Golden Flames

by Kay Hooper

  But when Falcon glanced at her questioningly, she nodded. This was the place. “It was occupied then, and pretty much in good repair,” she told him. “I remember that cottonwood, and the way lightning had split it.”

  “Do you have any idea—?”

  “The gold?” She sighed as they drew up near a standing wall. “I was exhausted when we got here. It was late at night, and the padre took me away to sleep in a little room. I didn’t even see Morgan until late the next morning. It could be anywhere.”

  He nodded. “We’ll start looking in the morning.” Handing her the packhorses’ lead ropes, he added restlessly, “I’m going to ride out and take a look around. I don’t like the idea of having uninvited company during the night.”

  “Be careful.”

  He smiled and leaned over to kiss her. “I will. And you be careful too, sweet.”

  Victoria was grateful that he didn’t try to wrap her in cotton wool; clearly, he respected her ability to take care of herself, even to the point of making no objection over her intentions to confront Morgan’s killers. That warmed her, made her feel more confident. It would take a strong woman to walk or ride beside Falcon. She watched him ride off, and then sighed and dismounted, ground tying her horse and leading the packhorses over to what had once been a hitching post. Warily, she moved around, her hand always near her gun, until she was satisfied that the place was indeed deserted, of animal as well as human life.

  Inside what had been the mission was surprisingly free of rubble near the standing walls, and she decided on that spot to build their campfire. She felt a little edgy, and on each trip out to unload the packhorses she glanced around carefully, but saw and heard nothing alarming. The horses were led a little distance from the building, and picketed to graze on sparse grass.

  She was still edgy. Falcon hadn’t been gone long enough for her to begin worrying, so that wasn’t it. The last time you felt like this you nearly got shot—and instead, Falcon did! She walked outside the mission, staring around, bothered. The faint wind changed direction just then, and she saw the packhorses start, saw her buckskin move nervously to the end of his tether. In the same moment, she caught the foul odor coming from the old well.

  “Oh, God,” she murmured. Just some poor animal, it had to be that. Just some—

  “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  She was half-prepared for the voice, but not the memories. In a flashing instant she was fifteen again, terrified, fighting for her survival. Holding on to control, she turned slowly to face him, hoping her fear didn’t show.

  He was a big man, with bulky shoulders and graying black hair, one eye covered by a black patch, and the opposite cheek scarred terribly. He was standing only a few feet away from her, smiling a twisted smile, and the hand holding a gun pointed at her stomach bore a ring she recognized. Morgan’s ring. Victoria didn’t dare move, didn’t dare reach for her gun.

  She swallowed hard. “You couldn’t have followed me. Your tracks were heading north, and you were days ahead of me.” Did he know about Falcon? She didn’t think so.

  Read Talbot seemed pleased. “I thought that’d throw you off, Mrs. Fontaine. You see, we heard, back before those two damned storms, that you were trailing us. A woman who puts on britches and wears a gun gets herself talked about, and we heard about you back at Fort Davis. We also talked to one of those Spanish priests, who mentioned an old mission with a split cottonwood at the edge of a graveyard. Morgan…mentioned…a tree like that. He died before he could tell me exactly where he’d hidden the gold, but when I knew you were following, I figured you could help. Now, Morgan didn’t seem to think you knew where he’d hidden the gold, but I had an idea you might.”

  “You tortured him.” She spoke from between stiff lips.

  Talbot chuckled obscenely. “He talked a lot about you, Victoria. In between screams. Of course, I already knew the most important thing about you.” His free hand lifted to touch the scarred cheek. “That you’re a rebel, just like me. That’s why he married you. Because you were a rebel.”

  “The war made rebels. I’m a Southerner.” She lifted her chin as she said it, and realized it was true.

  Tilting his head to one side, Talbot studied her curiously, and a glint of admiration showed in his single, cold eye. “So you are. And a damned fine lady. I knew that in New York. That’s why I wouldn’t let Sonny have you in the cellar. Where is Sonny, by the way?”

  “Dead.”

  “Morgan must have taught you well. Sonny was a fool, but a good shot, and not above turning his gun on a lady.”

  She ignored that. Time, she needed time, time to distract him. “There was another man.”

  Talbot’s gaze flickered toward the well. “There was,” he agreed blandly.

  Victoria felt sick. Not just some poor animal, then….“You wanted all the gold.”

  “It’s mine,” Talbot told her in a sharpened tone. “The assassination was my idea.”

  “Assassination?”

  “Lincoln. If we could have gotten him during the war, everything would have been different. But that bastard Tyrone got suspicious of the shipment, and when he met me at the harbor, he’d left the gold on the Raven.” Talbot’s voice was rising now, tautening. “The son of a bitch didn’t take sides in the war, but he couldn’t stomach assassination plots, he said. He knocked me cold and left. He went straight to Fontaine, and agreed to deliver the gold to him. And when I came to, the gold was being taken out of the city. Some kid drove the wagon.”

  “Jesse.” Her voice was toneless. “My brother.”

  “Yeah, I remember.” Talbot was indifferent. “It took me a while to find a horse—there weren’t many left in the city. By the time I started to follow the boy, he’d already delivered the gold, and I didn’t know where.”

  “You killed him.”

  “He had some of the gold in his purse,” Talbot said reasonably. “And I found more at the plantation when I came back later. After I’d healed from what you’d done to me.”

  Victoria felt an anger such as she had never known burning through her like a fire. “You killed my father.” Her voice shook with rage. “My brother. You would have killed me. You tortured Morgan to death, killed your own partner. How many times will you kill for that gold?”

  “It’s a million dollars,” he said, as if that explained everything. “We’ll need it for the ranch, Victoria.”

  Even through her fury, her skin crawled at his implication. “We?”

  “Of course.” He smiled at her. “We’ll go to Europe first, like I planned. And then we’ll come back to the ranch, and everyone’ll think you met a fine gent over there. I told Morgan what I meant to do. And he heard me, even through his screams. I told him I’d take the gold, his ranch, his woman. He destroyed my life; it’s only fair that I take his.”

  Her heart ached at the thought of Morgan dying in agony with that horrible promise ringing in his ears. All she could do for him was to make certain Talbot’s triumph never came to pass. Her rage turned cold, and her mind worked quickly. She kept her face serene; he seemed to admire and respect her, thinking her ladylike even in her man’s clothes, and she needed every edge she could get. “I see. And have you found the gold?”

  He chuckled. “You’ll tell me where it is.”

  She feigned surprise, glancing toward the well. “I assumed you’d found it.”

  Talbot’s eyes narrowed, and he glanced at the well also. “What are you talking about?” he asked sharply, his cold eye shifting from her to the well.

  Coolly, she said, “You should have checked the well before you threw your partner into it.”

  “What?” He was only a few feet from the well, and immediately moved toward it, greed twisting his features. In that moment, he forgot revenge, forgot her. “It’s in there? It’s in there with Gus?”

  He might have caught the flicker of motion from the corner of his eye as Victoria’s hand dropped to the gun on her hip. He might have realized in some pa
rt of his mind that her behavior was wrong, all wrong, that the fifteen-year-old girl who had nearly killed him would not have become a woman who wouldn’t finish the job. Or it might have been sheer animal instincts shrieking a silent warning, as he stood at the edge of a crumbling well with his back to a woman whose husband he had horribly killed. He pivoted wildly, his gun hand coming up in a jerky reflex as he came around to face her.

  She shot him.

  —

  “Victoria!”

  She rose from the newly kindled fire inside the mission, relieved to hear Falcon’s voice. “In here,” she called. She was vaguely aware that there was too much noise for just his horse, but didn’t think much about it as he strode quickly through the skewed doorway and into the flickering firelight. It was nearly dark now, but she saw his strained face ease the moment he caught sight of her.

  “We heard a shot,” he said, coming to her quickly and hugging her tightly. Then he drew back and gazed down at her face. “What happened, sweet?”

  “This time, I killed him.” Her voice was quiet and calm, and there was no horror in her eyes, just the sure knowledge of something done that was right.

  Falcon framed her face in his hands, and after a moment, he smiled a little and nodded. “Tell me how it happened.”

  She told him, beginning with her realization of what was in the well, and finishing with what was there now. “He couldn’t turn fast enough or get his gun pointed at me in time. The shot carried him backward into the well.” She drew a deep breath. “So it’s over. And…I think I know where the gold really is. I’ll take you out there in the morning.”

  Falcon held her for a moment, then smiled down at her. “I have a surprise for you.”

  “What?” She looked toward the doorway as Falcon stepped back and half-turned, her eyes narrowing and then widening, as a tall figure carrying a rifle came into the light.

  “Tory?”

  Victoria caught her breath. “Jesse? Jesse!” The clock turned back as she threw herself, laughing, into his arms, half-crying in happiness, exclaiming.

  And it took a while to get the stories sorted out, beginning with the fact that he hadn’t been killed by Talbot, but only wounded, and ending with Marcus Tyrone’s recognition of her in New York, and Jesse’s trip west to find her.

  She was about to ask how on earth he’d managed to track her from New Mexico, when she caught sight of another man, and was startled to recognize an Apache. “Jesse, who—“

  “Oh, that’s Sam,” Jesse told her cheerfully. “The chief was kind enough to lend him to me as a guide. And I don’t mind telling you, he came in handy. I might have ended up in California without him.”

  Falcon, who had made no effort to intrude on the reunion, sank down rather abruptly on a fallen beam by the fire and began laughing softly. Victoria went to sit beside him, while Jesse eyed him a bit balefully.

  “That’s the second time you’ve gone off,” he said. “What the hell were you and Sam jabbering about all the way back here?”

  Falcon cleared his throat and sent a look brimful of laughter to Victoria. “His name’s Running Wolf, Jesse.”

  “Oh.” Jesse looked with interest at his guide as the young Apache obeyed Falcon’s gesture and joined them at the fire, sinking down cross-legged. “Well, how was I supposed to know?” Jesse demanded, taking a seat on another beam. “Nobody spoke English, and I didn’t spend more than a day in their camp.”

  The Apache spoke suddenly and at length to Falcon, his impassive face lighting up in a grin, and Falcon laughed again.

  “What is it, Falcon?” Victoria asked in puzzlement.

  “I thought the Delaneys were lucky, sweet, but your family must have it in buckets. Told you had headed west after leaving the ranch, your brother rode off alone after you. A few days later, lost, weary, and out of provisions, he came on an Apache camp—and rode blithely in.”

  “Whose camp?” she asked with foreboding.

  “Geronimo’s,” Falcon murmured.

  “What?” She turned her head to stare at her brother. The fact that he was still alive was nothing short of a miracle. “Oh, Jesse!”

  A bit testily, Jesse said, “So? I don’t know who the chief was, but he was nice enough. A little nervous, maybe.”

  Victoria looked wonderingly back at Falcon. “How on earth did he manage to get out alive—much less with a guide?”

  “According to Running Wolf,” Falcon supplied gravely, “it seems that Geronimo was convinced the smiling white man was possessed of evil spirits. Obviously, no sane man would ride into his camp completely alone in broad daylight. He didn’t want the spirits to depart Jesse and possess the camp, so he wasn’t about to kill him. Which is why Running Wolf volunteered to guide him—as far away as possible.”

  Victoria started laughing.

  “Look, it got me here, didn’t it?” Jesse demanded. “And Sam—I mean, Running Wolf—taught me a lot about tracking.” He eyed Falcon again suspiciously. “What I’d like to know is how he knew you were about. We crossed a lot of tracks, days back, before we headed south to avoid the storm. At least, I think that’s what he was trying to do. Anyway, he got very excited, and every time we made camp, he’d draw a shamrock in the dirt and try to explain something to me. It didn’t make sense, until he hailed you like a brother, and I saw the shamrock brand on your horse.”

  Falcon smiled a little. “What he was trying to tell you was that one of his relations was also tracking your sister. How did you manage to explain who you were looking for?”

  “A lot of sign language and drawing in the dirt,” Jesse said with some feeling. Then he blinked. “You’re related to him?”

  “A cousin by marriage. His cousin, Rising Star, married one of my brothers years ago.”

  “Oh.” Jesse frowned. “That doesn’t explain how he knew it was you just by looking at the ground days ago.”

  Blandly, Falcon said, “The Apaches know the mark of every Delaney hoof in the Southwest—and my horse has a distinctive narrow fore. Running Wolf recognized it.”

  Jesse looked at the faintly smiling Apache with increased respect. “Did he, now? I was barely sure we were following a horse.”

  Victoria laughed again, and Jesse looked at her with a smile. His eyes were grave, though. “Falcon told me part of the story on the way here,” he said abruptly. “And I heard what you told him a little while ago. I’m sorry, Tory. If I hadn’t delivered that gold to Morgan Fontaine—“

  She shook her head. “You couldn’t have known we’d all be tangled in it. You weren’t much more than a boy yourself then, and just did what your captain asked you to do.”

  Jesse looked at Falcon then, and his eyes hardened. “This is just between us, you know. I won’t testify against Marc, which means I won’t incriminate myself.”

  Falcon nodded. “I know,” he said quietly. “Recovering the gold is the important thing. For the rest…I’ve been eight years on the trail. I want to know what happened—for myself. As far as I’m concerned, everyone involved in the theft is dead.”

  Jesse studied him intently for a moment, then nodded. “I can’t tell you much. I know Marc wasn’t told what he was transporting, because he was mad as hell when a chest broke open at sea and we found out it was Union gold. When we ran the blockade and made Charleston, he went ashore. Came back to the ship a few hours later and asked me if I’d be willing to drive a wagon out of the city. I was, and did. Delivered the gold to Morgan Fontaine. You know the rest.”

  “I don’t know why Fontaine apparently turned on the group and took the gold.” Falcon sent Victoria an apologetic glance, but she was smiling with understanding.

  Jesse shook his head. “I don’t know either. Marc might, but I can’t see him volunteering the information.”

  —

  “The hell of it is,” Falcon said wryly the next morning, as they stood just outside the mission, “I can’t see Tyrone offering an explanation either.” They were watching Jesse and Running Wolf ride
off toward San Antonio, where they would deliver a message from Falcon to the army, which was to provide armed escort for the transport of the gold to Washington.

  “Could you force him to?” she asked reluctantly.

  “With no evidence? And besides that, I believe Jesse was right. I don’t think Tyrone knew what he was carrying until too late.”

  She nodded, then watched as he stepped aside to pick up a shovel leaning against one of the walls.

  “Ready?” he asked quietly.

  Victoria nodded and took his hand, and they walked together past the well that he, Jesse, and Running Wolf had filled in with stones earlier, past the rotting stagecoach, and up the little hill to the graveyard.

  “He was out here that morning,” she said softly as they stood looking at the few crooked headstones. “Out here all alone, just staring at one of the headstones. He saw me coming toward him, and went to meet me. I never knew what he was looking at.”

  Falcon remained silently by the cottonwood tree while she moved slowly among the graves. This was something she had to do, and he knew it. He watched without moving, still even when she stopped and gazed down at one of the headstones.

  “Falcon?”

  He went to her then, slipping an arm around her as he joined her and looked down at the grave. It clearly hadn’t been disturbed in years; the headstone was roughly and shallowly carved, the words almost invisible after only eight years. But they could both read what was written there.

  Morgan Fontaine

  April 14, 1863

  buried with Regret

  “The day his dream died.” Victoria sighed softly. “I think a part of him is buried here. He was never a rebel, you know. He didn’t care about secession. He just didn’t want the South to die.”

  Quietly, Falcon said, “Then maybe it was that assassination idea of Talbot’s that tipped the balance. Maybe Tyrone wasn’t the only one who couldn’t stomach that.”