Dangerous Waters

by Amy J. Fetzer

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  with torches, yet the terrain was too rough. Even Caesar balked

  His stomach knotted with a sickening fear, the kind that made

  him want to vomit, made him dizzy, and he pushed away from

  the desk and stood, crossing to the sidebar. He plucked the

  stopper of a crystal decanter and poured two fingers of brandy

  into a glass, then drained it without stopping, letting the heat

  of the refined liquor calm him. It wasn't enough, and he repeated

  the measure.

  "That will not help, m'lord," came softly, and Chris wrenched around to see Randel move into the room, collecting up remnants of his dinner, newspapers, returning the chaos of his study back to the butler's originally tidy preference.

  It made Chris angry. "Leave it." He tipped the full glass to his lips, swallowing half.

  Randel stilled for an instant, then decided to ignore him and straightened his desk.

  "Dammit, Randel!" Chris hurled the glass into the fireplace, the crystal shattering into a spray of transparent stars.

  Randel's gaze shifted to his master, to the broken glass and liquor staining the polished wood, then back to the man. His lordship stood on the far side of the room, his fists clenched bloodless, body rigid, the air around him charged enough to ignite water. His dark hair looked as if he'd run his fingers through it one too many times, and his eyes were narrowed to mere slits, seething with rage and a blaze he'd never seen before in the man. Randel thought it best to leave before the room erupted in flames.

  But as he made to depart, Abigale rushed in, freezing on the threshold. She looked between the mess and the men. "Christo­pher!" She said it in her most scolding manngr, looking indig­nant and put out, hoping to defuse what lay behind that vicious stare.

  Without a word, Christopher crossed the room, brushing past her, his footsteps shaking the walls, and Abigale and Randel remained motionless as he pounded up the staircase. The crash­ing bedroom door rang through the house, and Randel exchanged a cautious look with the housekeeper. She let out a

  DANGEROUS WATERS

  breath, her gaze shifting up the short staircase. She prayed for him, for his wounded heart, and the woman who left him to suffer while it broke.

  Christopher twisted on the sheets, punched the pillow, jammed it under his cheek, then finally gave up and flopped onto his back. His hands laced beneath his head, he stared at the ceiling, his body singing with an unnamed energy. He hated waiting. His father always said it was his white blood, his impatience, his temper, and he'd tried all his life to master both. Well, you failed miserably today, he thought. Yet the longer he waited, helpless to produce a clue or Victoria, the brighter, more vivid everything about her came into his mem­ory. Her scent seemed to permeate the air he breathed, his imagination conjuring the dark feline look in her eyes when the desire she always fought finally took her, and she turned it on him, as if exacting payment for making her feel it, making her want him. Come-apart wild, he thought, swallowing back a sudden thickness in his throat. He loved that she was tall and strong, fearless, a warrior woman, as much as he adored her vulnerability, the incredible softening in her eyes when he kissed her, and the way she wrapped herself around him like a long, hungry mountain cat. He wanted her in his arms, so bad they ached, and that he might never feel her against him again, left him hollow and terrified.

  "Marshal? You 'wake?"

  Chris bolted upright at the soft voice, swearing it was her, praying it was. Yet he reached for his gun, closing his hand over the stock and squinting into the darkness of his bedroom. Then it came again, the call. And his heart sank and rose so hard he thought he'd choke. He tossed back the sheets and swung his legs over the side of the bedding.

  "Lucky?" He couldn't see and leaned out to light the lamp. The hissing match illuminated the boy's face and Christopher crushed the urge to drag him inside and shake information out of him. He kept his movements slow as to not startle the boy.

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  "You naked!"

  Chris touched flame to wick and covered it with glass. "I know.''

  He was at the window, his elbows braced causally on the sill, his chin cupped in his palm. "You sleep naked lots?"

  "Yes. Indians do."

  "That right," came sagely. "You spirit warrior."

  Chris's gaze sharpened on him, briefly, before he inclined his head. Lucky ignored the balcony door to his right and like a frightened squirrel scrambled over the sill and into his room. He was a filthy mess as usual, his hair dusty, his feet bare. And he scampered over to him, crouching on the floor. It broke Chris's heart to see him like this, like a dog begging for crumbs of attention.

  "Come up here, Luck," he said, his voice sad, and Lucky straightened, glancing out the window, then to the door. He grabbed Chris's pants off the back of a nearby chair, shoving them at him.

  "Put pants on, we go."

  ' 'Where?'' Chris stood and immediately pushed his legs into his pants, fastening them quickly, then reaching for his shirt.

  "We go now, please." He looked at the door as if it hid some claw footed creature. "Please."

  Sweat broke out on Chris's brow, Lucky hadn't spoken this much to him or anyone since he'd known him. He and better than twenty men had searched for Vel and Victoria. And Lucky was the last person to see her. Had he found her? Was she hurt and sent this wild child to bring him? As Chris donned socks and pulled on his boots, Lucky walked around the room, avoiding the door. He picked up a book flipping fhe pages as if his interest was no more than it would fan a breeze before putting it down, his attention instantly directed on something else.

  "Where shall we go, son?"

  Lucky stilled. "Not you son. Nobody's son." Lucky was staring out the open window at the slope of the valley, the

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  shadows of trees. The moon offered an angelic profile of the lost boy.

  Chris came to him, resting his hand on his shoulder with a gentle weight. "No man would be here if they weren't some­body's son. Would you like to be mine?" He'd do anything for this child, anything to know he felt loved, just once in his short life.

  "Maybe." He shrugged, then started to climb over the sill.

  Chris caught his arm, gesturing behind him. "We can use the door."

  Lucky shook his head wildly, his eyes blooming. "Miss Abigale make me wash!"

  Chris had to smile and grabbed his holster off the chair.

  "Don't need that," Lucky said as he slipped over the sill and onto the balcony. "Already dead."

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  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The smell hit him first.

  The stench of death reeked through the still night air as he approached, the lantern held high. Please don't be Victoria, he thought wildly, his heart thrashing up to his throat.

  Behind him, Lucky hovered on the edge of lantern light, Seth and one of Chris's ranch hands, Joquin, beside him as Chris ducked into the mouth of the abandoned mine. Pebbles crunched beneath his boots, echoing off the shallow walls. The odor was heavier, thicker, and Chris stilled when light spread across her body.

  Everything in him drained to his feet. He staggered.

  She looked beautiful, was his first thought. Angelic.

  And Chris dropped to his knees, relief sweeping him in crushing waves. The lantern rattled as he set it on the ground. He hated himself for feeling this way; Velvet was his friend. She didn't deserve to die like this. But during the entire trek up here, Lucky wouldn't talk, wouldn't say who it was, only a woman. And all Chris could think of was Victoria. Now, he felt delivered and it took him a moment to compose himself,

  to regain his objective and consider the threat this meant. Death was a natural part of life, but this was murder.

  Her spirit will walk the earth, he thought fleetingly. Yet aside from the empty look in her eyes
, the pallor of her skin, she appeared alive, as if staring at something incredible lovely.

  He didn't touch her, his gaze taking in the details. Flies skittered about her body, her green eyes now opaque black. The stench wasn't body fluids but decay. In fact, faintly, beneath the layer of rotting flesh, he smelled perfume, an abundance of it. She was dressed to perfection, her jewelry carefully placed, her hair curled and combed. Even her face held the blush of powders and paint. And she was wearing the gown, the only item the girls at the Pearl could swear was missing from her room. A snow white gown, he thought briefly, his gaze traveling over the position of the body, upright as if in a chair, her hands folded on her lap, legs together and angled to the side. There were shoes on her feet.

  A painting. Still and poised and very dead.

  There were no blood stains, yet her feet were black from blood pooling there, and he swallowed back bile rising in his throat as he inched closer, shifting her enough to see her back. Nothing.

  How the hell did she die then?

  Picking up the lantern, he let it hover over the ground, seeking foot prints, discards, anything to lead him to her killer. The area was swiped clean, all tracks brushed away.

  He straightened, leaning out with the lantern to examine her face. Then he noticed her lips, crusty and black, with the tiniest thickness in one spot. Perhaps death had done something to her mouth, the size or shape, he thought. He needed to speak with Doc MacLaren about that. Suddenly he remembered Jen-na's telegram. Bled internally. Circumstances extreme. A dark icy ripple moved up his spine. More than one, a voice taunted and he left the mine and straightened outside, facing Lucky.

  "I right?"

  He set the lantern down. "I'm sorry, yes."

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  Tears welled in the boys eyes, his lip trembling, and he pushed away from Seth and walked up to the marshal. He stared up at him, little tears moving down his dirty cheeks, his body stiff, and Chris's heart ripped. He shouldn't have to see horror like this. Reaching out, Chris stroked his matted hair and Lucky slammed against him, his thin arms wrapping around Chris's waist. He clung, shaking violently with silent sobs. And as Chris hefted the boy in his arms, holding him tightly, rubbing his bony back, his gaze drifted to his house, the light blooming like the eyes of a skeleton in a sea of black.

  This was very close to his land. Close to the town. And Victoria was right. A murderer lived in Silver Rose City. And she was out there, hunting, alone.

  At two in the morning, his house was a buzz of activity, at least three deputies milling about. Noble stood off to one side, staring out the window, grieving. Lucky had complained about having to wash, yet Abigale, sleepy-eyed and determined, had hustled the boy off to the bathing room.

  ' 'Lucky!'.' Chris barked when the boy dug his feet in, refusing in a high-pitched whine. Chris's patience snapped. "Do as Abigale says and don't even think about running away." This child needed discipline, now, or he'd end up dead, Chris knew, then gentled his tone. "Is that clear, son?" Lucky's lower Up quivered, but he settled, his little body softening against his fight and Chris crossed to him, kneeling to look him in the eye. "I don't want anything to happen to you." Lucky shivered and Chris rubbed the boy's slim arms. "Give me your word you won't run away."

  Lucky glanced at the house, at Abigale, then back to Chris. He thrust out his hand. "My word, sir," he said in a very adult voice.

  Chris clasped his hand, then drew him into his arms. "It'll be all right, partner," he murmured into his dirty neck. "I'll fix this."

  "The tall lady?" he whispered as if sharing a secret and

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  Chris closed his eyes briefly, terror and anger racing along his blood stream, hope bleeding through his heart.

  "I'll find her. I promise."

  Lucky jerked back and smiled as if the marshal's word was gospel, then calmly followed Abigale. Chris raked his hands through his hair before he straightened and faced Noble. His friend was propped against the foyer wall, his big hands making a mutilated mess of his hat. The deputies murmured something to him as they left the house, but Noble only nodded a response.

  "Ain't fair," he murmured more to the floor than to Chris. "If we'da trust that gal first off—" His throat worked and Noble didn't think he could take a breath, then did. "Dang,

  Chris."

  "I'm sorry." What else could he say? He felt responsible somehow, and the need to right this injustice clawed through him.

  "I want to see her."

  "No. You don't."

  Noble's gaze jerked to the marshal's. "It ain't like 1 never seen a dead body."

  The mine was boarded up until morning, when Doc could take a look at her. Chris remembered the odd smell, the careful position of the body, the folds of her gown, even the placement of her fingers. "Not like this, Noble." God, nothing he'd wit­nessed during the war compared to that. ' 'This is going to set the town into panic and I need you to send those telegrams, discreetly, and keep this quiet." His hand on Noble's shoulder, he ushered him out the door and onto the porch. "At least until I find Victoria."

  Chris stared bleakly at the darkness that held her from him, almost dreading sunrise and what it might bring him.

  "This bastard ain't gonna hurt her," Noble assured softly, recognizing the worry in Chris's eyes. "She's too smart." Chris nodded, but didn't share Noble's confidence. Vel was dead, a ritual death, and what if Becket was wise to Victoria? Wise to Clara and her spying? Chris didn't think anything would stop this kind of killer, not even the expertise of Victoria Mason.

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  Closing the door after Noble, Chris strode into his study, needing quiet, seeking a sliver of peace in the madness that was his mind. It didn't come, the calmness his father, his people, taught him, eluding his grasp and the anxiety he'd tamped down before others seeped beneath his skin, And he gave into it, pacing wildly, grabbing up a crystal decanter and draining half of it. He paused only to slam the glass container onto the side board, then turned away, glaring at the room, at the faceless terror. He couldn't think straight, couldn't breathe right, his gut wrenching in hard ropey fists. His mind kept seeing the decorated corpse in the mine, yet no matter how hard he told himself it was Velvet, the face he imagined was Victoria's. And his first instinct was to go to town, tear Becket from his bed and beat the crap out of him. But that wouldn't help Victo­ria, even if he had evidence, even if she was here. But he had nothing. Nothing,

  And the emptiness of his arms, his heart, drove unspeakable agony through his blood, choking him and Chris gasped for needed breath, dropping to the floor on his knees. His fists flexed on his thighs as he fought for control, fought to keep from tearing his house apart, from lashing out at his friends. His father schooled him to never take his anger into battle, for to forget those he left behind, those who would mourn his loss, made him forget why he raided, why he'd done his fighting behind enemy lines during the war.

  Fear made him sharp.

  Anger made him careless.

  And loving Tori, he thought, just made him hurt.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The light of dawn glowed into the modest study from the windows, but Chris didn't notice the incredible beauty unfolding in his valley. He focused on the matches he'd found days earlier, turning them over in his fingers as he paced before the hearth, his steps short and agitated. For a moment, in the darkness of the hell surrounding his heart, he thought this bit of paper and sulfur might be all he'd have left of her. Then with a foul curse, he flung the folded gold paper across the room and dropped into the settee, staring at the small morning blaze.

  With stinging clarity, her fight to board the train came to him, her unbending insistence that his stopping her had let a killer roam free.

  Something biting and nasty crawled along his spine. Guilt or regret, he didn't know, but she'd no evidence to substantiate her claim and wouldn't reveal how she knew anything about B
ecket. Even his own suspicions lacked much evidence. Yet Velvet Knight was dead, and Chris couldn't think of a damn thing Vel could have done to deserve such a gruesome death. I'm clinging to threads, he thought, his hope that since Victoria

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  was seen around town after Vel disappeared she might be alive. And as soon as it was clear enough to ride, he'd try again. And again.

  "M'lord?"

  Chris twisted around, looking over the back of the settee, Randel stood in the doorway, his dark suit flawlessly pressed, his shirt collar so stiff it looked as if it would cut his wind pipe. "For pity's sake, Randel, go back to bed, the hands aren't even up yet."

  "Yes, sir. You have a guest, sir."

  Chris glanced out the window, frowning. A deputy? "At this hour?"

  "Well, sir. They haven't exactly come calling." "Randel," came impatiently as he rose from the sofa. "I believe there's a very dirty woman, sir, asleep on your porch."

  Chris's features pulled taut and he rounded the sofa's edge, sprinting to the front door. He flung it open, the early dawn offering only a shadow of the figure curled in the corner near the railing. But he knew who it was.

  Without light to see her or the husky sound of her voice, he knew.

  ' 'Tori,'' came on a whispered, relieved, thirsting. Swallowing hard and crossing the porch, he crouched, resisting the desperate urge to smother her with kisses and reached out. His hand shook, and he clenched his fist once, then gently shook her. She roused with a fight and he caught her wrists, hushing her. Victoria blinked up at him and Chris stared into dark gold eyes filled with misery. She tried desperately not to cry.