Orphan Moon (The Orphan Moon Trilogy Book 1) (16 page)

Leighselle, gulping quick breaths, her head floating light, took the pen in hand. She touched the sharp gold tip to the paper. The cloven, diamond-shaped end left an ink mark that spread out like a bleeding wound. She studied the blot blossoming on the line that waited for her signature. Whore, the stain seemed to say—a stained woman. Next to the ink’s blemish, she signed Leighselle La Verne Beauclaire Flanders. She opened her fingers, allowing the pen to roll out of her hand and fall to the floor.

Seamus picked up the papers and turned to Sister Francis. “She’s near enough term. Isn’t there some concoction you can give her to hurry this situation along?”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” said Sister Francis, rushing to Leighselle’s side.

Pushing herself out of the chair, Leighselle stood, clutching her swollen belly. A pool of amniotic water puddled on the floor at her feet.

*****

September 27, 1860

A rattling cough erupted from deep within the depths of Leighselle’s core, a cough full of blood and death. The sun no longer warm had turned tepid, the sky a dull, chalky white with a hint of pale pink to the west.
 

“And that, my dear old friend, is my story.” Leighselle stood and stretched, fisting her hands against her lower back.

Hughes stood and put his hands on Leighselle’s shoulders. “You’ve been living a nightmare that’s lasted a lifetime. I wish I’d known. I’d have been a better friend. God knows you needed one.”

“I had Addy-Frank. We had each other. When I returned to New Orleans, Doc Flemings released her and she came to live with me again.”

“Let’s take a walk.” Hughes crooked his arm through Leighselle’s and guided her into the lobby of the hotel. “What happened after that?”

“After that?” Leighselle said. “As soon as the baby was born, he left with my child and Birdie. He gave the sisters instructions to keep me sedated until he returned for me, telling them he feared the travel so soon would not be good for me. He never returned, of course.”
 

“Leighselle. There are no words—” Hughes swallowed, forcing back emotion. “Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “So. What did you do next?”
 

“What I’ve always done. I picked myself up, dusted myself off, and woke up the next day. And then the next. And then the next after that. My heart was broken. I’d lost both Henry and Barleigh. What kept me sane was that my daughter would be raised by Henry, and Birdie would be there to help.” She held up one hand, indicating she needed a moment to compose herself.

Hughes nodded, walking in silence, holding onto her arm.
 

“I knew where the nuns kept the laudanum. There were times I considered ending mine and my child’s life before it entered the world. I prayed to God that He would end it. But, I didn’t—I couldn’t.”

“Jesus, Leighselle.” Hughes drew a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling, blinking, swallowing. “I hope this son-of-a-bitch is still alive and I have the pleasure of making his acquaintance.”

They walked in silence, making their way around the well-appointed lobby to where the grand piano was showcased, stopping to admire the tune the musician was playing. As a crowd gathered, Leighselle motioned to Hughes that she was ready to go.
 

“Sorry to interrupt, sir,” said Jameson, meeting the pair as they made their way back to the patio. Leaning close to Hughes’s ear, he said in a quiet voice, “Your package has arrived. I placed it in your room, sir.”

“Thank you, Jameson. I’ll look it over later.”

“Yes, sir.” He turned but stopped short. “Should I arrange for a carriage for your guest?”

“No. If I can talk Miss Beauclaire into it, she’ll take my room. I’ll feel much better with her staying here so that Doc Schmidt is immediately available if she needs him, and you can assist her as well. Leighselle? Is that all right with you?”

“I can’t put you out of your own room, Hughes,” said Leighselle.

“You already have, my dear. You’re sending me on a mission—an adventure, really.”

Jameson cleared his throat and tapped his vest pocket.

“I haven’t forgotten, Jameson. I’ll take care of that business before I leave.”

“Fine, sir. I’ll send for Miss Beauclaire’s things from the guest house and have them brought up to your room.” And then he was gone.

Hughes turned to Leighselle, concern wrinkling his brow. “Are you all right? Surely, this has been difficult talking about.”

“It was more difficult
not
talking about it. I’m praying now that you can find her. The last I heard was that the Flanderses sold their ranch in Corpus Christi to a Captain King. They may have settled in the area of Fort Worth.”

“Well, my dear, that’s what I’m good at, finding people. You’ll have your daughter back in no time, I promise.”

“Oh! No, no, no.” Leighselle held up both hands, pushing the thought away. “I don’t want you to bring her to me. I just want you to find her. I don’t wish to disrupt and complicate her life. I just need to know that she’s alive and well and happy. She doesn’t need to know anything about me or my life—my past.”

“What—I don’t understand.”
 

“Please promise me, Hughes, that you’ll keep my secret. Please.”

“Don’t you think your daughter would love to know that her mother is alive and wants to find her?” Hughes looked confused.

“After all these years?” She shook her head. “No. If she’s happy in her life, I want her to stay that way. Knowing that I’m alive would surely hurt and confuse her. There’re things about me she might find offensive, or not understand. No, it’s best this way.”

Leighselle hoped that it was best. She accepted Hughes’s promise to keep her secret, ignoring the fact that he insisted he would try to change her mind. Her mind was made up. Some events lost to the past should stay buried. Though try as she might to
not
dwell on it, she often dreamed of touching her daughter, of seeing her, one more time.

“After the baby was born, what did you do?” Hughes reseated them at their table, where Jameson had left a bottle of brandy waiting for them.

“As soon as I recovered, I simply told them that I was leaving. I wanted to go back to New Orleans, where I might feel close to memories of Henry. My parting gift from Seamus had been left in the priest’s care. A suitcase full of hush money. Five thousand dollars to keep me quiet and out of my daughter’s life.”

Hughes sucked in a breath. “Five thousand. Seamus was evil but he wasn’t stupid. He made sure you wouldn’t cause trouble.”

“What trouble would I have caused to jeopardize my daughter or Birdie?” Leighselle’s voice was sharp. She found the thought profoundly ridiculous. Seamus
was
stupid. He could have paid her a penny and she would have walked away if it meant ensuring no harm would have come to either Barleigh or Birdie.

“None, of course,” said Hughes. “In his mind, you would have.”

“No . . . I got busy. I opened La Verne’s Tavern. No more Sew Beauclaire and working for pennies. And, I bought back Addy-Frank. Doc gave her to me, really. He wouldn’t touch the money, so I made a hefty donation to his hospital.”

“Addy-Frank, Birdie’s mother.” Hughes flicked a speck of dirt from under his thumbnail, drummed his fingers on the table, and shook his head. “How in the
hell
did the both of you cope, having lost your daughters to the same man?”

“We clung to one another, supported one another, cried on the other’s shoulder when the grief would overcome. I miss her.” She sipped her brandy, both hands cupping the snifter.

“How long ago did she pass?”

“Last year. She encouraged this little endeavor of mine. I promised her I’d try. . . .” Leighselle pressed a napkin to her eyes, blotting the tears.
 

Hughes looked up at the darkening sky. “My dear, it’s getting late and I’m feeling anxious to get on with this new mission. We should get you inside, too, before the evening chill sets in.”

“Evening chill? Here in San Antonio? It still feels like a hundred degrees to me.”

Hughes laughed. “You’re right. Well, we should get you in before the ghosts start making their rounds. I told you that the Menger Hotel is haunted, didn’t I?”

“Haunted? Ghosts?”

“Yes, ghosts, and lots of them from what I understand, though I’ve never had the pleasure of an encounter.”

“Who and how many?” asked Leighselle, a chill running up her spine. A smile tickled the corners of her mouth. “I’ve always wanted to meet a ghost.”

“Soldier ghosts, many of them, most likely from the Battle of the Alamo. This hotel sits on the grounds of the old Spanish fort originally called Mission San Antonio de Valero, considered sacred ground now. If you’re lucky, you’ll hear the muffled boot stomping of the spirit soldiers marching around during the dark of the night, still on guard duty.”

“I welcome the sound of a man moving about my room in the dark of the night,” said Leighselle with a wink. “It’s been too long.”

The evening’s stars reflected like a thousand sparkling fireflies in the San Antonio River. Ancient cypress trees lined the banks, knobs from their roots peeping up out of the ground like snooping gnomes. A lone weeping willow stood sentry next to the Alamo’s west wall, sweeping the ground with its long, thin arms. The air was rich, pungent, and thick with the spicy smells of south Texas. Crickets and cicadas sang their praises to the night.
 

Hughes escorted Leighselle up to his second story room overlooking the Alamo Plaza. “If you need anything, Jameson is in the room just below mine. The signal is to stomp on the floor by the window three times. He’ll hear you. He’s a very light sleeper, one eye and one ear always open.”

“Hughes, I can’t begin to thank you. I know you’ll find her. I just hope it’s in time.”

“Yes, me too. I’ll keep you posted on my progress. The telegraph office will deliver messages to you here at the hotel, a courtesy to Menger guests. A nice perk.”

As they strolled through the arched double doors, past a polished wood and brass entryway, and into the marble-tiled reception area, they chatted like amiable old friends who might be discussing the beautiful artwork on the walls or the fine European furnishings of the Menger. With its fifty guest rooms filled to capacity, there were plenty of visitors discussing these trivial topics and other matters less important than stolen children, hush money, clandestine missions, and death.
 

“I have Barleigh taken care of, financially speaking,” said Leighselle, holding onto Hughes’s arm. “I’ve given that topic a lot of attention throughout the years. Besides the majority of the money from Seamus, of which I spent very little, my business is quite profitable. Too, there was the refund from the nursing school in Shreveport which I never attended. That was an expensive school!”

“Ah, the Shreveport School of Medicine, I forgot about that,” said Hughes, giving her arm a squeeze. “I’m glad you chose New Orleans instead.”

“If something happens to me . . .” Leighselle’s voice turned serious. “. . . Barleigh will inherit a respectable amount of real estate and liquid assets. My will is on file with my attorney, a Mr. Bertram La Mont in New Orleans. A copy is with me in my valise.”

“If something happens to you? What I expect will happen is that you’ll rest, recover your full health, and you’ll enjoy a passel of grandkids one day, each one having inherited your beautiful green cat eyes.”

Clutching his lapels in her weak grasp, she said, “Be careful, Hughes. I wish I could tell you that this is without risk, but I cannot. If Seamus Flanders is still alive, there will be danger.”

“I don’t shy from danger,” Hughes said, a sharp edge to his words. “I hunt down outlaws for a living and bring them to justice. I think I can handle Seamus Flanders if we cross paths, and I hope to God we do. But I know my mission. I’ve given you my word that your secret is safe with me.”

“Thank you, Hughes.” Leighselle blinked away tears.

“I’ll respect your wish for privacy until I hear otherwise from you. Remember, stomp the floor three times by the window if you need Jameson. I’m off. I don’t want to miss the midnight train.” He kissed Leighselle on each cheek, hugged her in a tight embrace, then turned and disappeared down the stairs.

“Your package,” called Leighselle after him. She ran out into the hallway with a large, thick envelope in hand.

Hughes looked up from the lower landing. “Drop it.”

She did and he caught the package with one hand, saluting her with the other, and then blew her a kiss.
 

She saluted, sending an air kiss back, her gesture awkward and clumsy, which made her laugh. The laugh dissolved into a racking cough, the blood bright red and metallic in her mouth. She stumbled to her room, closed the door, and leaned her back up against it, waiting for the dizziness to pass, waiting for coolness. Her vision became fuzzy, the room’s furnishings out of focus. She leaned forward, moving her hands through the air for a place to lie down, like a blind person groping for something familiar.

Slow feet shuffled and scraped their way across the wooden floor to the four-poster canopied bed. She eased herself onto the downy duvet cover, her breathing shallow and fast. “Please find her. Find my Barleigh,” whispered Leighselle as darkness closed in. “But please keep your word. . . .”

Boots on the ground—stomp, stomp, stomp—ghost soldiers on patrol. She heard the echo of their heavy footfalls, the noise muffled in her ears like a throbbing pulse. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. A faint smile eased across her mouth moments before she fell unconscious, a trickle of blood staining the white, feather-filled pillow.

A Comanche moon lit up the Menger Hotel and bathed it with a brilliant radiance, as if it were the middle of the day. Guests lingered on the patio, enjoying the dazzling splendor of the remarkable lunar display. Privileged companions danced in the moonlight and toasted to its magical spell, while the moon gilded the hour and all below with its otherworldly light.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

S
EPTEMBER
27, 1860