Bride of the High Country Page 18

  “What do you know about him?”

  He thought for a moment. “Not much. Drinker. A bit dodgy in his business dealings, as Doyle would say, even though he’s considering investing in some branch line Horne is pushing. I know he has political ambitions, but I’d never vote for him. Why?”

  Political ambitions. Was that the reason? “How high are these ambitions?”

  “Albany. Maybe higher.”

  “High enough that a scandal would bring him down?”

  “Depends on the scandal,” he said drily. “Boss Tweed has proven corruption and greed are no deterrent to political office, so it would have to be something pretty bad. Why are you asking?”

  Like depravity. Bestiality. The murder of innocent souls.

  Suddenly, it all made horrifying sense. She knew what Horne was—a user of children, a beast, a man who was so depraved the screams of his victims had echoed through the filthy halls of the most notorious brothel in Five Points. No wonder he was after her. He couldn’t allow her to tell what she knew, especially if he thought she would come back to Manhattan and assume her position in society as the wife of a powerful and ruthless man.

  It was Horne who sent Smythe.

  God help me.

  She pressed her face against Tait’s chest, tears burning in her eyes. Horne would never rest until he found her. There was no way out now. Her stomach churned and spots of color and light danced before her eyes.

  As long as he knows I’m alive, I’ll have to keep running or die.

  Tait lifted his head and stared down at her. “You’re shaking, Lucinda. What’s wrong?”

  She could never tell him . . . not about Horne . . . not about Smythe . . . not about Mrs. Beale’s. She would rather live without him than see the disgust in his eyes. “It’s nothing. Just a chill.” Fighting tears, she snuggled closer and tried to keep her voice light. “This was rather a good idea, I think.”

  His head dropped back. “It was. You’re an amazing woman.”

  She poked his side. “I was talking about putting the pads on the floor.”

  “Ah. That, too, then.”

  “George will be scandalized.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “About George?”

  “About this.” When he didn’t answer, she tipped her head back to see him staring up at the ceiling. His face was set in those austere lines that had once irritated her. “Regrets, Tait?”

  “About this? Never.” He leaned up to press a kiss to her brow, then let his head drop back to the pad. Bristles shadowed his face and his hair was a tousled mess and he had never looked more beautiful to her. “I’m just trying to figure out the best way to handle Doyle.”

  Doyle again. It struck her that no matter what they did, or how far they ran, Doyle Kerrigan would always be there with them—like a sore that wouldn’t heal. They were doomed—by both Franklin Horne and Doyle Kerrigan. “Doyle is my problem, Tait. Not yours.”

  “I just made love to his wife. That makes it my problem, too.”

  Only a man as honest and loyal as Tait would see it that way. A blighted marriage, a betrayed friendship—the guilt of that would haunt him all his life.

  At least she could ease his mind on one score. Sitting up, she pulled the blanket around her shoulders, then turned to face him. “Doyle and I aren’t married.”

  “You may not want to be, but I was there, remember? I watched you give your vows.” Smiling, he ran his hand under the blanket and up her inner thigh.

  She blocked her mind to it. “Did you sign the marriage license as a witness? Did you see that it was registered?”

  The hand stopped. “No. I thought the priest did that. Or Doyle. But then you went missing, and everything was confused and . . .” Frowning, he sat up. “It was never legally registered? How can you be so certain?”

  She took a deep breath and let it out. “Because I have it.”

  He went still. She could almost see the thoughts racing through his analytical mind, retracing the events of that day—the ceremony, the signing, Doyle giving her the stock folder, Mrs. Throckmorton taking sick, carrying her up to the suite, Lucinda following, the folder in her hand.

  And she knew the exact moment he came to the wrong conclusion.

  The teasing light left his eyes. His face settled in those implacable lines. “What are you saying, Lucinda? That you planned it? All of it? From the very beginning?”

  “No,” she said, stung by the accusation. “I didn’t even realize the license was in the folder until I went to the bank in Philadelphia. It all happened so—”

  “Happened?” His eyes turned glacial. “Like your guardian happened to fall ill at the right time, and there happened to be a disguise on hand, and you happened to slip the license into the stock folder?”

  “Tait, it wasn’t like that—”

  “And the stock certificates? How did you happen to know about them?”

  “I didn’t. Not until Doyle gave them to me.” Suddenly terrified of where this was headed, she reached for his arm.

  “It was all an elaborate deception, wasn’t it?”

  “No. It wasn’t like that at all.”

  “I can’t believe this.” He abruptly rose, hands clenched at his sides. “How could I have missed it? The stocks, Mrs. Throckmorton’s fake illness, the widow’s disguise to escape the hotel. You planned it all, didn’t you?” He spun toward her. “And this?” He slashed a hand at the tangled bedding where they had made love through the night. “Was this part of your plan, too?”

  “No. If you’ll just listen, Tait, I can explain.”

  “Not now, Lucinda—or Margaret—or whoever the hell you are! Jesus.” With savage efficiency, he began yanking on his clothing.

  Panic sent her off the pallet. “Tait, please.” She tried to grab his arm again.

  “Don’t!” He whirled, palms up. “I can’t talk about this right now.”

  She stepped back, so shocked she could only stare as he finished dressing and began gathering his belongings. Thank God she hadn’t told him about Mrs. Beale’s. He would never have understood. He was too quick to judge. Too convinced he alone knew what was right and what was wrong.

  By the time he had stuffed everything he wasn’t wearing into his valise, her despair had hardened into resignation. It was over. He was leaving her. It was what she wanted. What needed to happen.

  So why did it hurt so much? The unfairness of it rocked her, turned the bleakness into fury.

  “So that’s it? You’re walking out? Without even giving me a chance to explain?”

  “I just need . . . time . . . to think about this.” Picking up the valise, he turned toward the door.

  “Take all the time you need,” she snapped. “But meanwhile, give me the key.” She held out her hand, surprised to see it was steady.

  Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the extra key and tossed it onto the rumpled bed. Then he held out his own hand. “And you give me all the stocks you have left. At least I can return that to Doyle.”

  “No.”

  Anger flared again. “No?”

  “That’s between me and Doyle. It doesn’t concern you.”

  He opened his mouth to argue, then clamped it shut and stalked to the door. He yanked it open, then hesitated, his big form blocking the faint light from the candles mounted along the hall. Without facing her, he asked in a tight voice, “Is there even a Smythe? Or is that all a fabrication, too?”

  She pressed a hand to her stomach. “Believe what you will, Tait,” she said to his back. “But I have never lied to you. Ever.”

  He turned his head and looked at her. “I would have fought Doyle for you. Given you everything I had. I could have loved you.” He gave a harsh laugh that b
elied the pain in his eyes. “Hell, I probably already do. And I don’t even know who you are.” A last look, then he stepped into the hall and closed the door.

  Her hands shaking, Lucinda picked up the key he’d left on the pallet and locked the door. Then, strength deserting her, she tipped her head against the cool wood and let the tears fall.

  * * *

  Not up to sly looks from George, Tait turned away from the porter’s alcove up front and headed toward the end of the car and the open vestibule between their Pullman and the Parlor Car at the end of the train.

  Cool, coal-scented air washed over him. The noise and rocking was worse over the couplers, but he welcomed the distraction from his turbulent thoughts.

  Jesus, he must be the world’s biggest fool to have been so blind.

  After a moment, his head cleared enough that he could think again. Crossing to the Parlor Car, he opened the door and stepped inside. Luckily, it was empty at this early hour. With a weary sigh, he set his valise on the floor, heard movement behind him, then flinched when something sharp jabbed into his back.

  “You smell like a bloody flower garden, you buggering toff,” an accented voice growled in his ear. “Put yer hands where I can see ’em.”

  Raising his hands to shoulder level, Tait slowly turned. A stocky man with thinning gray hair and the last two fingers on his knife hand missing grinned back at him. “Smythe,” Tait said.

  The man laughed, showing gaps in yellowed teeth, his breath rank and reeking of rum. “She told you about me, did she? Did she give you a good lickin’, too?” He mimicked the motion, his tongue rolling over his bottom lip like a fat, pink slug. “That’s what she’s best at. Lickin’. Taught her myself.”

  Tait’s hands clenched into fists as the realization slammed into him. She hadn’t lied. Smythe was real. Maybe everything else was, too. Oh, hell. What had he done? “What do you want?” he said through stiff lips.

  “Not here. Don’t want to mess up the pretty rug. Out there.” He tipped his head toward the rear door of the Parlor Car. “And get your bag. Don’t want anyone wondering why you’d leave it behind.”

  Guessing that meant the bastard intended to throw him off the train, Tait picked up the bag with his left hand so he could keep his right free. His mind racing, he walked down the narrow aisle between the plush seats. If he could get Smythe to come at him with the knife, he could block it with the valise, swing under it with his right, and finish him with a left hook. Roundhouse left, undercut right, left hook. He’d done it a hundred times. His palms tingled at the thought.

  “What do you want with her?” he asked over his shoulder. A talking man might be easier to distract.

  “With Cathleen?”

  The train lurched, making him stumble. Cathleen?

  A sharp jab in his back sent him forward again. “I’m here to shut her up. Permanent like. But the bitch owes me a lickin’ and I intend to get it before I gut her. Open the door. Slow and easy now.”

  Tait opened the door onto the narrow rear vestibule. Cool air blasted his face. Beyond the railing, the tracks stretched toward a faint purple smear across the eastern horizon. On the right, a rock wall rose out of sight; on the left, as best he could tell in the dawning light, the long rubble-strewn slope ended in a wide canyon with a river running down the middle.

  He turned, putting his left side and the valise toward the open rear railing so he would have room to swing it. “What do you want?”

  “Yer money fer starts.” Smythe held out a dirty palm. “Ye’ll be dyin’ either way, so you might as well hand it over. Might put me in a merciful mood.”

  Tait eyed the knife, a short, fat-bladed skinning knife that could do a lot of slicing damage but wouldn’t go deep enough to hit anything major. Or so he hoped. Bracing his legs, he reached toward his pocket with his right hand, then feinted with his shoulder as he swung the valise with his left.

  Smythe jumped back, whipping the knife in a wide arc.

  Tait heard a scraping sound as the blade slashed through leather. Teeth clenched, he drove his fist up into the Englishman’s soft belly.

  Smythe twisted, took the blow in his side. Grunting, he fell back against the railing.

  Tait lunged forward, swinging the valise as hard as he could. It hit the brake wheel protruding above the rear railing instead. The handle snapped off. The valise flew past the Englishman to crash into the rocky wall behind him.

  Before he could regain his balance, Smythe leaped forward, slashing.

  Tait felt a searing pain across his chest. He staggered back, blood running.

  But Smythe kept coming, the blade whipping back and forth.

  Another slice on his right shoulder. His left arm. Stumbling out of reach, he looked frantically for an opening. Then suddenly he was up against the railing on the canyon side.

  With a cry of triumph, Smythe rushed. Tait sidestepped too late. The Englishman plowed into him. The railing gave. Realizing he was falling, Tait locked his arms around Smythe and dragged him over the side with him.

  Smythe hit first. Tait landed on top of him, then rolled. And kept rolling.

  He clawed for a handhold, found only grass and loose rocks. Over the roar of cascading stones, he heard Smythe scream, but he couldn’t stop the downward tumble. Faster and faster, rocks pelting his face, crashing into his flailing body. He couldn’t see. Couldn’t breathe. Just as his lungs felt about to explode, he slammed to a stop against a tree.

  He lay gasping, choking on dirt and blood.

  The roar of falling rocks ended. Over the frantic drumbeat of his heart, he heard the sound of the departing train fade into the rush of moving water. Shuddering with pain, he opened his eyes to see the first rays of sunlight crown the tops of the trees before darkness dragged him down.

  * * *

  Lucinda watched daylight creep over the fields beyond the window before she finally accepted that he wasn’t coming back.

  I could have loved you.

  She pressed a hand over her eyes, tried to block the image of Tait’s bewildered face. Maybe she should go after him and try again to explain. But if he still didn’t believe her, what then? Go back to New York and try to clean up the mess she had left in her wake? Or put it all behind her and continue on?

  Letting her hand drop, she swiped away tears of disgust. This was what came of trusting. Of hoping. She should have known better.

  I don’t even know who you are.

  She gave a broken laugh. She didn’t know, either. Nothing made sense anymore. She felt battered and beaten and so drained it was an effort to think.

  Staring numbly at the bed on the floor, she fought a sudden urge to stomp it, stuff it out the window, tear it to shreds with her bare hands. But she hadn’t the energy or the will.

  Or the time.

  She had to figure out what to do next. It was obvious Tait wasn’t coming back. She was on her own, and it was up to her to deal with Smythe and the Pinkertons. She could feel them closing in, and knew if she was to avoid either, she would have to act now, before the train reached its next destination.

  Resolved, she rose and began gathering her things. She would get off at the last water stop before Pittsburgh. She would pay George to carry her valises into the station, wait until the train started again, then slip off at the last moment. Hopefully, Smythe wouldn’t see her. If he did, and left the train to come after her, she would scream that he was accosting her. In the confusion, she would escape into the street. If that didn’t work, she always had the pistol, loaded now and ready in her purse.

  From the water stop, she would take a public coach on into Pittsburgh. There, she would come up with another disguise—perhaps spectacles and a wig under a coal scuttle bonnet, a farm woman’s boots, and a calico dress stuffed with extra clothing to make her look heavier.

  From Pittsburg
h, she would go on to Columbus, and from there, either travel northwest to Chicago or southwest to St. Louis.

  If she made it that far.

  Wearily, she began to pack.

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, Byron Hildebrand leaned against a post, picking his teeth as he scanned travelers entering the Pittsburgh station. He’d been there all day, watching every train in and every train out. There weren’t that many.

  He glanced across the benches to where Mark Weyland watched women coming in and out of the ladies’ lavatory. He looked bored as hell, too.

  There had been some sort of ruckus earlier about a missing passenger on the run from Altoona. But that had been a man, and they were looking for a woman. Young, blond, pretty—or so her husband had described her to the Pinkerton office in New York. Within an hour, alerts had gone out to all the Pinkerton offices along the Pennsy line.

  But she might have disguised herself as an elderly woman or even a boy, and for that reason, he and Weyland had been instructed to carefully watch every suspicious young man and every woman who came through the depot—old, young, pretty, veiled. It was tedious work, not at all like the glamorous adventures portrayed in the detective dime novels.

  Out on the platform, the conductor made his final call for passengers bound for Columbus, which would be the last train out today. If they didn’t see her board, or notice anyone even remotely suspicious, they were to await further orders. Hildebrand hoped it wouldn’t involve travel. He was supposed to go to his daughter’s first communion that night.

  A quick, sharp whistle caught his attention, and he looked over to see Weyland motioning to a farm woman moving through the station doors and out onto the platform. She fit neither description, but he studied her hard anyway, wondering what had drawn Weyland’s suspicion.

  Heavyset and stoop-shouldered, the woman moved stoutly along, the brim of her bonnet obscuring most of her face, a traveling case hanging from one hand.

  Pushing away from the post, Hildebrand angled toward her, so if need be, he could intercept her just before she reached the train. As he approached, he saw a few wisps of white or blond hair showing beneath the bonnet at the back of her neck—an unlined neck, the skin firm and pale.