Nevada Nights

by Ruth Ryan Langan

  Cameron swallowed the lump which threatened to choke her. Through a mist of tears she saw Mr. Bouchet waiting impatiently for her in the doorway. With a flourish of quick embraces, she followed him through the entrance and down the wide stone steps to a waiting carriage.

  As they clattered off, Cameron turned and waved to the darkened figures massed in the doorway. She couldn’t see their faces in the shadows, yet she knew each one clearly.

  * * *

  The captain of the ferry was pacing furiously on the deck when they arrived. As soon as they had stowed Cameron’s trunk, he shoved off from the frozen shore. Mr. Bouchet bustled her into the warm cabin section of the boat. As he settled himself on one of the benches, Cameron pressed her face to the glass and stared at the receding land.

  Ignoring the freezing temperature, Cameron suddenly bolted out on deck to watch as her beloved island seemed to drop away from her. Her gaze scanned the white frosted landscape, searching all the dear, familiar places of her childhood.

  In the distance she could see the roof of the one-room schoolhouse where only recently she had begun to teach the island children. She watched the slate roofs of the convent buildings, the thin winter sun glinting on the gold of the cross. Even the frigid air couldn’t drive her away from the rail of the ferry. She had to see her beloved Allumette Island until there was nothing left to see.

  Home! She was going home! But this dear place was her home. And oh, how she would miss it. Silent tears began to course down her cheeks. She realized that she was watching her childhood recede along with her island. Oh, Sister Leona. Who will help you feed and water the stock and tend the vegetable gardens? Reverend Mother, who will sorely try your patience now that I’ve gone? How can I leave you? What will I do without all of you to scold me, to urge me to try harder, to calm me down when I’m high-strung, to love me?

  The tears froze on her cheeks, glistening like diamonds in the light reflected from the warm cabin of the boat. Still, Cameron huddled in the biting wind, unable to leave the deck, unable to tear her gaze from her beloved island. Finally, there was nothing left to see but a dim white haze in the distance, glimmering in the frozen waters.

  But, she told herself, she wasn’t leaving it all behind. She would carry her island with her, locked in her heart. She could close her eyes and see the water of the Ottawa River lapping gently on the shore of Allumette, or hurling itself in a frenzy of foam after a storm. She could see the jagged ice floes inching along the channel and piling up on the frozen beach, tearing away great chunks of earth as they grated one against the other to hug the shore until they became one with the land, a vast, ice-encrusted still life. No matter how far her voyage took her, Cameron would carry this tiny island, its smell and taste, and the wonderful people who were its pulse, with her always.

  Chapter Five

  A narrow beam of sunlight filtered through a jagged tear in the heavy draperies. In the bed the figure curled like a kitten, dozing in the circle of warmth. Cameron lay quietly, on the fine edge of half-wakefulness, unwilling to rouse herself and experience the now familiar aching of her body. After enduring nearly two weeks of both train and stagecoach, spending unending days jostled between perspiring strangers, feeling every hole and rut in the trail, her body screamed in protest. The slightest movement awakened an array of stiff, creaking muscles.

  Yanked from her orderly, peaceful life on the island, she had watched in fascination as a whole new world of color and sound had greeted her in one swiftly moving, dizzying tableau. From the windows of the trainband stagecoach she had seen dazzling, snow-covered mountain peaks wreathed in gauzy clouds and had slowly slipped from the biting cold that blanketed her familiar world of winter to barren, rock-strewn desert and a relentless sun that scorched everything in its path. Fascinated, she had watched a continuous parade of mankind, from simple farmers in Ohio to mule skinners in Colorado Territory, and from gaudy street women in Kansas to prim Mormon families moving west to Utah Territory.

  Gingerly stretching out one leg, Cameron marveled at the strange sounds she was beginning to identify. Wheels clattered along the street below. Cowboy boots, with spurs jingling, beat a steady tattoo on the wooden walkway as the town of Virginia City, Nevada, awakened to another day. Hotel doors slammed. People shouted and muffled words erupted into laughter. Somewhere below someone was clattering pots and pans. So much noise! At the convent, on her remote island, the sounds had not run together in such a chorus. Each laugh, each peal of a bell or chirp of a bird, could be enjoyed for itself. But here . . . Cameron shrugged. She would have to get used to this. She stretched the other leg and winced as her cramped muscles protested the movement. If a broken axle hadn’t delayed the stagecoach, she would be at her father’s home by now. When they had finally rolled into the town of Virginia City around dawn, the driver had refused to go any farther, and she had been forced to spend the night, or what was left of it, here in the hotel. The driver had promised to contact her father’s lawyer, whose office was at the end of the main street, as soon as he had a chance to catch some sleep.

  An explosion of sound shattered her thoughts. Gunshot! Cameron leaped from the bed, ignoring the spasm of pain in her lower back. Pushing aside the drape, she stared at the scene in the street below. A man sprawled on his back in the dust. Blood oozed and mingled with the dirt to flow in a mottled, red pool. Near his outstretched hand lay a gun. A man, his back to her, moved with catlike grace toward the fallen man. He stooped, touched the other’s wrist, then strode lazily toward the swinging doors of the saloon. Cameron’s gaze was riveted on the moving man. Michael Gray! Her glance took in the ripple of muscle beneath the exquisitely tailored jacket, the loose, easy stride of a leopard, the glint of sunlight on dark hair. The door swung shut behind him, and still she stared at the empty spot where he had stood.

  Pressing her palms to her feverish cheeks, she played over in her mind the scene she had just witnessed. A man lay dead in the street. Another man had just shot him. And in her tired, confused state, she had thought she was seeing Michael. Impossible. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to recall the image she had carried with her since that long-ago summer day. She relaxed. The man she secretly worshiped was noble, a hero. Michael could never shoot a man in cold blood. Opening her eyes, she stared at the still swinging doors. She wouldn’t move until the gunfighter came through that doorway. Then she would prove to herself that he wasn’t Michael.

  At an insistent knock, she turned from the window. Pulling her cloak about her for modesty, she opened the door and stared at a man whose fist was poised to knock a second time. She was nearly eye level with him, standing only an inch or so shorter than this gray-haired man in beautifully tailored dark pants and cutaway coat. A gold chain stretched across his vest, adding to his look of importance. His dark eyes were openly studying her.

  "Miss McCormick?"

  "Yes."

  "My name is Harold Sturgiss. I’m your father’s lawyer."

  Cameron extended her hand, holding the cloak with her other hand.

  "I’m sorry, I haven’t dressed yet. I can’t invite you inside."

  "Quite all right. Why don’t you get yourself ready, and meet me downstairs? I understand your coach was delayed for several hours last night."

  She nodded.

  "Then I suggest we eat breakfast before I take you to your father’s house. It’s just outside the town. I have a rig." He glanced at the watch attached to the gold chain. "Is half an hour enough time?"

  "Yes. That’s fine."

  Cameron closed the door, then, remembering the gunfight, hurried across the room to stare at the saloon door. The movement of the door warned her that someone had just passed through it. Her gaze swept the dusty street until she spotted the figure striding toward the stables at the far end of town.

  Something familiar about his walk caused a pulse to flutter deep inside her.

  With a sigh of frustration, she tore herself from the window and dressed quickly. What need had s
he of seeing the gunfighter? He couldn’t be Michael. And today was the glorious day for which she had waited a lifetime. Today she would meet her father. Today, she would discover herself.

  Mother Superior had not exaggerated the inadequacy of the documents. When Cameron had found a quiet time to examine the contents of the metal box, she had found only a scrap of paper documenting the time and place of her birth and the name of her father. Her mother’s name had been torn from the page. The only other item in the box was a snip of red hair wrapped in a silk handkerchief.

  Soon she would have her answers.

  By the time the unrelenting sun had climbed high overhead, Cameron and Harold Sturgiss were seated in his handsome rig, rolling through the dust-choked streets of Virginia City toward the huge, three-story house high on a hill overlooking the entire town.

  The horse pulled the carriage effortlessly up the steep incline and stopped at the wide porch that encircled the front and sides of the wooden structure. Cameron blinked in the brilliant sunlight and stared across at the lawyer. He stepped out and offered her his hand.

  "Welcome home, Miss McCormick," he said formally.

  Cameron caught her breath, stepped from the carriage, and stared at the huge double doors opening before them at the top of the porch. A servant woman stood slightly back from the doorway, watching them without expression.

  "We’re here to see Mr. McCormick," Mr. Sturgiss said briskly.

  She nodded, stepped aside, then closed the door behind them. Cameron could hear a babble of voices from a room off the foyer. Mr. Sturgiss walked into the room, which appeared to be a large parlor. Cameron paused in the doorway. Several heads turned to examine the intruders.

  A tall, frowning man walked toward the lawyer. "Sturgiss," he said, in a puzzled tone. "What brings you here today?" He was addressing the lawyer but staring beyond him to study Cameron.

  All the chatter had stopped. There was no sound in the room until the lawyer’s voice broke the stillness.

  "Good day, Alex," Sturgiss said. "I’m here on John’s orders. He instructed me to bring his daughter to him the minute she arrived."

  Cameron could feel all the eyes in the room examining her.

  "His daughter!" Alex’s exclamation sliced the silence.

  The lawyer abruptly turned his back on the occupants of the room. "I’m afraid explanations and introductions will have to wait. Right now we’re going up to see her father. Come along, Miss McCormick," he said briskly.

  Taking her arm firmly, he led her to a broad staircase, and they walked to the second floor. The lawyer led the way along a wide, dimly lit hallway to the door at the far end. He knocked and opened the door without waiting for a reply from within.

  Cameron paused in the doorway, and as her eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, she saw a servant girl holding a glass to the lips of a man lying in a huge bed. The man’s gaze fastened on her. He motioned the servant aside.

  In a contrite voice Mr. Sturgiss said, "I’m sorry it took so long, John. The journey has been treacherous."

  The man nodded and waved his hand feebly. "Leave us."

  The lawyer followed the servant from the room, closing the door behind them with a soft click.

  "Cameron." The word was one long sigh, as though wrenched from his soul.

  He held out his palm, and she moved closer to take his hand in hers. It was big, engulfing her fingers, but the grip was surprisingly weak. He could barely squeeze her hand.

  Cameron’s heart was hammering wildly against her chest. "Father." She said the word aloud, tasting it, savoring the sound of it on her lips.

  The man’s eyes drank in the sight of her, lingering on the cloud of red-gold hair, the emerald eyes, the proud tilt of her chin.

  "Oh, you are so like her," he breathed.

  Her heartbeat quickened. Her mother. Now she would have all her answers.

  "Sit here," he said, patting the edge of the bed.

  Cameron sat, still holding his hand in hers. She studied his handsome Irish face. The skin was pale, almost translucent, with blue veins about the temples. Thick hair, steel gray, stuck to moist skin. She had not inherited his hair. It looked as though it had once been very dark. Blue eyes studied her. The bluest eyes she had ever seen. There were crinkles at the corners of his eyes, as though he were squinting against a bright light. He must look wonderful when he smiled.

  "I named you for my father," he said. "Cameron McCormick. A fine name."

  "And my mother? Please tell me about my mother."

  He tried to squeeze her hand. She heard a sigh, from deep inside his chest. "God, how I loved her. She was the only woman I ever loved."

  "Then why did you remove all trace of her?" Cameron asked plaintively. "Why is her name torn from my birth documents?"

  "I had to protect her, Cameron. And you," he whispered. "It was selfish of me to send for you. I’ve placed you in grave danger."

  At his words, a sliver of ice inched along her spine. So, she had been wrong. The danger, whatever it was, still threatened.

  He looked away, then his eyes came back to stare into hers. "But I had to see you. I had to."

  "I don’t care about the danger." She spoke the words with a vengeance, as if to assuage her own fears as well as his. "I’m your daughter. I belong here with you." She softened her words with a smile. "And the two of us together can take care of ourselves." She watched the creases of his face as he smiled. "Can’t we?"

  "Of course we can," he said. "Now that you’re here, I’ll fight this thing. I’ll grow stronger. Big John McCormick and his daughter, Cameron. We’ll be a formidable team."

  "Father," she whispered. "Please tell me now about my mother."

  "I will, Cammy my love. I’ll answer all your questions." He covered the hand holding his with his other hand. "I have so much to tell you." He sighed. "Oh, Cammy. I’ve made so many mistakes. Hurt so many people. If only we could live our lives over."

  On an impulse, she leaned over and kissed his cheek. "Don’t dwell on what was before. Think about what we’ll do together."

  "Together," he murmured. "It’s all I’ve ever wanted."

  His eyes closed, then fluttered open. "I knew the sisters would do well by you. Did Sister Mary Claudius tell you she once saved my life?"

  "Reverend Mother?"

  "Reverend Mother now, is she?" He chuckled. "When I was very young, barely more than a boy really, I was tossed off a ship for cheating at cards. Funny thing is, that time I really hadn’t cheated." His blue eyes opened wide, dancing as he remembered. "I often cheated. Most of my life, in fact. But that time the cards were good to me. I just couldn’t lose. But I was accused of cheating by one of the men who had lost heavily, and an angry crowd of sailors beat and stabbed me, then threw me overboard in the dark. In the morning a very compassionate, very young Sister Mary Claudius found me on the beach near death and took me back to the convent. When my wounds healed, I stayed on, sleeping in the stables, helping out with farm chores, until I was strong enough to leave. It seemed a long time before I was completely mended in body and soul." He turned a solemn gaze on the young woman beside him. "When you were born and the whole world seemed against us, I thought of those good sisters and knew they would do right by you." His eyes glittered feverishly. "Has it been a hard life in the convent, Cammy girl?"

  "A hard life? No—Father." Strange, how easy it was to call this big man Father. "It was a good life. They loved me. They were very kind." In a breaking voice, she whispered, "I miss them."

  His eyes were closed, his breathing unsteady. She watched the rise and fall of his massive chest beneath the covers. Somehow she had known her father would be a big, powerful man. She studied his wide shoulders, the muscled arms. He must have cut a fine figure in his youth.

  Cameron leaned down and brushed her lips over his damp brow. "You sleep now, Father. We have all our days together now. And we’ll talk and talk and talk."

  She stood and smoothed the blankets, gently tucking hi
s arms beneath. She watched his slow, labored breathing for a few minutes longer, searching for something familiar. Did she resemble him, perhaps about the eyes or chin? Would she have recognized him across a room crowded with people? Her father! After all these years, she had found her father. And now that she was here, no matter what the dangers, she was never going to leave him. She had come from foreign shores, clear across this land. She was home. And she was home to stay.

  Moving quietly across the room, she let herself out. On a bench, Harold Sturgiss sat waiting for her. He looked up as she approached.

  "My father’s asleep," she said. "We’ll have a nice long visit tomorrow."

  The lawyer nodded and said, "Now we’d better face your reception below. Are you ready?"

  Cameron squared her shoulders and unconsciously lifted her chin in a gesture of defiance. "Yes. I’m ready."

  Chapter Six

  Very formally, Harold Sturgiss tucked her small hand into the crook of his arm and escorted her down the stairs and once more into the parlor. The sound of voices stopped abruptly, and all heads swiveled to study the slim girl standing hesitantly in the doorway.

  The man who had confronted them earlier now rose and stormed toward them. His imposing figure cut off Cameron’s view of the others. He made no effort to conceal his hostility. With hands on hips, he stared down at the girl who was the object of his anger.

  "Cameron McCormick," the lawyer said, "this is your stepbrother, Alex Bannion."

  "A stepsister!" The words were spit from between clenched teeth. "Just what this family needed." He folded his arms across his chest and regarded her coldly. "And what did you think of Big John McCormick?" he asked sarcastically.

  "I found him very tired," she replied. "We’ll have a nice long visit tomorrow."

  He spat out a cruel laugh and turned toward the others in the room. "Well, don’t just sit there. Come and meet Big John’s latest surprise."

  Cameron surreptitiously studied the burly, black-tempered Alex. His hands were big, work-roughened. His eyes, as black as his hair, as black as his mood, were narrowed in contempt. His lips were thin, cruel, curled in a sneer. He looked to Cameron like every picture she had ever seen of the devil himself. He frightened her. She made a mental note to keep far away from Alex.