The Only Gold (37 page)

Scroggs
stepped toward him, and Jonah cocked the gun. Barton heaved a heartfelt sigh. “Mr. Scroggs, I do begin to wonder at your experience in this field when a bank employee may so easily rob you of your firearm.”

Scroggs kept his whole attention centered on Jonah. “I ain’t finished.” He tossed the handful of coins on the desk and brushed his palms on the worn lapels of his overcoat. “Not till I’ve finished you.”

Jonah shook his head. “Come any nearer and I will shoot.”

Barton tsked. “Remember the gentleman’s devotion to the bank, Mr. Scroggs.”

A contemplative light in Reid’s eyes gave way to reproof. “Jonah.” It was in his voice, the same gentle admonishment. “Let me have the gun. Unless you want to shoot me—which I suppose isn’t unreasonable under the circumstances.”

The wry note caught Jonah off guard, and it took him a moment to find his voice. “You can stop this. Don’t—”

Reid’s hand sliding over his was almost a caress, until the fingers curled firmly around his wrist. Jonah thought to pull away, but couldn’t. He let Reid ease the gun from his hand and pass the weapon back to Scroggs, who seized it with a baleful grunt. If Reid heard, he gave no sign, his eyes still on Jonah. The veil of calm determination in them parted to communicate a stark and sorrowful apology. Jonah wanted to hold on to it, desperate to draw him out. That hope was shattered when Reid grabbed him by his coat, turned him around, and pushed him onto the desk.

He didn’t resist as Reid dragged his arms behind him. He could barely conceive that he’d destroyed himself, the bank, all of it—by believing Reid cared for him. But he was lost. Everything was lost.

“Truss him up tight.” Scroggs’s outrage rang in his voice and the strike of his boots on the floor. Fingers tangled in Jonah’s hair, jerking his head up so he could see the scowling face above him. Scroggs leaned in close. “Consider yourself lucky. The last man who tried that with me took a bullet between the eyes.”

“Let him go.” The imperative had a sharper edge than Jonah had ever heard from Reid’s lips. Scroggs let go, and Reid hauled Jonah to his feet. “Shut the vault and bring the money upstairs. We may have to leave by the second-floor window.”

The storm raged increasingly, the wind pounding at the glass, and Jonah was disturbed to see the height to which the snow had risen in less than an hour’s time. The disquieting sense that they were being buried alive further burdened his thoughts—and it seemed he wasn’t the only one. Reid stared out the window as if he wanted to will the storm away, and Jonah sensed he was going over all the possibilities of escape.

Barton appeared to ponder the same thing as he hovered at Liam’s shoulder. “Mr. Abbott, I propose you stay here with your brother. You may tell the authorities you were overcome by a most implacable gang of burglars and had no chance to stop them because of the storm. With no one to deny the story—”

“No one?” Scroggs glanced at Jonah.

Barton waved that away. “We have Mr. Hylliard’s word that his assistant is in no position to betray us. I trust that is the case.”

“And what about you?” Jonah asked. “You’ve given rather a good impression of where your loyalties lie, and you’re setting things up quite neatly for a chance to take the money and disappear.”

In the silence that followed, Jonah heard the weary breath Reid exhaled and the contemptuous snort from Scroggs. Barton, to Jonah’s surprise, smiled as if he were delighted by the accusation. “My dear Mr. Woolner, such a valiant attempt to turn us against each other.” He moved with deliberation to the desk and settled comfortably in Mr. Grandborough’s leather chair. “Valiant, but destined to fail. When I took up arms in Mr. Lincoln’s cause, it was a duty for which I expected to give my life. While the Lord saw fit to preserve that, I spent time in a Southern prison, and my health has not been the same since. To the examiner’s indifferent eye, I appeared fit enough—so I went without proper recompense for the rebels I disposed of or the months I spent unjustly shut away.”

“A great many men suffered the same fate,” Jonah said. “Without recompense.”

“Just the thought that occurred to me.” Barton turned a considering eye upon the Abbotts. “Of the good men Mr. Cleveland has denied, few were more deserving than Charles Abbott. His wife’s death left him with two sons to raise alone—but too worn down in body and spirit to do more than endure each day. It had to be set right, and the Lord gave me the means….” Barton’s smile returned, imbued with serene benevolence as he rose. “And the talent to gain justice for the Abbott boys.”

“And how many others have you enlisted to help you carry out these robberies?” Jonah asked.

“The Abbotts are not the first,” Barton said, unruffled. “Nor will they be the last. I am a dedicated man, Mr. Woolner. Dedicated to my work in a way few would understand. Except perhaps another man who has put his work above all else in life.”

Jonah stared at him in disbelief. “My work does not involve breaking the law.”

“No? Well, I must say I’m more intrigued than ever to know the details of your indiscretion, if it’s nothing to do with work.” Barton’s eyes glittered. “Perhaps Mr. Hylliard will share it with us, to pass the time.”

“What time we’ve left, we’ll spend getting some rest,” Reid said. “If the storm lets up or Gil wakes, we’re leaving.”

He looked at Liam, who nodded. Scroggs slumped against the glass, cursing the weather, but Barton seemed resigned. He took up the poker Reid had thrown down, but there was little left to stir up besides a few charred splinters. “We’ll leave here with pneumonia.”

Jonah looked down at Gil, still so pale and white-lipped. “There are blankets upstairs,” he said, realizing. “The ones used for picnics on the roof. They’re in the storage room.”

Liam’s glance at him was absent the usual suspicion. “That’s right. Firewood up there, too.” He started to rise, and Reid waved him back.

“Stay with Gil. Jonah can show me where they are.”

“You’d better let Mr. Scroggs take charge of him,” Barton said.

Reid snorted. “I’ll keep charge of Mr. Woolner. I can do it without shooting him.” He barely looked at Scroggs, whose dark glance at Jonah showed the wisdom of that decision.

Barton shrugged. “At least take Mr. Scroggs with you, or you may inadvertently provide our assistant cashier another opportunity for escape.” The usual sheen of good humor in his gaze gained a more assessing edge. “Mr. Woolner hopes to win you to his side—and I don’t believe you entirely dislike the man. I would not care to see you swayed by any heartfelt overtures.”

“I’ve come this far. I won’t be set off course.”

Reid at his most quiet and determined seemed to have the same effect on everyone. Barton inclined his head. “All right. But you’ll want Mr. Scroggs to carry the wood—”

“No need. I’ve got my packhorse.” Reid pushed Jonah toward the door. Staying just ahead, Jonah kept silent until they were on the stairs. Midway up, he stopped, but before he could get out a word, Reid pressed a hand over his mouth. “Not here.” He looked back down the stairs, and when no one appeared in the office doorway, drew his hand from Jonah’s mouth and got him moving with a gentler push. At the landing, he cut Jonah free of the rope. “Where’s the storage?”

Jonah started along the row of dark, shut offices. “I’m not sure you’ll get in without the key in Mr. Sewell’s desk.” He tried the attorney’s door and found it locked. “We won’t get in at all, unless you intend to break the glass.”

Reid extracted a slim metal pick from beneath his coat and went to work on the lock. Jonah, watching him, remembered the morning Reid had divested him of his pocketbook on the streetcar. If he had stopped to wonder, then—but he hadn’t. He’d continued to trust, oblivious to every little telltale sign. “I made it so simple. So easy. You must’ve been pleased to report back to them just how susceptible I was….” He couldn’t go on, not with the grief and anger barreling through his chest and closing tight his throat. He turned away blindly, but Reid got hold of him and pulled him into the office. The storm beat at the windows, but seemed beyond reach, behind the shutters.

“Jonah.” Reid’s hands, strong on his arms, and his voice—so near, so warm—woke a terrible longing. Glad for the darkness, Jonah broke loose to put a deliberate distance between them. He was still susceptible, still a fool besieged by need. He wanted an explanation that would allow him to forgive. One that would bring Reid back to him.

“If you needed help—if you needed money—you could have come to me. Or is it more than the money?”

Reid went to the window and opened the shutters. Rapidly shifting shades of white and gray obscured the world beyond the glass, but permitted enough light to outline Reid’s somber profile. “There’s a danger in the truth, Jo. That’s why I’m reluctant to tell you even now. I’d rather find a way to get you safely out of here.”

Jonah moved to the window and lay hands against the ice-cold glass. No lights shone in windows across the road. There was no sign of life anywhere. “This truth—is it one you tell yourself? Or meant exclusively for me?”

“Will you let me explain?” Quiet. Still patient. But not regretful. Heartache flared fresh and Jonah could not conceal it.

“Tell me how I’m to believe you.” The bleak landscape was the more tolerable view, and he kept his hands pressed to the glass, willing the cold to deaden his churning grief. In the street below, he caught the flutter of something—another bird, dying in the storm. But as he fixed on the dark shape, he saw arms lifting to shield a cloaked head. “Dear God,” he whispered.

Beside him, Reid leaned forward to look out. “Helen.”

Jonah met his grim glance. “Or Margaret. We must go down.”

He turned and Reid caught his arm. “Wait—”

“We can’t wait.” Jonah looked into the street. The cloaked figure simply stood as the snow piled higher around her. When she fell, Reid swore softly. He moved to the side street window where the telegraph pole hung suspended by its own wires, and Jonah’s concern bloomed swiftly to alarm. “What are you doing?”

Reid opened the shutters and pushed up the sash. Snow flying on the wind burst upon him, and he swore again, but swung a leg over the sill. Jonah grabbed his arm. “The pole’s covered with ice. You can’t—”

“I’ll be careful.”

“You’ll be killed. We can dig out downstairs.”

“I doubt she has that much time.”

“I can’t let you—”

“You have to.” Reid grasped a handful of Jonah’s coat, and pulling him close, kissed him. Too surprised to resist, Jonah didn’t pull away. Buried emotion took over, and he returned the kiss, his bare need enough to shame him—if he could have felt anything besides it. Reid drew back and the same need shone in his eyes. “Stay here,” he said, the twist of his mouth making it clear he had no expectation Jonah would listen.

“Reid—”

But Reid was out the window and climbing onto the ice-coated crossbar. The wind whipping him mercilessly, he side-stepped to the pole and began a slow descent, bar by bar. Each time he seemed to lose his footing, Jonah’s heart stilled. When Reid reached the last crossbar, he lingered, as if to catch his breath. He glanced up, flush-cheeked, his damp hair in his eyes, and Jonah wanted to reach down and haul him back to safety.

The ice struck needle-sharp against his own skin, but Jonah could not shut the window, not until Reid found solid ground. One hand on his glasses to keep the wind from tearing them away, he leaned further over the sill. Traversing the crossbars had been the simpler matter. Reid struggled to gain an advantageous hold on the rocking pole, one that would let him slide the remaining distance without falling. All around him, wires danced and sparked. In the brief illumination, Jonah saw his coat fluttering, saw him rest his head against the pole as if making his way any further was more than he could do. More wires abruptly snapped, the pole bounced—and Reid vanished in the churning froth.