Tender Touch (8 page)

Brianna waited for him to continue, but he remained silent. Confound the man! Did she have to drag everything from him? “Your journey is all arranged then?” Pushing the words past the toothpick clamped between his teeth, he said, “Cholera wiped out most of the company. What few lived joined other trains.”

“Oh, how dreadful.”

Fear iced her veins. Nigh would not be going to Oregon. Was he trying to find the words to tell her he was leaving, going back to St. Louis or wherever he had come from? Is that why she sensed the uneasiness in him? Licking her lips, she steadied herself and asked, “What will you do now?”

“Ain’t decided.”

They were silent for some time while he skillfully drove the buggy toward the prairie west of town. Finally Brianna cleared her voice. “It’s kind of you to help me look for Julia and John. I feel guilty to be taking up your time this way, and I’m very grateful.”

“Ain’t doin’ it for gratitude. Or money.”

“
Aren’t
doing it . . .” Surprised at her own nerve, her voice trailed off.

Nigh pulled his hat lower and stared straight ahead. Could he tell her he was doing it because her vulnerability had gotten to him? That he wanted to protect her almost as much as he wanted to bed her? Would she feel safer knowing that, or more scared?

Feeling rebuked by his silence for her boldness in correcting his grammar, Brianna changed the subject. “I can’t wait to see Julia. It’s been so long. We wrote to each other—that’s how I knew she was going to Oregon—but writing’s not the same as visiting, is it? The children will have grown so much. To hear childish laughter again and feel their squirmy little bodies in my arms will be wonderful.”

She sensed his gaze on her and shut up, blushing as she stared at her gloved hands folded primly in her lap. Well, he already thought her a foolish, worthless female. What did it matter if he also thought her a chatterbox? He would be going out of her life soon, and it was for the best. In fact, the sooner the better.

“Think this is it,” he said, pulling to a stop.

Forty wagons formed a circle on a grassy meadow near a creek. Oxen and horses grazed peacefully nearby, watched over by barefoot children wielding willow switches. Smoke rose from several cook fires tended by women and older children. Along the creek women were spreading laundry to dry over the bushes. As Brianna stepped down from the buggy Mrs. Decker rushed over to greet her.

“Got news for you, dearie,” the woman said. “One of the men here met a Mr. Somerville who left a few days ago with a company headed up by a man named Hatfield.”

In her effort to suppress her disappointment, Brianna didn’t see Columbus’s alarmed expression. He quickly cleared his face as she turned to him. “Do you think we could catch up with them?”

Others gathered to stare at the newcomers. One, a thin, chinless man with the dark-eyed look of a weasel, pushed to the front of the crowd.

“You could,” he said. “But you’d have to go some to do it and you ain’t likely to enjoy what you find when you get there.” His eyes rested on Brianna’s breasts and he licked his lips before he moved his gaze to the man next to her. “Howdy, Nigh.
Been a year or so, hasn’t it?”

Columbus Nigh’s eyes narrowed. “Goin’ to Oregon, Magrudge? Californy gol
d fields seem more your style.”

Magrudge chuckled. “Might wander down thataway eventually, after I see these pilgrims safely to Oregon.”

“You piloting this bunch?”

“Naw, got Jeb Hanks for that. I’m the wagon captain.”

Nigh nodded. “Jeb’s a
good man, he’ll do you right.”

Brianna watched the exchange with interest. Obviously the men knew each other and she had the distinct impression there was no affection between them. She had thought Columbus hard and dangerous, but the way Magrudge’s eyes roamed her body made her feel dirtier than when she fell into the mud puddle. Her voice trembled when she forced herself to speak to the man. “Please, can you tell me something about my sister and her family? Their name is Somerville, John and Julia Somerville. The way you spoke a moment ago, I assume you know something about them.”

The man shifted his gaze back to her. He studied her face, then her body from head to toes, coming to
rest once more on her breasts.

Sliding a hand to the back of her waist—his way of letting the offensive man know Brianna was not free for the taking—Nigh said, “Mrs. Villard, this is Edward Magrudge.”

Giving her a nod and licking his lips, Magrudge said, “Don’t know any Somervilles, ma’am, but if they were with Hatfield’s company, you’ll likely find them about thirty miles up the road. Just look for the wooden crosses.”

Brianna looked up at
Columbus. “What does he mean?”

Taking her by the shoulders, he drew her aside. His voice held pain. “Hatfield’s was the company I was supposed to pilot.”

“But you said cholera—”

“That’s right,” Magrudge butted in, his dark feral eyes gleaming. “’Most every man and woman in Hatfield’s company is dead.”

***

“Here’s your supper, Wight.” Marshal Rainey slid the tray under the cell door.

“Swill is what you mean.” Barret Wight ignored the cloth-covered tray. He rose from his bunk and moved to the bars that separated him from the marshal. “How long are you going to keep me here on suspicion, as you call it? Why don’t you get out there and find my wife instead of locking up honest citizens?”

Rainey shrugged, unperturbed. It wasn’t the first time he’d had Wight in his jail, though it had been awhile. Once for roughing up the serving girl at the Gill and Fin near the levee. Three times for brawling. The man was a natural bully, the same as his father. Always had been, always would be. If old Doc Thomas hadn’t pulled a couple of Wight’s victims through, chances were he’d have hung already. For Brianna Wight’s sake, it was too bad he hadn’t.

“Figure if I hold you here long enough, something will turn up that will clue me in on what really happened to your wife.” Rainey’s eyes narrowed speculatively as he stared at the man. “What bothers me is that she stuck with you for three years, in spite of the way you treated her, and you say she was pretty much a recluse.”

“That’s right. Mrs. O’Casey backed me up on that, you’ll recall.”

Rainey leaned back against the bars across the aisle from Wight’s cell. He folded his arms against his chest and crossed one ankle over the other, totally relaxed. “So, why would she leave now? Can you answer that? After three years, why would a woman shy of strangers, short on friends, and with no relatives closer than Kentucky, up and take off?”

Wight stretched out on the bunk, propped his head on his arms and stared at the cobwebbed ceiling. “I admitted hitting her that last night. Maybe it was the straw that broke the camel’s back. How would I know?”

“No one saw her leave town,” the marshal continued. “Her name appears on no hotel register, no stage or steamship roster. Fact is, no one answering her description was seen leavi
ng town that day by any means.”

Wight came off the bed like a jack-in-the-box. “Damn your execrable hide! I told you her sister must have come and gotten her. Why don’t you check it out?”

Rainey pushed himself away from the bars and strolled toward the door that divided the cells from the office. “As a matter of fact, I did. I went to her sister’s house, talked to the neighbors and John Somerville’s relatives.”

“Yeah? Then what the hell did you find out?”

“Obviously, I didn’t find your wife.” Rainey grinned as he reached for the handle on the door. “By the way, Mrs. O’Casey asked me to let you know she took your wife’s cat home to take care of it. Oh, and you have a visitor.” He pulled the door open and vanished into the office.

“Hold on, you bastard! Aren’t you going to tell me what you did find out?” Barret pounded his fists on the thick steel bars. When there was no answer, he threw himself back down on the thin mattress, coughing as dust rose to fill his lungs.

Through the dust cloud came a sultry voice. “Don’t you worry, sugar. I hired the best lawyer this two-bit town has. W
e’ll get you out of here soon.”

The pretty young woman who’d spoken wrinkled her nose at the stink of the place. “I only hope you can last that long.”

“Glo
ry!” Barret jumped to his feet.

She stood in the aisle between the cells, wearing a low-cut dress of emerald and gold-striped silk that played up her cat-like green eyes and intensified the red of her ringleted hair. “God, Glory, do you look good.”

“Ooh, have you missed me, sugar?” She smiled, showing one crooked incisor. It was her most seductive smile, meant to tease and arouse. But she could smell Barret from where she stood and wasn’t eager to get any closer.

“Damn right I missed you. Show you just how much as soon as you get me out of here. Now get over here and tell me about this lawyer.”

The quick breath she sucked in didn’t help much; the entire place stunk. She stepped up to the cell. He slid his hands around her waist and down her back to cup her buttocks while he kissed her through the bars.

There’d never been another woman like her, not his mother and certainly not Brianna. Glory was small and warm and so deliciously prurient his blood pounded just looking at her.

Only once had he ever struck her, the second time he went to her at a bordello called The Gentlemen’s Club. High class, with high prices, the best booze, and the classiest women. Glory had been only seventeen, but she’d been raised with several brothers in a family where violence was a way of life. Instead of bawling when he hit her, like most females would have, Glory laughed.

“If you want to play nasty, sugar, you’ve come to the right place,” she’d said as she snatched a whip off her dresser.

In a split-second, Wight lay on the floor at her feet, his arms bound to his body by the coiled leather. Blood seeped from his thick bicep where the tip of the whip had bitten, but Wight didn’t notice. His eyes were on Glory. She straddled his legs, opened his pantaloons and curled her sharp-nailed fingers about him. “They say I can snap the lit end off a cigar, clean as a whistle, without hardly looking,” she purred. “So you hit me any time you like, sugar. I like to play rough, too.”

Remembering had Barret hard as nails. The very next day he had taken her from The Gentlemen’s Club and set her up in the big house on Locust Street. She’d taught him wonderful things since then, tantalizing little games that drove him wild. Oh, she was no tame pussy cat, his Glory. He never got enough of her.

“Ralston,” she said, squirming as his bristly chin scratched her tender skin.

“Huh?” His breathing was quick and raspy. He pressed closer to the bars and drew her against him as tightly as he could so she could feel what she did to him.

“Clinton Ray Ralston, the lawyer. What is it, sugar? Something distracting you?” She gave a throaty laugh and reached down to caress him. “He’ll be around this afternoon to talk to you and get the marshal to set bail. Then Mama will come and take her baby home.”

Barret stiffened and went cold. His blue eyes darkened like a night sky and he ground out, “You’re not my mama, Glory. You’re my whore and don’t you ever forget it.”

Glory knew, she always knew, when he had reached that thin edge she was careful never to push him over. Fun was fun but the good times ended when they planted you six feet under, and Glory wasn’t ready to go yet. “Hey, all right, sugar, you got your point across.”

“Yeah, I better have,” he muttered, shoving her away.

Chapter Eight

Blanching, Brianna swayed at Edward Magrudge’s harsh words telling her of the death of her sister. Instantly, Columbus’s arms slid about her, supporting her with the considerable strength of his body. She had the crazy feeling she was no longer inside hers, that she was outside the scene, floating in air, a separate entity merely looking on. It eased the pain.

“Brianna.”

Her name came to her as from a long distance. She looked up into Columbus’s Nigh’s comforting face and saw his lips move as he repeated her name. How pretty it sounded in that slow drawl of his. She felt so warm and safe in his arms, she didn’t want to move. Someone called for smelling salts, and Columbus asked if she was all right, but to answer, she would have to return to her body and that would mean returning to the pain as well.

A hand waved under her nose. The sharp bite of ammonia filled her nostrils and forced her back to reality.

“There, she’ll be fine now,” a woman said.

Brianna found herself gazing at the lovely face of a woman about her own age with sable brown hair half hidden by a flat, derby-shaped hat decorated with ribbon poufs and feathers in the latest French fashion. Her brown eyes were the liveliest Brianna had ever seen.

“Hello, I'm Lilith Beaudouin. Are you feeling better now?”

“Yes, thank you, I’m fine.” Brianna glanced up at Columbus, and the pain returned. “Is
it true? Julia’s dead?”

“Wouldn’t take Magrudge’s word, if I was you,” he said. “We’ll do some checki
ng and find out for ourselves.”

The look he sent the man as Columbus helped her to her feet was nothing short of murderous.

Magrudge gave Brianna a short bow and a smile meant to pass as sympathy. “Sorry for the shock I gave you, ma’am. It was thoughtless of me, but I didn’t realize Mrs. Somerville was your sister.”

Brianna looked at him and, for a moment, saw the face of a weasel superimposed over his. “Did you know her?”

“Afraid not. All I know is what I told you. Most of the folks with Hatfield’s company died of cholera and are buried near the campground at Blue River.”

“Are the graves marked?” she asked, her voice quavering.

He shrugged. “Some likely are, some not.”

Turning back to Columbus, she asked, “Will you take me, so I can look for Julia? Please, I have to know for sure.”

As he helped her into the buggy, Nigh tried to put aside his doubts about the wisdom of taking her there. She might be in for more than she bargained for. But he’d seen the determination in her eyes and figured if he refused her, she’d find someone else to take her, maybe even Edward Magrudge.

There was no way he would allow Magrudge anywhere near her. He’d met the man several years ago while trapping the Rocky Mountains and never had trusted him.

Twice Nigh had seen the man ride a good horse to death for no reason, yet the man treated his animals better than he treated women.

The road followed along Blue Ridge to the old Red Bridge Crossing of the Blue River near “the line,” the unmarked border between The States and Indian land. Directly on the line, with half the building on one side, half on the other, sat a tavern called the House of Refuge, popular with scoundrels. Whenever the Jackson County marshal dropped by, those running from the law simply stepped to the Indian side of the building, out of the marshal’s jurisdiction.

Also on the Missouri side stood Fitzhugh’s Mill and a field called Little Santa Fe where trains camped to recruit and reorganize before starting off across wide open prairie, leaving behind such “civilized” spots as the House of Refuge.

Nigh was so lost in thought about the woman who sat beside him in the jouncing buggy and what would happen to her if her sister truly were dead, that it took the sound of her voice to bring him back to the present and notice they had reached their destination.

“There are the camps up ahead, Columbus.”

He glanced at her and smiled. It was the first time she’d used his given name, and he liked hearing her say it.

There was nothing unusual about the first camp they passed. The scene was pleasant; campfire smoke spiraling lazily into the sky, children racing about barefoot and carefree, laughter as shrill and pleasant as bird song. Farther up, the camps were jumbled and disorganized. Tents, some no more than a tarpaulin pegged to the ground on one side and tied to poles on the opposite side, had been pitched helter-skelter.

Children huddled in somber little knots, unsmiling and unclean, while adults, who hadn’t yet been stricken by the cholera moved like automatons between soiled pallets and writhing victims. Nigh drove the buggy slowly through the maze of wagons and tents, searching for the burial ground. Brianna stared in horror at the scenes of sickness and death they passed along the way.

The cemetery was larger than they had expected. Some of the graves were the size of a wagon, entire families sharing the same hole. Or worse, total strangers lumped together to ease the gravedigger’s burden. Most of the graves were unmarked.

Three bodies, partially wrapped in foul blankets thick with flies, lay on the damp earth awaiting burial. Beside them a large man with a raw-boned face devoid of emotion stood in a oblong hole two feet deep, his shovel steadily thrusting into the wet earth, then flinging the rich black soil over his shoulder. He was oblivious to the couple who alighted from the buggy and wandered silently among the freshly mounded graves.

Crows lined the branches of a tree, their raucous cries gruesomely cheerful compared to the agonized moans of the sick and the mournful wails of the bereaved that drifted out from the camps. One of the bravest of the flock flew down to land near the putrid bodies. A few hops at a time he ventured closer until he reached a partially exposed head covered with grimy short blond hair. Brianna swallowed the bile that rose to her throat as the bird began to peck at the defenseless face.

“Here,” Columbus said, crouching beside a crudely carved wooden cross.

Brianna hurried over to him. The grave was one of few covered with sod rather than plain dirt. She knelt on the damp grass beside the grave and read the inscription crudely carved into the wooden marker: Julia Ann Somerville, age 31, died 20 April 1849. Brianna clapped both hands over her mouth. “It’s true. Oh God, it’s true.”

Nigh rose to his feet and walked away to allow her to grieve privately. She didn’t cry, merely sat there staring at a single yellow daisy growing in the transplanted grass near the cross. Finally, she stood and came to him.

“I’m ready to go back now,” was all she said.

He studied her for a moment. She appeared calm and composed, as stiff and emotionless as the clumsily made cross. Too calm. He resisted an urge to pull her into his arms and turned instead to lead the way to the buggy, his hand at her waist.

Wordlessly they retraced their route through the scattered wagons and tents. More than once Brianna’s gaze was caught by the arresting sight of a mother comforting her fatherless children, a father carrying the lifeless body of a half-grown son to the graveyard, a dying man dictating to a friend his final words to his family back home.

They had almost passed the last of the wagons when Brianna noticed one sitting off by itself. A toddler stood outside, filthy, half-naked and crying, not another soul in sight.

Brianna put her hand on Columbus’s arm. “Stop, something must be wrong there. That baby seems to be abandoned.”

“I’ll take a look,” he said, halting the buggy. But she jumped down before he could fasten off the reins.

The child wore only a woolen undershirt. Her naked bottom and legs were wet and soiled with urine and feces. Brianna cringed as the pathetic little girl came to her with upraised arms, her hands as filthy as her bottom. The stench that emanated from the wagon was too strong to blame on one messy child. At the smell of death Brianna’s gorge rose again to her throat. Dreading what she might find, she forced her feet toward the end of the wagon.

“Anyone here?” she called.

Before she could peek inside, Columbus pulled her away. “See to the little one,” he said, his eyes dark and grim. “I’ll look inside.”

With a kerchief over his mouth to filter out the odor, he thrust his head inside the wagon and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. Gradually he was able to make out the form of a young woman in a nightdress lying on the bed, her eyes staring sightlessly at the man beside her. The man lay on his side facing his wife, his hand on hers. He was naked from the waist down. Both bodies were covered with flies.

“Is anyone in there, Mr. Nigh?” Brianna brushed against him as she moved up to peer into the wagon. He tried to shield her from the ugly scene, but he was too late.

Brianna couldn’t take her eyes off the couple inside the wagon, lying in their own filth, so helpless, and so humiliatingly exposed. This was what Julia suffered, she thought with a horror that threatened her hard-won control.

Columbus drew her away. For one second she lifted her horror-stricken eyes to his. Then she shoved him aside and ran several feet before bending over to empty her stomach. When she tried to stand up after it was over, she grew dizzy. Columbus carried her to the buggy, then went to find someone to take care of the little girl. He came back with a kind but exhausted looking woman and a bottle of brandy, three-quarters empty. He insisted Briana take several sips of the fiery liquid. Halfway back to town, she nodded off, leaning against his shoulder. He eased her down with her head in his lap and let her sleep.

***

The following morning Brianna awoke to the scent of apple trees and a soft scraping sound. A long way away a dog was barking and she heard the muffled sounds of voices. Through the blanket she could feel the firm warmth of Shakespeare curled up beside her. For a long time, she kept her eyes shut, reluctant to leave the safe world of slumber, though she didn’t know why. Then reality struck.

Julia was dead.

Brianna moaned, her head rolling back and forth on the pillow.

Her eyes flew open as fingers touched her face. The hand was callused, as rough as pine bark, yet gentle. She opened her eyes to see Columbus Nigh gazing down at her, tenderness softening his eyes.

“Julia,” she whispered, her throat constricting as she tried to block the tears. The grief she had been unable to give vent to the previous day now filled her whole being. Despite her effort to contain them, the sobs escaped her in choking ga
sps while tears laved her face.

Without a word Nigh gathered her into his arms. Trying to calm her was like trying to stop a waterfall with only a hand.

“Oh God, why?” Brianna said, brokenly. “She was all the kin I had left in the world. Now there’s no one. I’ve nowhere to turn. What’s going to happen to me?”

“Shh. It’ll be all right,” Nigh crooned, his face buried in her loose hair. She wore only drawers and a thin chemise with a low, gathered neck. Beneath his hands as he held her, her skin was soft and smooth and smelled faintly of roses.

Brianna put her hands on his arms and drew away from him. “John, and the children
.
.
. I don’t remember. Were they there, too?”

He shook his head. “I spoke to the sheriff. He’s tried to keep a record of those who’ve died. Your brother-in-law recovered and took the children home to his family in Louisville a few days ago.”

Though calmer, Brianna felt little comforted. As she lay back down, she realized she was practically naked. Worse, she was alone in a hotel room with a man. A man who had kissed her. Two bright spots of rose colored her cheeks as she yanked the covers up to her chin.

“How did I . . . get undressed?”

“You fell asleep on the way back last night. Hotel clerk sent for a doctor. He said you were in shock and just needed rest. It’s mornin’ now. You slept through the night.”

Nigh let her assume it was the doctor who had disrobed her. But he couldn’t prevent the heat that speared his groin at the memory of his hands removing her clothing and bathing her skin with cool water. She was sapling-thin, so thin he could count her ribs. He could also have counted scars, had he a notion to do so—pale blemishes that read like the trail of a wounded deer, of the beatings she must have suffered at the hands of her supposedly dead husband.

Her husband. God, how Nigh hoped the man were still alive as he had begun to suspect he was, so Nigh could kill him with his own bare hands.

The only thing that pained him more was the thought of the bastard touching her intimately, touching those places Nigh so longed to touch himself.

Brianna closed her eyes against the dull throb in her temples. Her mouth felt stuffed with moldy cotton. When she opened her eyes again, Columbus was still there, crouched on one knee beside her bed.

“Did you stay with me .
.
. all night?”

Nigh shrugged, unwilling to tell her how badly she had scared him. “Somebody needed to
keep an eye on you.”

“I’m fine, really. You shouldn’t be here. I dread to thing what people must be imagining.”

Nigh frowned as he rose to his feet. Her words were like cold water doused over him. He picked up a knife and a half-carved chunk of wood from the chair by the window and stepped to the door. “I’ll be down at the restaurant if you feel up to some breakfast.”