Runaway (4 page)

Jarrett took the time to drop a five-dollar gold piece on the table, then looked over the top of his cards again,
watching the woman in the encompassing cape. She was still trying to explain something to Eastwood, a little potbellied man. She was slim and lithe, at least an inch or so taller than Eastwood. Jarrett wondered with some amusement if the innkeeper, whoremaster—entrepreneur, as he liked to call himself—didn’t feel just a little bit intimidated by the woman.

Rupert Furstenburg, the lean blond German from St. Louis, threw a wad of money down. “I raise you, gentlemen. A hundred dollars.”

“Damned good thing I’ve folded!” Robert muttered.

“A hundred?” Smiling Jack offered the German a broad smile. “Pocket change. I’ll see you, sir!”

Jarrett was still watching the woman. Robert Treat gave him a nudge. “A hundred, Jarrett.”

“Right,” he said absently. He curled his fingers around the stack of coins in front of him, pushing out the correct amount. Robert Treat stared at him with a frown, lowering his voice.

“Are you paying any attention to this game?”

“Ah, is that the question?” Smiling Jack, twirling his dark mustache, taunted lightly. “Is that plantation of yours down in the swamp doing well enough for this game?”

“My swamp plantation is doing just as well as that place of yours out in the bayou,” Jarrett said lazily. His cards were good enough. And his plantation was sure as hell doing well enough to support this game.

“Ah,
mais oui!
” Jack murmured. “We’ve both the swamp, eh? The insects, the gators.” He wagged a warning finger at Jarrett. “But you’ve got the Seminoles. What grows on my land is mine. My house has stood seventy years. And yours,
mon ami?
Poof! Even now the fellows may be sending it up in a cloud of smoke! You were a military man, so I’ve heard. You must know. They
slip in, the Indians, they slip out. They move through the night like wraiths. They can move through the thickest brush and trees. There will be more trouble, you mark my words. Old Andy Jackson fought those savages good back in sixteen and seventeen, but he didn’t get them all. There will be trouble again. It’s brewing hot and hard right now. Some say those renegades even ride the alligators through the swamp.”

Jarrett smiled at the Frenchman’s vivid description, even if his smile was somewhat forced. He’d yet to see any man, even a Seminole, riding a gator through the swamp! Jack’s attitude was a fairly common one. People had the damned strangest way of looking at the Florida peninsula—and the Florida Indians. Any of the Upper and Lower Creeks who had moved south, speaking varied languages and coming from very different peoples, were grouped together. They were called Seminoles. Some said the name meant
runaway
. Others said that it came from the Spanish word for renegade,
cimarrón
. Runaways, renegades. Jarrett knew that just like him and so many white dreamers, the Indians were just seeking a better life for themselves and their families.

It was a land for dreamers. Despite the summer heat, the abundance of swampland, and the infestation of snakes—and Indians—there were huge land tracts available in the state. Like the western frontiers opening up across the continent, Florida was a raw, new land for Americans. Much of it was exceptionally fine farmland. Crops could sometimes be grown year round. Vicious freezes came upon occasion in the northern part of the territory, and the summer’s heat farther south was sometimes nearly as cruel, bringing sickness and disease. But most often the days were warm and balmy. The sun shone overhead. Blankets of snow did not fall, blizzards did not paralyze whole communities. Wild cattle still
roamed the center of the territory from the days of the Spaniards; they were there for the taking. The hunting was extremely rich. There were great herds of deer, a few bison still roamed the northern tracks, and there were countless rabbits and wildfowls. In the hammocks and flatlands there were areas of stunning natural beauty. There were crystal springs, incredibly deep, and still a man could see clear through the earth beneath them.

There was beauty, there was danger. It was not a place for the faint of heart.

And the Seminoles added to the savage reputation of the American territory that Andy Jackson, along with so many others, had been determined to wrest from the Spanish. There had been a time when the Spanish had ceded the territory to the British, and during and after the American Revolution, British sympathizers had flocked south. Then the Floridas—East and West at the time—had gone back to Spain. Americans, being Americans, had kept wandering over the borders, forever reaching for new land. Spain, they claimed, could not control the territory, could not stop the Indians from raiding American farms and plantations, and could not stop them from harboring runaway slaves.

The slave issue was an explosive one. Escaped slaves readily headed south into Spanish territory that actually seemed to be ruled by the savages—but savages with a far gentler attitude where black men were concerned. It wasn’t that the Seminoles did not keep slaves themselves upon occasion; they did. And they could be as possessive of their property as white men when they chose. But there was a difference. Slaves might tend a Seminole master while still being free to cultivate their own plots of land. Slaves among the Seminoles were very often granted their freedom after a certain amount of service. Slaves who made it down to Florida very
often found freedom, joining with free-black–Seminole bands. Whether blacks remained free or were “owned” by the Indians themselves, the Seminoles did not usually return them to white masters. In the Southern states, where the economy was so solidly based on farms and plantations, slaves were very valuable personal property.

There were many reasons for America to want to wrest the land from Spain, but in the end the most important reason was simply that American settlers wanted the land. They wanted to settle, to farm, to raise cattle, to open salt mines, even to make their fortunes from the sea, with the vast expanses of coastline. Spain ceded the Floridas in exchange for U.S. payment of Spanish debts to citizens and for a more solid grasp upon Texas. Now, over ten years an American holding and solidified into one territory by an act of Congress, Florida still retained much of her reputation for being a haven for alligators, snakes, and fiercely proud Indians. Perhaps the peninsula was just that, a haven for wild creatures and renegades. But it was much more as well. It was that land of gently swaying oaks with moss that drifted from their branches. It was shadowed hammocks where pine needles lay like bedcovers upon the ground. It was crystal-clear lakes, exotic birds with elegant, colorful plumage. It was wildflowers, crimson sunsets, blue skies, balmy rains.

Jacksonville wasn’t so far over the border from Georgia and was a fairly civilized place. Some of the north Florida ports were fairly safe, but to most people anything south of St. Augustine on the east coast and the bustling town of Pensacola on the west was too simply and completely raw and savage.

All that those people saw was the wildness of Florida, the danger. But they hadn’t seen the things that had become so spectacular and seductive to Jarrett. They’d
never seen the sunsets that he watched so often, the amazing palette of colors that stretched out over a lonely horizon, vivid golds and searing blood-reds. Colors that reached out like rippling flames, so vital, then fading to gentle pinks and yellows and incredibly soft oranges, and fading again completely into a blackness that gave a deep velvet backdrop to the stars. They hadn’t seen the wildflowers that often grew in profusion, wild orchids in stunning shades of mauve, and they hadn’t felt the kiss of the sun to warm their faces in the dead of winter.

The snakes and alligators were there too. And the Indians. It was a wild, savage land with a rare and exotic beauty. But coming now into its own. St. Augustine remained America’s oldest European continuing settlement, with the magnificent Castillo de San Marcos to guard its shore and handsome and detailed old Spanish homes and architecture with Moorish influence to add character and charm to its streets. Pensacola was busy, a thriving port, offering goods from everywhere imaginable. A fine naval base had long been established in Key West, and Tallahassee, the territorial capital, was slowly growing into a quiet and dignified center of politics.

The territory had been a gold mine to Jarrett. He’d cleared his lands and built his home, and set to work. His cattle had thrived on the rich grasses in his fields. He’d grown sugar cane in abundance. He’d dabbled in cotton and in grain, and it had seemed that everything he had tried had thrived. His lands were exceptionally fertile, and he’d built right along the river, so he’d had the opportunity to move his goods with exceptional speed. Many settlers now saw what he had seen—some of the land was swamp, but some of it was exceedingly fine farmland. The length of the peninsula stretched out before America now. And much of it was a gold mine of natural resources and fertile fields.

Once it had all been a paradise for him, and he had loved his peninsular Eden deeply. He’d seen a great deal of it, learning about it from his father, from the white military, and from the Indians as well. It had been a place where he had found his own—perhaps peculiar—peace. He’d been in love, and he’d shared his dreams and his small part of the strange Eden with the woman he had loved, who had loved his land and him just as deeply. But Lisa was gone now, and his heart had hardened to the romanticism of his love for the land.

But still, his land remained. Wild, strange, and savage as the pain that sometimes seized him. Caught in tumult. The very challenge and danger of it had become his obsession.

“McKenzie!” Smiling Jack murmured, smiling. “Are you listening to me?”

Listening? He didn’t need to listen. Jarrett leaned back. His cards were good, and he was no longer interested in the conversation. His attention was caught by the woman again. He watched her while he replied confidently to both Jack and Furstenburg, “I’d gamble much more than the stakes on the table that my place is still standing,” he said. “And will remain standing.”

Furstenburg wasn’t interested in conversation either. “Are we playing cards here, gentlemen?” he demanded bluntly. He lifted a hand, summoning one of the little dark-haired Creole girls working in the place. “Whiskey!” he ordered crisply. “Do we play, or do we argue swampland?”

Jarrett shrugged. “I see your raise also, sir.” He took a moment to offer Jack a dry smile. “I see your raise, and I raise it again.” He pushed out a second stack of coins. Another hundred dollars.

Furstenburg swore something guttural, staring at his hand. Apparently his cards weren’t good enough to afford
another raise. He was a careful player. He threw his hand down. It was between Jarrett and Jack.

Smiling Jack’s smile faded just a bit. Where Furstenburg was careful, Smiling Jack was a reckless player. He could bluff most of the men he played with frequently, and he made half his income off the game. Not tonight, Jarrett thought wryly.

In some things Jarrett was lucky. And tonight he was getting damned good cards.

Jack fingered his coins. Then he swore in a colorful manner and pushed out a stack of them.

Smiling Jack wasn’t smiling at all now. The glistening pile of gold that had once sat before him was dwindling.

“You don’t care to fold on this one, eh?” Jarrett asked politely.

The Frenchman extracted a thin silver case from the inside pocket of his elegant beige frock coat and plucked a cheroot from it. He leaned against the table, lighting it from the candle that burned there. He sat back, his eyes level on Jarrett’s.

“The gold is on the table,
monsieur
.”

Jarrett shrugged. “As you wish,
monsieur!
”

“You’re bluffing, McKenzie! And we will see!”

But at that moment Jarrett didn’t really see anything. Just the figure in the cape.

She turned around, facing him.

When the hood fell back, he saw her hair. It was fascinating hair, a rich, deep, golden blond touched here and there with highlights of flame. Even in the muted candlelit gleam of the gaming parlor, that hair was something like the sun on the most glorious day, and something like the glow of flame against the deepest darkness of the night.

It was just a headful of blond hair, he tried to tell
himself, annoyed for the first time that she had so compelled his attention.

But he was wrong.

It was more than just a beautiful head of hair. He’d never seen hair like it. The skeins of it were rich in color and texture. It was luxurious. He wanted to come closer to it. He wanted to touch it.

Someone ought to warn her that she needed to cover it up. This wasn’t the seediest part of town, but it wasn’t any church hall here either.

He closed his eyes suddenly, tightly, nearly groaning aloud with the pain that stirred in his heart and the anger he felt against himself. It was one thing to walk the streets here in the heart of town, closed in by the old buildings in their wrought-iron decay and splendor. One thing to lose himself in the tawdry districts of New Orleans. It was something to do, like breathing, like walking along the river, staring at the dark water of the Mississippi as it slugged along. It was one thing to meet a cat in the dark with no real emotion, exchanging words that meant nothing, never seeing, bodies meeting, yet never really,
really
touching.

He could see this woman. And ever since the hood had fallen away from her face, maybe before it had done so, he had wanted her. Wanted to touch her. Wanted to have her. Not a cat in the dark. Her.

It might have been the way she moved, and it might have been that hair with its extraordinary color. Something both strong and intangible had slipped into his soul from the second he had seen her, even wrapped in the cloak, even in shadow, even before he had really laid eyes on her.…

Now, beneath the lantern light in the entryway, he could study her face.

Her eyes were so vivid and dark a blue, he could
clearly see their color from across the room. Where her hair was golden, her lashes were rich and dark, sweeping over her eyes. Her brows, too, were a darker shade than her hair, high and delicately arched. Her eyes were wonderful, wide set and shimmering within the frame of an exquisite face. Her coloring was beautiful. The perfect oval structure of her face was enhanced by the clean marble beauty of her skin. Her nose was straight, her mouth was generous, her lips drawn against the porcelain of her flesh as if by some great artist. More than ever he wanted to touch her. Run his thumb over her mouth and explore the pattern and texture of it. Stroke her cheek, discover its softness. Dive into that hair, and become entwined in the silk of it.