The Fortune

by Beth Williamson

  “No, certainly not. I was thinking what a beautiful day it was and it made me happy.” He thought he might have smiled at the girl. What in the world was wrong with him?

  “If you were laughing at me, dammit, I’d punch you in the damn nose.” She huffed out a breath and went back to picking.

  “Did you just curse, lass?” He didn’t think he’d heard her right.

  She stopped and put her hands on her hips and pushed her hat back. Recognition flooded him. This wasn’t the woman, but had to be one of the sisters he’d been told about. Damn, but he’d found at least one of them. How soon he figured out which wagon depended on the girl.

  “Sure as shit I cussed. I don’t mind my tongue for nobody. Hell’s bells, mister, mind your business, would you?” She stuck her nose in the air and slipped between two wagons, leaving him alone.

  He stood in the stirrups and tried to follow her lithe movements, but he lost her in the tall prairie grass. No matter, he would watch the fires tonight, find the little hooligan and then her sister. Declan was close, so close, to finding her.

  Frankie woke in an instant, her eyes gritty from poor sleep. She crawled out from beneath the wagon and swallowed back the groan that threatened. Her back and behind hurt from the rough ground. She had expected the sleeping quarters to be primitive, but this area of the trail was rocky and hard. Sleep had been a long time coming and not only because of the uncomfortable bed. Everyone was already up and about by the time she dragged herself to her feet. There was a buzz of energy around her, but she didn’t feel it. No doubt Maman would give her a lecture about lying abed while the others were busy doing chores.

  She hadn’t slept well since the engagement announcement. Since she’d kissed John in the darkness and her body had heated to a fever pitch that still hadn’t passed. That was the truth, whether or not she wanted to admit it. The strangeness of the situation, and the way she’d reacted, bothered her. A lot.

  John Malloy was just a man, one who had kissed her, yes, but he was only a man. She’d had little use for the opposite sex, with the exception of her father, in her life. None had impressed her as much as a papa who taught her right from wrong, good from bad, and how to put everything he was into his craft.

  She always wished she had been blessed with a skill like wood crafting. She’d tried, but failed, to find that one thing she was good at. Frankie had only been good at helping with her sisters and doing what she could for her family.

  John Malloy reminded her of everything she wasn’t and what she didn’t want. The man had tied her in knots in only a week. Now he was someone else’s problem. She wouldn’t have to worry about kissing him or getting tossed in the mud. No sir, she should be pleased to have nothing to do with him again. Yes, she should.

  But she wasn’t.

  Frankie took a washrag and a sliver of soap from the pouch hanging on the back of the wagon and headed to the tiny creek nearby. Water was becoming scarcer, but at least she could wash her face and refresh herself. The sun was a pink haze in the eastern sky when she trudged to the creek. Frankie rubbed at her eyes with the heel of one hand.

  She had to forget John Malloy. He was not part of her life, nor would he be. No matter how many times she told herself that, she still had dreamt of him when she finally found sleep. The man was haunting her. That was the only explanation.

  The early morning dew crunched beneath her feet, making her doubly glad she had new boots for the journey. They were warm, thank goodness, and meant for walking on uneven ground, not the streets of New York.

  A white mist hung over the tiny creek, the rising sun’s rays shining pink and gold through the white. Somewhere nearby, a squirrel chattered, a few birds tweeted and the world was at peace around her. For the first time in a long time, she didn’t have a knot in her stomach. Even her back felt better. She took a deep breath of the cool air and let it out slowly.

  It was going to be a better day, she felt it in her bones. Frankie knelt on the grassy bank and scooped a handful of the cold water. She slurped at the liquid refreshment like a little girl, the water dripping down her chin.

  “Morning, lass.”

  Startled, Frankie snorted the water and choked as she struggled for breath. A large hand landed on her back with a jarring thump, nearly pushing her headlong into the water. Another hand snatched her before she hit the creek. She landed on her back, eyes watering, throat burning and stomach churning.

  Standing above her was the largest, hairiest man she’d ever seen. He was bigger than John Malloy, with a black beard, piercing blue eyes and hands the size of dinner plates. At the moment, he looked a little horrified by what he’d done.

  “I’m sorry about that. I was only meaning to help.” He had an Irish lilt to his voice.

  She waved her hand since she couldn’t speak yet. Frankie rolled over and pressed her face to the cool grass. She closed her eyes and tried to relax her throat. Above her, she heard the man shifting his feet and sniffing, obviously watching her struggle.

  After a minute, she sucked in a small breath, then a larger one. She sat up on her knees and realized what a complete fool she’d made of herself. No doubt she had grass stuck to her face, hair askew and cheeks red. The man looked as though he was going to offer his assistance again.

  “I am all right. I needed a moment to clear the water from my lungs.” She managed a shaky smile.

  She glanced around, pleased to see no one else had seen what happened. However, she was aware how far she was from the wagon train, alone with a man she didn’t recognize, and she was on the ground. Frankie quelled the flutter of panic. He didn’t seem to want to do her harm. There had been ample opportunity to do so.

  “I am sorry, miss.”

  “You have nothing to apologize for. It was an accident.” She struggled to her feet and belatedly remembered her manners. “I do not believe we have met. I am Miss Francesca Chastain. And you are?”

  In a second, his expression changed from concerned stranger to hard, cold granite. “Declan Callahan.”

  The name rang like a bell through her head, its familiarity making her shake. Oh God, oh God, it wasn’t possible.

  No, not possible.

  There wasn’t a chance they could have followed her all the way from New York. She made sure of it. Absolutely sure of it.

  “Monsieur Callahan, I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” She edged around him. “Maman will be worried. I need to go.”

  His huge hand clamped around her arm. “Don’t be going so fast, Frankie.”

  Frankie.

  Panic and raw fear raced around inside her as she stared up at the giant who had her in his grasp. She couldn’t utter a sound, her throat now closed with terror. Frankie wasn’t a woman to run from a debt, but she had run from this one, and it had caught her in the guise of an enforcer.

  “You know why I’m here.” His brow furrowed. “I have to bring you back or it’s my head on a pike. It’s taken months to find you.”

  She shook her head mutely. He couldn’t bring her back to New York. They had just embarked on the last half of the journey to a new life. It couldn’t unravel in front of her because of her stupid decision to run. Agony tore through her and she wanted to howl in fury.

  “I won’t be hurting you, Frankie, but if you run, I will catch you. Make no mistake, I won’t be going back to Mr. Peck without you.” Declan gestured to the wagon train. “We’re gonna walk calm-like and take a couple horses. If you scream, I’ll take one of your sisters along for the ride.”

  The implied threat didn’t surprise her, but it infuriated her. Frankie’s anger pushed aside her fear and she found her voice. “If you touch one hair on my sisters’ heads I will rip your balls off and stuff them down your throat.”

  He reared back, surprise evident on his face. “No wonder he likes you. You’ve quite a mouth on you. Must run in the family. Your little sister cusses like you.”

  The fact he spoke of Charlotte sent a chill through her. She shook so
hard with fear and anger her teeth rattled but Frankie held her spine straight and her shoulders back. “Oliver Peck can go to hell where he belongs. I did what I had to for my family. Don’t you dare threaten them again.”

  “Fine then, I won’t threaten them. How about we start moving before the rest of the folks wake up?” His hand was unrelentingly strong on her arm, propelling her forward, toward the makeshift corral of horses. He pulled a rope from his belt and tied her hands in a fantastically complex knot behind her back, then tied the rope to his belt. Then he wound a cloth around her head, gagging her.

  For the first time since she met John Malloy, she wished he would appear. She didn’t need a rescue, but a distraction. Declan was too big for her to overtake on her own. Unless something happened, she would leave the wagon train with him, leave her family behind. They would be safe, but she would return to New York to the man who thought he owned her, to become a kept woman, a whore.

  She wanted to weep and scream at the sky, to hurt Declan Callahan until he felt as bad as she did. None of it happened, no matter how hard she wished it. Frankie watched as Declan took two horses, saddled them, and she stood there and did nothing. She should have run, should have done something to change her fate, but she hadn’t. Now she couldn’t because he’d secured her to his side and gagged her. Unless she could drag a two-hundred-pound man, she could do nothing.

  His threat against her sisters was real and she had already sold her soul to save them. She couldn’t risk their lives again. Instead, she stood impotent while Declan made plans to take her away from all she loved. It was untenable.

  Her eyes burned with emotion, but she wouldn’t allow herself to weep. Tears had stolen too many moments of her life. She refused to fall prey to them. Declan kept glancing at her as he worked, his body tense and ready to punish her for any misdeeds. Frankie wished she had a weapon, something she could use to protect herself. Le petit protector was in the wagon, safely tucked away. If only she had brought it with her today. The situation would have ended differently.

  For now she would go with him and try to find an opportunity to get away before they got to New York. She was smart and resourceful. While she didn’t want to hurt him, she would do what she could to survive.

  Most days the pioneers were up and about, nosing around each others’ wagons. Not today. The cool weather must have kept them beneath their blankets, unfortunately for Frankie. Within minutes, he picked her up and set her on the placid-looking mare, then untied the rope from his belt before mounting the big gelding.

  Declan took the reins of both horses and led them slowly away from the camp. He was stealthy and smart, not drawing attention to them by sudden movement or loud noises. Frankie wanted someone to note their absence, to raise a cry that she was riding away with a stranger. Yet no one saw and no one spoke.

  She wished she’d had time to say goodbye to her family, to tell them she loved them. They would search for her, but by the time they determined what had happened, it would be too late. Wagons and oxen couldn’t catch horses. There were small amounts of equines, and most belonged to settlers. She knew Buck Avery, his brother Tom and John had horses, but they had the wagon train to take care of. Chasing one missing woman was not going to be a priority.

  Frankie would be lost to them and her family would mourn her. Pain and heartache would once again plague the Chastains. She hadn’t meant to bring the darkness with her. And now it was too late.

  John’s neck itched, which it did whenever something was wrong. Yet nothing was wrong, leastwise as far as he knew. The morning had been normal, but the coffee sat in his gut, churning. He trusted his instincts and they were telling him something was not right.

  He threw the dregs of his cup on the ground and rose from the small fire Buck had built. The sun rose above the horizon, bathing the wagons in a pinkish hue. He walked around nodding to the folks who greeted him. What the hell was bothering him?

  When he arrived back at Buck’s camp, he hadn’t found a damn thing wrong. It was time to focus on the task of getting ready to leave not chasing ghosts riding his back. He folded up his tent and bedroll quick, then saddled his horse. As he tied the bundle to the saddle, Mr. Pearson walked up. Nice enough fella, but quiet.

  The dark-haired man stopped at the small corral and then whipped around to John. “Where’s my horse?”

  John frowned. “She’s not there?” He knew the mare by sight, a beautiful quarter horse with stamina and a great gait.

  “No, she’s not. Did you see anyone here this morning?” Pearson walked around the backside of the corral. “There are tracks here in the grass. Looks like two horses. Someone stole my goddamn horse.” He whipped off his hat and slapped it against his leg. “Isn’t it your job to prevent this?”

  Yes, it was, and it stuck in his craw someone stole a horse out from under his nose. John held up his hands. “Maybe somebody borrowed her for an emergency. Let’s go talk to Buck and figure out what happened.”

  After twenty minutes of searching, it was clear the horse was nowhere in the camp. John’s feeling that something was wrong had been dead-on. They had a horse thief. Damn it to hell.

  While he stood there and let Pearson yell at him, rightfully so, his day turned from bad to worse when Mrs. Chastain walked up with a tall man he assumed was her husband, her face a pile of worry. His body tensed, waiting for the next piece of bad news.

  “Monsieur Malloy, I need your assistance, s’il vous plaît.” The tough, no-nonsense nurse and mother wrung her hands together.

  “You’ll have to wait your turn, missy. I ain’t done yelling about my horse that got stolen.” Pearson waggled his finger at John. “This fool is supposed to keep his eye on the lot of us and now—”

  “A horse is gone too?” Mrs. Chastain grabbed Pearson’s beefy arm. “Our daughter, Francesca, is nowhere to be found. Is anyone else not accounted for?”

  Heat raced through John at the news that Frankie was missing. Her father’s expression was both angry and scared shitless. John felt the same emotions slapping him. “Where was the last time you saw her?”

  “Last night before we went to bed. She was gone from beneath the wagon this morning. Josephine saw her go to the small creek for her morning ablutions.” Mrs. Chastain’s green gaze, so much like her daughter’s, was full of the dark possibilities of what happened. “It has been almost an hour.”

  An hour? It didn’t take that long to wash up, even if she was brave enough to strip down and jump into the tiny creek. No, something told him the missing horse was connected to Frankie’s disappearance.

  “Is anything of hers missing?”

  “Non. It is as she left it.” Mr. Chastain folded his arms across his chest. “Francesca would not leave willingly.”

  “Probably met up with some beau and run off.” Pearson looked disgusted and annoyed. “These young folks today have no respect for what’s right.”

  Mrs. Chastain glared at the man. “My daughter is not a foolish girl who would do such a thing. She does not have a beau and she certainly does not take what does not belong to her. Francesca would not leave her family.”

  “Says you. Mamas are the last to know.” Pearson tipped his hat back, looking smug. “I know girls and they get their heads turned by the least little thing. Mebbe it was that new guy, that big fella with the black beard.”

  Two things became clear to John at once. He shouldn’t have trusted the Irishman. Second, whatever happened to Frankie, he was to blame. The situation with Veronica had him twisted in knots and he was ignoring things he shouldn’t have been. Callahan’s story had seemed a little sketchy, but John knew what it meant to be scraping by with just lint in your pocket.

  “What man?” Mr. Chastain’s scowl deepened.

  “A man who was looking for work.” John didn’t know how to explain to Frankie’s father that he was the one who allowed the man into their midst. He turned to find Tom Avery, wide-eyed and mute. “Tom, tell your brother what’s happened, then go lo
ok for Callahan. His bedroll was cleaned up this morning and I haven’t seen him. Pearson, go back to your wagon unless you plan on helping us find the horse and the girl.”

  “Merci, Monsieur Malloy. What can we do?” Mr. Chastain asked.

  “Go back to your wagon and get ready to leave. No matter what, the wagon train is leaving in fifteen minutes.” The seriousness of the situation was not lost on him and he knew what he was asking of the man. “I’ll find her, don’t worry.”

  “I will count on that.” Frankie’s father shook his hand, the older man putting his faith in John. The weight and enormity of the task not lost on him. John was afraid he was falling for Frankie, and it damn sure wasn’t a family kind of love. He’d done nothing but dream of kissing her, touching her since that night in the shadows of the wagons when he tasted the depths of her passion.

  Mrs. Chastain leaned in close, grasping his hands in her surprisingly strong ones. “She has been through much, monsieur, too much for a young woman. Please do not judge her.”

  With that cryptic statement, the Chastains hurried off, leaving him to ponder exactly what he’d be judging Frankie for. His first thought was Callahan was Frankie’s beau, who had come to fetch her against her parents’ wishes. But the way Mrs. Chastain told it, she had no beau and she hadn’t taken anything with her.

  That meant someone had been responsible for her disappearance. His money was on Callahan. The question was, why? The man had ridden to catch a wagon train for three days, and the next day, he snatched a woman and a horse. The second mount must have been for Frankie. There were no answers to John’s questions and he wasn’t about to find any by standing there thinking too hard.

  He took time to look around the area around the corral, noting the footprints in the dewy ground, signs of a man’s boots and a smaller set of feet, and the two sets of hoofprints heading east. He followed the footprints back to the creek and found a bar of soap and a washrag. The grass had been flattened as though a body had lain on it.