Straight For The Heart

by Marsha Canham

“He’ll kill her,” Ryan said, white-lipped. “He won’t let her go, no matter how many times over you meet the ransom.”

  “I know. But he wants his revenge and he’ll wait long enough to see me squirm.”

  “Do you have the cash to pay him?”

  “No. But I have the deed to Briar Glen and the papers for the Mississippi Queen. It’s everything I own, so I think he’ll be satisfied.”

  Ryan took a long, measured breath and nodded. “How many men do you think he’ll have with him tonight?”

  “No more than two or three. The river rats he usually employs to do his dirty work couldn’t be trusted not to slit his throat and take the money themselves.”

  “We can have ten times that many on the dock by midnight.”

  Michael disagreed. “If we show up in strength, all Wainright would have to do is wrap a length of chain around her ankles and slip Mandy into the river and she’d be gone in the current without a trace. Without a body, we’d be hard-pressed to prove anything against him.”

  “You have a pretty cold-blooded way of putting it, Tarrington.”

  “Murder is a pretty cold-blooded business.”

  “Then what do you suggest we do?”

  “We let him think I am alone and doing precisely what he wants me to do.”

  “Sir.” Foley ventured to make a suggestion. “This Wainright person does not know me. I could go down to the docks in advance and keep the Queen under close watch. We would at least be able to ascertain exactly how many men we were up against and how we might best be able to outmaneuver them.”

  Michael nodded, but Ryan shook his head.

  “What if he just decides to kill you the minute he sees you?”

  Michael studied Ryan’s face—a face with enough likeness to Amanda’s that his heart ached. “I guess it’s a chance I’ll have to take. I intend to get my wife back,” he added quietly. “Foley and I can do it without your help if need be, but I’d like to have you with me.”

  Ryan returned the penetrating stare. His jaw was discolored and throbbing, the cut over his eye was an ugly, scabbed lump. His ribs, belly, and arms were black and blue, and his stomach was twisted with fear for Amanda’s safety.

  Tarrington was in no better shape.

  “Alisha was lying, wasn’t she.”

  “Yes.”

  “What about Amanda?”

  “What about her?”

  “You say you want her back, but what if she doesn’t want to go back?”

  Michael looked down and studied his hands a moment, turning the locket over and over in his fingers. “Then you’re going to be seeing a lot of me around here, because I don’t intend to give her up without a hell of a fight.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The slivered moon was too low on the horizon to cast any effect over the waterfront. A million stars above and a thousand lamplights that burned in the taverns and saloons below set the entire riverfront glittering. The parties on board the showboat had begun to wind down, but the canny operators had moved the vessel to another mooring to avoid the taint of murder and scandal. The Queen rocked gently with the river current, enjoying her solitude at the end of the dock.

  Sounds of revelry crept through portholes and down the shadowy passageways, seeping into every cabin, every nook and blackened cranny of the huge, deserted paddle wheeler. Her salon doors were locked, her interiors were hushed and darkened with only the odd whisper of a querulous draft to question the sanity of her owner for keeping her shut down. The enormous crystal chandeliers were cold and dark, their prisms tinkling softly with the motion of the hull. The roulette wheels were still. There was no chattering of dice, no ruffling of cards, no spill of brightly colored glass chips. The crew was ashore. The two watchmen left on board were slumped in an out-of-the-way corner; one dead, one nearly so.

  Forrest Wainright peered through the slats of the shutters that covered the porthole in the captain’s cabin. It was twenty minutes before midnight and so far there had been no sign of movement out on the wharf.

  The wick on one of the hanging oil lamps was turned as low as it could possibly go without risking extinction. The meager glow it cast barely reached the narrow cot where Amanda Tarrington lay bound hand and foot. A strip of cotton bunting had been wrapped around her mouth and tied securely. The sticky, burning sensation on her wrists told her there was not much more skin remaining between raw flesh and twined jute yet she continued to stretch and twist and strain the ropes as stealthily as possible, alert for any sudden movement from Wainright.

  She recognized the captain’s cabin from previous visits and knew she was on board the Mississippi Queen. Her head throbbed where Ned Sims had struck her, and if there was a muscle in her body that was not screaming from the pain and tension, she could not find it. She had drifted in and out of consciousness all day long. At some point she had overheard Wainright discussing with Sims where to arrange the meeting with Michael and the Queen had met all their requirements—privacy, isolation, and a convenient means of disposing of the bodies.

  Michael. Michael … are you out there somewhere? Do you know it’s a trap? Do you know he has no intentions of letting either one of us walk away from here alive?

  She pulled feverishly on her ropes. Her ankles were tantalizingly loose and while she was not quite certain of the advantage she would gain, she kept working to increase the slack. She redoubled her efforts on the cords biting into her wrists, forcing her mind to block out the pain, forcing herself to concentrate on Michael’s face, on his smile, his laugh …

  Wainright grunted and snapped open his pocket watch, sending Amanda’s heart leaping up into her throat.

  “It’s almost time. Your husband should be making his appearance any moment now.”

  He shut the slats and crossed over to the cot. The lamp was behind him and Amanda could see nothing of his face other than the oily sheen of his hair and the point of his beard.

  He, on the other hand, had the advantage of muted light reflecting off the soft white linen of her nightdress and wrapper, neither of which were designed for modesty. Rather, they drew the eye to the shapeliness of her long, coltish legs, the trimness of her waist, the round, firm half moons of her breasts. He was turbulently aware of the response he felt in his own body each and every time he looked at her lying there so helpless and vulnerable. He thought fondly of Alisha’s voluptuousness and erotic skills, and he smiled, wondering how the two sisters compared. That too would be part of his compensation. Here, on board the Mississippi Queen, he would not only possess Montana Rose, Queen of the Mississippi, he would also possess Amanda Tarrington. Right in front of the agonized eyes of her arrogant husband, who would then know how it felt to be humiliated and shamed.

  “Only a little while longer, my dear,” he murmured, and his fingertip traced a path from her shoulder to her chin. She tried to flinch away but his hand caught her chin and angled it sharply up toward him, holding it with fingers that pinched and dug cruelly into her cheeks.

  “Still playing the Southern belle, are we? Well … it won’t be long now before we see how haughty you look down on your knees in front of me, begging me to spare your husband’s life.”

  Amanda fought the taste of revulsion rising in her throat. He released her chin and thrust her head back down on the pillow and her eyes blazed back at him, so blue with hatred and loathing they glowed.

  He only laughed. “I must leave you for a few minutes, but I’ll be back. I assure you, I’ll be back.”

  The blood pumped angrily into Amanda’s cheeks. As soon as the key turned in the lock behind him, she poured every last bit of her strength into loosening her bonds. Her ankles sprang apart unexpectedly and, with a gasp of triumph, she squirmed and kicked her feet until she was able to maneuver herself to the side of the cot and sit upright.

  She needed to get her hands free, and not knowing how much time she had before Wainright returned, she reached desperately for the first weapon at hand.

  There
was a small glass jar of matches on a shelf beside the cot. By twisting her upper body she was able to grasp hold of the jar and swing it awkwardly against the side of the bed. The glass was thicker than she thought, and apart from scattering the matches all over the floor, she accomplished nothing.

  Damn, she thought. Damn … damn … damn …

  She smashed the jar again … and again, and on the third attempt it broke, driving several sharp shards into the palm of her left hand. She cursed away the pain and groped blindly among the pieces to find the longest, sharpest edge. Bracing herself for more pain, she sawed the glass back and forth through the jute ropes, feeling the movement driving the shards deeper and deeper into her flesh with each stroke. The rope, when it finally parted, was crimson with blood.

  Amanda cradled her damaged hand in front of her and pried out as many of the glittering slivers as she could see. A slash across the base of her thumb was especially deep and painful. It bled profusely and rendered the whole hand almost useless.

  Clumsily she tore the gag off her mouth and bound it tightly around the wound. She ran to the door, but it was locked. She opened the shutters and was able to open the porthole, but it was too small to squeeze more than her head through.

  In a fever of despair, she listened to the lively sounds of the nightlife along the riverfront. It seemed impossible that it should be so bright, so boisterous, so close … yet of no help to her whatsoever. If she screamed, no one would hear her but Wainright and the three apelike thugs he had brought on board the Queen with him.

  Michael was out there somewhere, walking into a trap. She had to warn him away. She had to let him know it was a trap. She had to do something.

  A gust of air from the open window caught the wick of the lamp and extinguished it. Amanda stared at it for a moment, then fell onto her hands and knees, scouring the floor for the spilled matches. The lamp had an ornate brass front that her injured fingers could not manipulate, but she remembered seeing the stub of a candle on the same shelf as the jar of matches, and, with unsteady hands and unsure intentions, she lit the stub and held it up in front of the porthole.

  Michael Tarrington strolled toward the entrance of the jetty and paused to light a cheroot. Calm gray eyes searched the shadows, fully alert to the danger lurking somewhere in the shadows. Of the dozens of vessels anchored in port, the Mississippi Queen was the only one in darkness. Wainright had obviously disposed of the inadequate watch he had left on board, as well as the pair of men the sheriff had posted at the end of the dock.

  Michael’s expression grew grimmer as he came closer to the pier. His footsteps echoed on the wooden slats and he realized he was sweating despite the distinct chill of the river air. He tried to keep all thoughts of Amanda out of his mind, but now and then an image took shape before him of a woman floating downriver, her long silvery hair fanned out across the surface of the muddy water.

  Michael slowed as he neared a stack of crates at the end of the jetty. He heard the rasp of a match and, in the next instant, was blinded by a lantern held up before his eyes. The sudden glare effectively erased his ability to distinguish shapes and movements in the shadows, and although he raised a hand to try to block some of the light, his night vision had already been destroyed.

  E. Forrest Wainright suffered from no such handicap. Half of the lantern was hooded by a metal panel that cleverly shielded his face while intensifying the glare in his adversary’s eyes.

  “If nothing else, you are prompt, Tarrington, And smart too, I trust? You came alone?”

  “I’m alone. Where is my wife?”

  “Quite safe. Quite secure. And the man who carried my message to you?”

  “Quite dead.”

  Wainright smiled. “Not prematurely, I hope. You have the required sum?”

  Michael started to reach into his jacket and froze. Wainright’s hand came up out of the shadows, letting the light fall along the barrel of a Colt .45.

  “Thumb and forefinger only,” he instructed coldly. “And use the left hand, if you don’t mind. I’ve heard rumors about your dexterity in such matters.”

  Michael complied, withdrawing a plain envelope from his breast pocket.

  “It hardly seems fat enough. I hope you were not foolishly expecting me to accept a promissory note.”

  “It wasn’t possible—as you well know—to raise a hundred thousand dollars cash in a single day. There isn’t that much cash in all of Natchez.”

  “Your wife will be crushed.”

  “I don’t think so.” He held up the envelope. “I’ve had my lawyer transfer the title and deed to Briar Glen as well as the ownership of the Mississippi Queen into your name. Together they are worth a hell of a lot more than a hundred thousand dollars.”

  Wainright arched a brow appreciatively. “You do indeed have a flair for the dramatic. I like your style, Tarrington. How unfortunate we could not have worked together.”

  He extended his hand for the envelope, but Michael shook his head and tucked it back into his pocket. “Not until I see my wife walking safely away from the dock.”

  “Ahh.” Wainright’s outstretched fingers curled in on themselves like the legs on a dead spider. “Of course. A reasonable request, after all. And it will please you to know she is in perfect condition. Untouched. Unsullied, even though, as you can well appreciate, the temptation was quite strong.”

  “She had better be untouched, Wainright,” Michael said in an ominously silky voice, “or I’ll take ten kinds of pleasure in killing you.”

  “Charming sentiments … but wasted.”

  He snapped his fingers suddenly and two burly figures stepped out of the blackness beside Michael. The cocking of their Winchester rifles sounded like ratchets, sending Michael’s hand plunging instinctively for his Remington. The move was deflected by the stock end of one of the rifles; the second thug was behind him in a flash, shoving the snout of the barrel into his spine.

  Michael spread his hands slowly by his sides. The Remington was found and removed, as were the twin silver-handled derringers tucked into the tops of his boots.

  “I’ll take those papers now,” Wainright mused, plucking the envelope from his pocket. He opened it and scanned the contents under the glare of the lantern, then grunted with approval.

  “What now?” Michael asked derisively. “A bullet in the back, or a length of chain around the ankles?”

  Wainright folded the papers and slid them back into the envelope. “Actually … I thought you might like to see your wife one last time. I thought you might like to see her with her legs spread and her body straining to please me, and to know that long after you are gone, she will still be pleasing me.”

  Michael roared an explosive curse and lunged for Wainright’s throat. He managed to claw his hands around the starched broadcloth before a pair of rifle butts hammered him away. Dazed and bleeding, he was pounded into submission, driven to his knees by repeated blows to his ribs, shoulders, and gut.

  “Enough,” Wainright ordered quietly. “I don’t want him dead just yet. Take him on board and put him in the main salon. Tie him to a front-row seat near the stage and keep his eyes open, even if you have to cut off the lids.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Wainright watched Michael Tarrington being dragged across the gangway and his mouth thinned into a cruel smile of anticipation. He lingered on the wharf a few seconds longer, raising and lowering the lantern as he glanced behind him to the mouth of the pier. He waited until he saw a match flare to life and carve a slow semicircle into the darkness, the signal that Tarrington had indeed come alone.

  It wasn’t until he turned back to the ship and doused the lantern that he saw the other light. The single, bright flame of a candle being waved in a desperate arc back and forth across the porthole of a cabin in the rear of the paddle wheeler.

  Amanda heard no warning footsteps out in the corridor. The first inkling of disaster came with the sound of the key being twisted in the lock. With hot candlewax drippin
g over her fingers, she whirled around in time to see the door flung open and Wainright stride into the cabin with the flourish of an actor arriving on stage.

  “Your husband sends his regards, madam,” he announced. “Unfortunately neither he nor anyone else saw your feeble gesture, so if you were hoping for the cavalry to arrive, or the saints to sing out choruses of Hallelujah, you will be sorely disappointed.”

  “Where is he? Where is my husband?”

  “Waiting for us in the salon. I have promised him a performance he can carry with him into eternity.”

  He started across the room toward her. Amanda stood perfectly still, the silky threads of her hair drifting forward in the breeze from the porthole, the burning candle clutched in her injured hand, dripping a steady pat pat pat of wax onto the floor. In her other hand, concealed behind her back, was the razor-sharp wedge of glass she had used to sever through her bonds.

  When he was almost in front of her, Amanda threw the candle and brought the wedge of glass slashing up out of the shadows. Wainright reacted to the threat of the flame first, ducking too late to avoid the sting of glass carving into his cheek. Amanda slashed again, cutting nothing more than the fabric of his coat sleeve, but before she could improve her aim, he was swinging up and out with both arms, striking her hard enough to send her sprawling onto the floor. The glass flew out of her hand, lost in the confusion, but she scrambled for the darker outline of the doorway, kicking and screaming as she felt Wainright’s hands grasping at fistfuls of her nightgown.

  He caught her and dragged her back, lifting her bodily off the floor and throwing her back against the wall. He groped for the door and slammed it shut, then slotted the key into the lock with a savage twist.

  The candle, remarkably enough, was still sputtering on the floor and he picked it up, holding it over the hand he brought down from his cheek. It was shiny and wet with blood, with more pouring down his chin and dripping onto the front of his jacket.