” Hiram good-naturedly said as he passed a stoneware pitcher of cold buttermilk to the girl. “Y'all can't decide when to be sweet and when to be sour, so you're both at the same time. I could never figure it out. It's why I never got married, I reckon,” he added with a sigh.

“You men ain't no better,” Thalia grumbled, her careful gaze focused on Virginia. “Not too much now; I'll need some for biscuits tomorrow.”

Virginia filled a tin cup, sloshing a spoonful of milk onto the table. She ignored the cook's admonition and began to hurriedly devour her plate of bread and honey.

“Spare fixings,” Hiram said. “Here, you're a growing girl. Take you some beans and smoked meat.”

“Leave her be, old man. She's in a hurry. Her chores ain't finished for this night.”

For the first time, Virginia seemed to acknowledge the conversation around the table. She glanced up at Thalia with such animosity in her eyes that the older woman stopped in mid-sentence, shrugged, and concentrated on filling her plate from the bean pot.

Hiram studied both women for a long moment, the fork in his hand poised halfway to his mouth. Both women had him puzzled. Something was going on, but he didn't know what; and neither woman would elaborate further. He shrugged, plopped a morsel of meat into his mouth, and began to chew. His snowy white eyebrows furrowed with his worried expression. Whatever the secret, he'd learn it in his own good time.

He dug into the food on his plate, grateful for a full belly and the security of a cozy blaze in the hearth, while outside thunder rumbled and a shadowy figure detached itself from the rain-washed dark and started toward the house.

“What do you want from me, Con,” Nate Harveson brusquely asked. “This is not Europe where marriages are arranged. My sister has a mind of her own, a will of her own.”

Con studied the contents of his brandy snifter, swirled the dark amber liquid, and inhaled the fumes. It was heady stuff but no solution to the problem at hand. Almost overnight it seemed his well-laid plans were in ruins.

“You know the kind of men you have hired. You have made a pact with rogues and brigands.”

“I know.” Harveson settled back in his easy chair and watched the shifting patterns of rain on the windows of the solarium. “I shall miss this room,” he sighed. He saw his own reflection in the glass and stood and walked to a window. With his receding hairline and-prematurely silver hair, he looked older than his thirty years. He finished his brandy and walked to the piano and ran his fingertips over the keys. He intended to take the instrument with him in the spring.

“And still you insist on bringing your sister along, with such an unruly lot?”

“I can handle Kilhenny and his type. Such men are like a team of wild horses. But I have the reins to keep them under control.” Harveson turned and faced his sister's suitor. “Money, Con Vogel, money will keep my wild stallions under control.” He chuckled and twirled the tips of his moustache. “My eyes are open. I know Kilhenny's sort. Not the kind one invites to a Sunday picnic, eh? But we aren't going to a picnic.”

Harveson reached in a vest pocket and pulled out his watch, dangled the timepiece by its golden chain, then read the time and returned the case to his vest pocket. He yawned and stretched his thin arms, then patted his thickening waist.

“The hour is upon us.” He cocked an ear toward the rolling thunder. “Good sleeping weather.” Harveson started toward the door, paused, and glanced back at Vogel. “After father's death, my mother returned to England. I don't think she had ever been happy here. She wanted Abigail to accompany her. Abby refused. Adamantly. In that we are alike. Stubborn.” Harveson lifted a lamp from a nearby table. He turned up the flame. The light bathed his face, revealing his Roman-like features. “If after months of vacillation, my sister finally has made up her mind to share this adventure with me. So be it. Nothing you say or do will change her mind.”

Nate Harveson peered at Vogel and added, “Of course, you may come with us. And maybe we will bring civilization to the wilderness.” Harveson vanished into the hall.

Con Vogel could hear the man as he started up the stairs. He was alone now and celebrated by helping himself to the last of Nate Harveson's brandy.

“So be it,” he mimicked. Well, the man had left him no choice. He could meet Tom Milam on the field of honor and kill him. And if that damaged relations with the likes of Kilhenny and company, then it was just too bad. Let Abigail travel north then, but without Milam. Con Vogel would be there, right by her side, to win back her affections. Things would be like before.

He downed the contents of his snifter. The brandy spread warmth to his limbs. He felt better now and wondered just exactly how Tom Milam might respond to his letter.

“Well, he had better not keep me waiting long,” Vogel said aloud.

“Can I get you anything, sir?” Hiram said, emerging through a side door that led off to the kitchen. The servant brushed crumbs from his lips and glanced around to see who the fair-haired man had been addressing.

Vogel set the empty snifter on a nearby table. “You can turn down the lights as I leave.” He walked over to an end table where Nate Harveson kept a variety of spirits. Vogel chose a small dark glass flask of cognac and without so much as a “by your leave,” stalked out of the solarium and tramped down the hall.

Vogel felt his way to the banister, silently cursing the servant who had extinguished all the light downstairs. Maybe Harveson himself had darkened the rooms and foyer. He could be maddeningly frugal at times.

Now if I had his money … Con Vogel paused, staring out at the dark but seeing, in his mind's eye, his family's estate house and grounds, the rolling green hills that followed the Rhine. But the third of the sons had no claim on any of the family wealth. His oldest brother had inherited and subsequently dissipated the estate. Con had already left by then and come to America to seek his fortune. He'd known some desperate days at first. Meeting Nate Harveson had been a real stroke of luck. He had hired Con Vogel as his private music tutor. But Con wanted to be more than a musician in residence, ever at the mercy of Nate Harveson's whims. Abigail Harveson had been his ticket out of poverty. Now the days ahead seemed as bleak as the darkness above.