The Fortune

by Beth Williamson

  Dedication

  To my family, husband and boys. We might not be the Malloys, but we’ve got the love and the laughter, the joy and the craziness, and everything in between.

  Prologue

  The soft shuffle of footsteps outside the door had Francesca Chastain running for the corner. The room was barely ten feet by ten feet. There was nowhere to hide except behind the door. Her heart slammed against her ribs in an erratic rhythm while she could hardly catch her breath. Ice-cold fear slid through her veins.

  He’d found her.

  She had worked hard to escape, and with her sister Josephine’s help, had remained hidden for two weeks. All for naught if he’d found her. Frankie couldn’t swallow past the enormous lump of regret and anger. Regret for not believing what Oliver Peck had told her and anger for what he did instead.

  It was more than anger, though—it was rage.

  Along with the rage, however, was terror. She knew what he was capable of, firsthand, and if he found her now, he would kill her. Slowly and with great malice. Tears stung her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She would no longer cry for the girl she had been or the monster that changed her.

  Two knocks, followed by two more, then three. Their agreed-upon knock was almost music to Frankie’s ears. She let out a sigh of relief that was more like a sob before she opened the door. Her sister Josephine rushed in and closed the door behind her. The tallest of the four sisters, with brown hair and glasses, Jo wore her requisite governess dress.

  “Are you all right?” She frowned at Frankie, no doubt sensing the lingering fear.

  “No. I am not.” Frankie managed a tremulous smile. Two weeks of hiding in a basement dwelling of Jo’s employer’s boarding house had stretched her nerves taut. “I am not myself, Jo, and I do not know if I ever will be.”

  Jo hugged her, her lemon-water scent soothing Frankie’s heightened awareness. She missed her sisters and her parents, but keeping herself invisible was integral to their plan. They could not escape the city if Peck knew where she was.

  “You will be, with time. You know you can confide me in about all that happened to you. I would never betray you.” Jo stepped back and eyed her. “You have not been sleeping, though. There are bags beneath your eyes and I do not think you combed your hair today.”

  Frankie resisted the urge to touch her hair, since she couldn’t remember if she actually had brushed it. No matter. No one could see her and she wasn’t about to venture out until all was ready.

  “Were you able to procure everything? Did the house sell?” Frankie was anxious to leave New York permanently.

  “Yes to both questions. I arranged for a wagon and train tickets from Philadelphia. Everyone is nearly packed. I also sent a letter to Mr. Avery, the wagon master, and requested he help us procure a wagon. Papa has to sign the papers tomorrow for the house and then we leave tomorrow night.” Jo was the most serious of the four sisters, which was fitting since she worked as a governess. Without her employer Mr. Bradford’s assistance, their escape would not have been possible. Her charges were nearly of age and Jo had only a month left before her employment would have ended.

  Instead, she was spending all her spare time making arrangements for the journey west. Their entire family would disappear, never to return. Their plans for a better life in the Oregon territory had been fun to plan, until everything went wrong. Until Peck.

  Frankie sat down heavily on the room’s only furniture, a cot, and tried to will away the shaking. She clenched her hands until her knuckles hurt.

  Jo patted Frankie’s shoulder. “We are almost ready to go. Tomorrow night, we will be free of this place.”

  Frankie leaned toward her sister, unsure if she would ever be free of Oliver Peck. She had hope, however, and that had to be enough for now.

  Chapter One

  Independence, Missouri

  April 1848

  Frankie Chastain landed in the cold mud with a bone-jarring thump. To add insult to injury, a large body slammed into her, knocking the breath from her body. It was most assuredly a man. A man pushed her into the mud!

  “Hell’s bells. Lord save me from citified women.” His deep voice vibrated through her.

  “I. Cannot. Breathe.” She attempted unsuccessfully to move him.

  He rolled off and landed on his back, and a splatter of mud hit the side of her face. After sucking in a much-needed breath, she turned to look at him. He was dressed in dark colors, with a brown hat and whiskered cheeks. She was startled to find his eyes were the same color of the sky, a bright blue in the darkness of his visage. Splats of the brown slime decorated his cheeks. He was handsome, no doubt about that, but he was also scowling and angry. Well, so was she.

  “You pushed me into the mud, monsieur.”

  He rolled away from her and got to his knees. Mud coated the entire back of him and his hat. “A little mud was better than being run over by a wagon, lady.” He peered his hand, cursing under his breath. “Did you shoot me?”

  “Shoot you?” She glanced at her hand and was surprised to find le petit protector had fired during the incident. The tiny pistol sat on her finger for protection, but she’d never fired it. Her skin was reddened and covered with specks of black powder. “Not intentionally, monsieur. It was an accident.”

  She attempted to climb out of the mud without help but failed. Each time she tried to find purchase, she sank lower into the mire. Her dress, one of two she owned, would be ruined. The mud wasn’t just dirt—after all, there were a great deal of horses in Independence.

  “An accident, hm?” He shook his head and frowned hard enough to make his brows nearly touch. “I can’t believe you shot me after I saved your life. Didn’t you see that wagon coming and hear the driver yelling at you? You were about to be flattened by that rig and you shot me for helping you.” His gaze narrowed. “Where did you hide the gun?”

  She held up her hand, showing him the tiny ring gun, now caked with mud. She always wore it, more for her piece of mind than its deadly force, when walking around Independence. It had been a gift from her mother. Le petit protector was so tiny, the bullets were barely larger than a seed. It was meant to merely frighten an assailant, not cause bodily injury.

  “Is that a tiny pistol on your finger? I ain’t never seen the like.” He glanced at his own hand. “Dammit, I’m bleeding. I don’t have money to go to the doctor.”

  He got to his feet, without offering to help her. The stranger cursed quite vividly as he proceeded to walk in circles, shooting a glare at her every two seconds. Some of the curses she’d never heard before.

  The gunshot had burned her skin, which stank and stung. She needed to get back to the wagon and have Maman prepare a poultice for the burns. No doubt her mother would also provide medical assistance to her reluctant rescuer. Frankie held up her arms. “If you will assist me, my mother can doctor us both.”

  He frowned. “Your mother is a doctor?”

  “She is a nurse. Now help me up, please. The mud is hanging onto me like a steel trap.” With her arms beginning to burn from their elevated position, she frowned at the whiskered, angry man.

  “Fine, but I ain’t paying for it. You shot me.” He took hold of her wrists and in seconds she was airborne, landing on her feet abruptly. She craned her neck to look up at him. Frankie barely topped five feet and he was at least a foot taller, with shoulders as wide as a doorframe and arms that could probably snap her in two.

  Frankie was more than surprised to find a stirring low in her belly. She didn’t think any man would attract her, not after what she’d been through, yet the fluttering in her stomach proved her wrong.

  “You finished?” His deep voice startled her.

  “Pardon me?”

  “You looked lik
e you were sizing me up like a horse at auction. Wanted to be sure you’d gotten your fill.” A twitch of his lips told her he was amused. Damn him.

  She was embarrassed to be caught staring at him. “I was trying to remember if I had seen you before, monsieur. There are many people in town with the wagon train.”

  “Uh-huh. If that’s how you want to explain it to yourself. I’m John Malloy.”

  She inclined her head in greeting although it seemed a frivolous thing to do considering the man had been lying on top of her two minutes earlier. “I am Miss Francesca Chastain.”

  “Francesca, hm?” He gestured for her to walk toward the wood-planked sidewalk. “You French?”

  “I was born in France, but I am American.” Frankie walked as briskly as she could considering she had an extra ten pounds of mud stuck to her. The sooner this man was out of her sight, the better. She could still feel the imprint of his big body on hers. It set her off balance.

  They reached the open field in five minutes. The first rays of sunshine had awakened the gathering of Conestoga wagons waiting patiently like a herd of sleeping cattle in a field. A tinge of frost has gathered on the thick cloth of the wagon covers that would soon be a damp mixture of sun and cold.

  Frankie shaded her eyes against the sun as she wove her way through the others to her own family’s wagon. She was very conscious of the man beside her. He walked at a slower pace, his longer legs covering twice the distance of her shorter, mud-laden ones.

  Her sisters, Josephine, Isabelle and Charlotte, were gathered around the fire preparing breakfast while her parents were nowhere in sight. The three younger Chastains stopped and stared first at Frankie, then at the man beside them.

  “Holy hell, Frankie, what happened? You were supposed to buy coffee, not roll in the mud.” At fifteen, Charlotte was caught between a girl and a woman.

  “Frankie?” the stranger murmured. “You don’t look like a Frankie.”

  “Charlotte, if Maman were here she would box your ears. You need to stop talking like Mr. Avery.” Frankie gestured to the man at her side. “We had an unfortunate spill in the street and le petit protector injured both of us. Where is Maman?”

  Isabelle rose from her perch by the coffee pot. At eighteen, she had a stunning countenance of chestnut hair and deep green eyes. She smiled at Frankie, then gazed at the stranger with fascination. “Good morning. Welcome to, er, our wagon. I am Miss Isabelle Chastain and these are my sisters Charlotte and Josephine. You’ve already met Francesca.”

  “I like Frankie better. Pleased to meet you ladies. Name’s John Malloy.” He held up his bloody hand. “Now, if you could point me in the direction of your mama, I’ll get patched up and on my way.”

  “Is that blood? Shit, what did you do, Frankie?” Charlotte grabbed a rag from the back of the wagon and scurried over to Mr. Malloy.

  “I’ll boil some water.” Isabelle reached for a bucket of fresh water while Josephine, always the quiet watcher, handed her a pot to use from the back of the wagon.

  Charlotte dabbed at his hand with her apron. “He’s bleeding like a stuck pig.” Her brown hair was in a haphazard braid with springy tendrils sticking every which way, and her tongue poking out of the side of her mouth. While the youngest Chastain focused on the man’s grievous injury, he met Frankie’s gaze.

  Amusement lit his features, making the corner of his eyes crinkle. Then he winked at her. Winked. The man who had tossed her in the mud, complained about his wound and hadn’t acted much like a gentleman. Now he had the audacity to wink at her.

  Frankie hadn’t been sheltered, but neither had she met a man like John Malloy. He was powerfully built, yet he hadn’t hurt her when he pulled her out of the wagon’s path or up from the mud. He let Charlotte fuss over him. Perhaps underneath the gruff exterior he was a gentleman. Far beneath. Perhaps miles.

  “You should change out of that dress.” Josephine had come up beside her, blinking at her from behind her spectacles. “I’ll help you.”

  The only privacy was in the wagon, but Frankie didn’t want to scatter mud all over the inside. There was a stand of trees twenty feet away.

  “If we go over to the trees, can you hold up a blanket while I change?”

  Josephine nodded and climbed into the wagon. She emerged seconds later with Frankie’s faded blue dress and a quilt. Charlotte was still busy with the stranger’s hand while Isabelle watched, her gaze locked on the big man. Trouble brewed if her sister thought Mr. Malloy was a conquest to be made. He didn’t seem the type to take to flirting.

  After she grabbed the other bucket of water, Frankie and Josephine walked to the edge of the trees. The leaves were still young and didn’t quite create the curtain she wanted, but Frankie didn’t have much choice. Josephine laid the clean dress on a branch and held up the quilt. She was four inches taller than Frankie, allowing her to provide a smidge more privacy.

  She rinsed her hands in the bucket as best she could, although the right one stung the moment it hit the water. The gun had burned her for sure. She unbuttoned the dress, wincing with each new smear she made. The Missouri mud was thick and dark in color. She managed to get a few spots on her chemise before the dress was finally off. It stood on its own, the mud already beginning to dry on the back. It looked as though someone had used a giant paintbrush to coat the frock.

  “You might want to hurry. I hear Mr. Malloy headed this way.” Josephine cocked one brow and smiled.

  “I am certain you will protect me.” She grinned back at her sister but wasted no more time.

  Frankie grabbed the blue dress and yanked it on, in the process pulling the pins from her hair. Unfortunately or not, the mud kept it in one lump, which swayed back and forth on her now clean back. She hurriedly buttoned the dress, knowing she needed to get the mud out of her hair before she had no unstained clothing to wear.

  The buttons didn’t want to cooperate and took twice as long to slide into the right holes. “Merde.” She ought not to let Charlotte hear her curse.

  “Where is your mama, Frankie? I need to get this doctored and be on my way. I do have a job to get to.” The amused charmer had vanished, replaced by the gruff man again.

  Frankie emerged from behind the quilt, hands on her hips. “You may call me Miss Chastain.”

  His gaze dropped to her too-large bosom, the bane of her existence, the reason she could not share dresses with her sisters. The feature she had always despised. “You, ah, might want to finish up there, Miss Chastain.”

  Embarrassed once again, Frankie whirled back around and found three buttons gaping open, giving Mr. Malloy a full view of her chemise and her breasts. She buttoned them slowly, making sure they were secured before she turned back around, the mud bun still swinging on her back.

  “Thank you for helping me, Josephine. Could you find Maman and let her know we need her help?”

  Her sister folded the quilt with a twinkle of amusement in her eyes. With one final glance at Frankie, she picked up the bucket and she set off to find their mother. Frankie counted to five before she looked up at Mr. Malloy. He stood with his hands on his hips, formidable and cool. Charlotte must have wrapped the rag around his hand, and to Frankie’s surprise, blood seeped through the cloth.

  She’d assumed his injury was minor, but he had bled quite a bit. Guilt washed over her for dismissing his claim of being hurt. His presence disconcerted her and that bothered her the most. He was too much to absorb at once, big and full of life.

  Growing up in New York, she hadn’t had occasion to bump into many cowboys or men who carried pistols on their hips, for that matter. She knew what to do to protect herself on the streets of a city, but a cowboy left her at a loss. Her temper had flared, which was not an uncommon occurrence, and now she wasn’t sure how to even speak to him. The west was like a foreign land and Frankie was the foreigner.

  To her shame, she decided to avoid him rather than determine how to speak to him. She snatched up her dress and walked away.

&nb
sp; “Where are you going?” He was beside her in moments. “Don’t forget I’m covered with mud and it itches like hell.”

  “I need to rinse the mud out of my dress and my hair, monsieur.” Frankie didn’t turn her head. She didn’t want to look at him anymore. He was too distracting, made her think of things she ought not to. “Charlotte shall sit with you while Josephine fetches my mother.”

  He snorted. “She’s a little spitfire. Gonna drive some man to drink in a few years.”

  To her consternation, he kept walking beside her. She tried to walk faster but nearly tripped on her own skirts. Red-faced and frustrated, she regained her balanced without help from the cowboy and kept marching. The creek was just beyond the edge of the tree line.

  By the time she stepped onto the grassy bank of the creek, she was breathing hard. John Malloy strolled up beside her, not even remotely winded.

  She wanted to smack him.

  “Nice creek. It’ll do.” To her shock, he took off his hat, stripped off his shirt, then tugged off his boots.

  Jesus, Mary, Joseph and all the heavenly saints. He was nearly naked. Naked!

  Regardless of what she should or shouldn’t do, Frankie stared, mesmerized by Mr. Malloy’s body. Her eyes felt hot and tight as she drank in the expanse of man in front of her. Muscles stretched over bone, covered with honey-touched skin attesting to his time in the sun. Whorls of dark brown hair swirled around his wide chest, leading down to his belly. The hair grew thicker, darker, and disappeared beneath the waistband of his trousers.

  Frankie could hardly breathe for the heat suffusing her body. She was on fire, her pulse thundering at merely the sight of a half-naked man. When his boots landed on the grass, she glanced at his feet. The toes had funny hairs on them, sticking every which way. She had never paid attention to a man’s feet before. What was wrong with her? She didn’t know where to look or what to do. For the first time in her life, Frankie Chastain was speechless.

  He grinned at her and stepped into the water. “Holy shit, that’s cold. Must be a mountain run-off from somewhere. Damn good thing I’ve still got my trousers one or I’d shrink up like, er, never mind.”