Wicked Treasure (Treasure Chronicles Book 3)

by Jordan Elizabeth

  The young man winked at his fellow employee before grabbing a glass bottle of clear liquid. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough yet, Peter?”

  “So what will you have?” the first attendant repeated to Clark.

  “Absinthe.”

  “Burning?”

  “Straight. No sugar spoon.” Clark chuckled as he made a show of pulling his leather billfold from his jacket. Let them know he had money to spend and wasn’t just looking for a bargain.

  “You want this on your tab?” The attendant plucked a shot glass out from beneath the counter and grabbed a bottle of the green fairy to fill it.

  A steam-powered piano started up a fast-paced song in the back of the saloon, and a few men pounded their feet in time to the music. Rhythmic steam puffed from the brass pipes sticking up from the top.

  “I’ll pay cash for now until I’m fully settled in.” Clark emphasized the “cash” bit. Still no one grabbed at the bait. “Brass glass.”

  After paying, Clark took his drink for a walk through the establishment. Portraits of President Wilcox stared down from the wall, along with landscape paintings of fields. No back door for prostitutes. No women, not even playing.

  Clark located a card table with an empty seat and set his foot on it. “Can I join?”

  The five men already at the table lifted their gazes. The one in black shades nodded. “Long as you don’t cheat, I’ll deal you in.”

  “You got money?” asked the only one with a lit cigar.

  “I got money.” Clark slung into the seat and knocked back his absinthe before tapping the shot glass onto the table. The alcohol burned down his throat to warm his belly.

  He watched them finish their hand, and the one with the cigar took the pot. The first man collected the cards and shuffled them.

  “Want me to teach you some shuffling tricks?” Clark asked. “I can show you how to make them go up your arm and spin in the air. That one goes over well in the west.”

  “Look, we aren’t kind to sticky fingers,” the cigar man said.

  Clark lifted his bare hands. “No sticky fingers here, just a bit of fun when dealing.”

  “You’re from the west?” the man wearing a bowtie at the table asked.

  “That I am.” Clark leaned back in his chair. “I’m here with my wife. We’re looking to buy a plantation. You fellas know anyone around who is selling?”

  The man dealing continued shuffling, but he slowed his movements. “I don’t know of any places for sale. Most of them get passed down family wise, but I’ll keep you in mind if I hear anything.”

  “What about some land? The barman mentioned Blossoming Flower is big.”

  The man with the bowtie laughed. “Those antisocial bigots won’t give you a bloody thing. It’s owned by the old queen and prince.”

  Clark whistled. “Ain’t that something?” Jolene’s predicament continued to nag at him. Why would the prince kidnap her? It wouldn’t make him anymore beloved by his neighbors.

  “I’m James.” The man who dealt the cards stood enough to extend his hand. Clark shook it, making sure to grin.

  “So, James,” Clark drawled. “How come there aren’t any women here?”

  “Ah, you’re from the west. Women don’t come into places like this.” James grinned. “You’ll find them over at the restaurant.”

  Where Amethyst had chosen to spend her day mingling. “What about, and don’t make this seem filthy, the tarnished silvers? The west is full of them.”

  The men stiffened, so Clark kept smiling.

  “You need to go to the brothel for that. Other side of town.” James cleared his throat before distributing cards to each player.

  A third attendant, dressed in the same pinstripe uniform, stepped over to the table with a silver tray in his hands. “Would you gentleman care for a drink?”

  “Another shot of absinthe.” Clark needed to get them in the drinking mood. “I’ll buy a round, fellas, if you’re game.”

  “Whiskey,” added the man with a bowtie.

  With their tongues loosened by drink, they might be apt to spill secrets about the queen and prince.

  Alyssa sat sideways on the stone bench so she could see more of the Summerhaven park. She kept one hand on Jolene’s basinet, moving it whenever the baby fussed. Sunshine bathed the city, but the park’s trees offered shade, and a breeze blew across the trimmed grass.

  “Jolene,” she murmured, “do you suppose this place is called Summerhaven because summer never ends? It always so balmy?”

  The baby cooed in slumber.

  This had to be why people traveled. While home was perfect, it felt refreshing to leave the mundane for something new.

  Alyssa leaned back as she studied the park. Couples strolled the cement paths, arm in arm, the women with parasols. Alyssa should have gotten one—no female in the park walked without a parasol. She’d allowed Amethyst to buy her the outfit from the dressmaker’s, and her sister-in-law had only purchased a pink dress with puffed sleeves and white gloves that reached Alyssa’s elbows. The gloves did fit in. She counted more females with long gloves than short.

  Three little boys ran around a wooden swing set and metal slide, the ground peppered with wood shavings to cushion falls. A miniature steam train worked its way around a shortened track. Adults looked on while children sat in the cars behind the locomotive.

  Alyssa sighed. She’d hoped to appear approachable, but so far no one had spoken to her. She rose, smoothed her skirt, and pushed the basinet toward the crowd around the steam train.

  “This is incredible,” she said. “I wonder if something like this could be built at home.”

  The woman at her side turned her head. “This was newly put in. The mayor’s son attended engineering at the university.”

  “Remarkable. I can see the children at home having great fun with this.”

  The locomotive puffed by, and the little girls and boys in the cars waved to their guardians. The woman nodded to a little boy in a sailor suit.

  “Is he your charge?” Alyssa asked. “He’s quite handsome, ma’am.”

  “Thank you. Yes, he’s my son.” She kept her gaze on the train.

  “This seems like a wonderful community in which to raise a child.” Alyssa tried again. If conversation didn’t hook, she would move on the man leaning against a maple while smoking a cigar. He read a newspaper; he would be well informed then.

  The woman sighed as if Alyssa tried her patience. “I suppose. I keep myself hands-on with Tyler’s development. I understand most parents allow Bromi nurses to raise the children.” She sniffed toward a Bromi woman on the other side of the train track. “I cannot imagine allowing a slave to do what is right.”

  Clark would have bristled over that comment.

  “I see nothing amiss with Bromi men and women.” Alyssa searched for the right words so as not to offend. “Perhaps if they weren’t slaves—”

  The woman turned away and walked five feet down the park, where she stopped to continue watching the train. Point taken. Alyssa needed to find a new source of information.

  She wheeled Jolene toward the man reading the newspaper.

  Jeremiah accepted the cigar and lit it with the offered lighter. He would not scowl; he wouldn’t choke. He’d had a smoke with his father and other ranchers, but that had been occasional, and each time he loathed the taste and smell. The habit itself was insane. A man needed to stay ready, not have a lit thing in his mouth or hand.

  “Thanks.” Jeremiah drew the initial puff and blew smoke into the air of the Summerhaven Gentleman’s Club.

  At first, he’d considered opening one in Hedlund, but the Gentleman’s Club seemed to be a waste. Men stood around with cigars and glasses of rum, laughing. No one did anything productive.

  The man who’d given Jeremiah the cigar blew his own smoke out to mingle with Jeremiah’s. “I’m Alex Childers. Welcome to Summerhaven.”

  “Eugene Mitchells.” Jeremiah nodded before forcing himself
to take another puff. A waiter paused nearby with a tray of glasses, but Jeremiah shook his head. One tumbler of rum would equal another, and Alyssa didn’t want him drinking.

  With good reason. He scowled. Amethyst wouldn’t drag him down a path of booze.

  “Where you from, Mr. Mitchells?” Alex sat at the nearest table and waved his cigar at the empty chair.

  Jeremiah slid into it. “Hedlund. I’ve been around there a time or two. My brother-in-law and I are out here looking for some land.”

  “Ne, ne. We don’t speak business in the club.” Alex grinned.

  Jeremiah scowled. The point of visiting had been to discuss purchasing land from the royals. Business to the steam. “Let’s discuss the queen and prince. I heard they live here about.”

  Alex drew a slow breath off his cigar. “You heard right, but I hope you didn’t come here just for that. They are unfriendly as all get out. I say we treat them like a naughty Bromi. Lock them in the stockade until they learn what’s what.”

  The hairs lifted on Jeremiah’s arms despite the fans situated around the room.

  “I take from your look you’re a Bromi lover.” Alex kept grinning.

  “Yes.” Ice coated Jeremiah’s words.

  “Be careful who you say that to around here.” Alex’s grin shifted into something more guarded.

  “Does the prince ever come here to the Gentleman’s Club?”

  “Never. The mayor started it just for him, but like I said, they’re an antisocial bunch.”

  Jeremiah pushed out his cigar in the clay ashtray on the table and pushed back his chair. “I’ll be going. Thanks for the smoke.”

  Alex grabbed the sleeve of Jeremiah’s brown suit. “Now, Mr. Mitchells, you can’t be going off like that. We’re having a horse race later on today down at the track. You like horse racing, don’t you?”

  Jeremiah’s free hand fell onto his pistol beneath his suit jacket. He inhaled sharp, but let his breath out slow. “I don’t care much for horse racing, no. There’s something I have to attend to.”

  Alex met his gaze before releasing his sleeve. “Until next we meet.” It sounded a bit like a threat.

  achariah’s foot sank into soft ground and he jerked it out; his other ankle pressed against an upraised root. “Bloody gears!” He tightened his grip on the steam rifle. He’d drilled with regular rifles in the army, along with swords and pistols, but none of those weapons had been half as heavy as the newfangled fun he’d purchased in Summerhaven. Wires stuck out from all different angles, and the barrel had its own smokestack for the steam to puff through. The steam would trigger the wires and they would rub together, creating the laser. It happened something like that. The shopkeeper had explained it, but Zachariah had concentrated more on what he would say to the gator group.

  They marched ahead of him, five men hunched over in leather jackets and felt caps pulled low over their heads. Darkness ate up the ground, so Zachariah didn’t see the next wet spot. His foot—the same foot as earlier—sank in up to the heel. As he slid sideways, the gun jammed into his shoulder and he grunted.

  One of them—he’d called himself Eric—turned and lifted his lantern. “Are you all right back there, mister?”

  “Fine! Carry on.” Zachariah jogged to keep up with them, the land sucking and squishing beneath his boots. To the right, trees hung over a swamp, vines brushing the water. The three lanterns bobbing ahead of him sent shadows across the weeds as if the eyes of the dead watched.

  Maybe they did. Clark and Amethyst weren’t there to tell him. Zachariah wondered if he was going crazy that ghosts didn’t scare him. All the time they’d been around him, he’d never sensed them. They couldn’t hurt him.

  “So what’s a gator?” Zachariah asked into the stillness.

  The man who’d invited him laughed, the sound too harsh. “Whoa now. You don’t know what a gator is?”

  Zachariah chuckled. Was it too late to say no? “I know roughly what it is, but I’d like more of a description.”

  The man threw back his head with his laugh. “Here that fellas? Our new pal doesn’t even know what a gator is!”

  Something snapped in the marsh to the side, and Zachariah twisted around. The gun fell into his hands with army precision and he fired.

  A bird, its feathers purple in the dim light, dropped to the ground. Zachariah almost asked if that was a gator, but it couldn’t be. A bird would be too easy to kill.

  “Lookee there,” one of his companions said. “Our boy shot himself a pheasant instead of an alligator.”

  Alligator. Bloody gears, Zachariah knew what they were. How stupid he had to be to not have linked them. Saliva dried in his mouth. From what he’d read in textbooks, they were vicious and huge, like a horse that crawled along the ground.

  He couldn’t kill an alligator.

  “Sorry about that.” Zachariah coughed to hide his nervousness.

  Eric left the group to pick up the large bird by its feet and swing it in the air. The laser had shot a hole through its chest. Eric shook the bird, and its head swayed on its long neck.

  They would never let him live down the panic shot. So much for being helpful, so much for making friends.

  A dark blob shot out from the weeds to latch on to Eric’s thigh. He howled, throwing the bird over his shoulder into the swamp, and clawed at the nearest tree.

  “Stop!”

  “Gator!”

  “Eric!”

  The shouts exploded around Zachariah, but his mind slowed them down, spaced out the event as the army had taught him. A battle couldn’t be fought with chaos.

  A companion could never be disregarded.

  Zachariah jogged toward Eric—the man hit the ground, his gloved hands ripping bark off the tree. While the others loaded their weapons, Zachariah turned the head of his down and pressed the button for the light that flashed on from the barrel, illuminating the swamp. A large, brownish-green creature dragged Eric deeper into the swamp.

  Zachariah fired at its bulky body, and the creature jerked, so he fired again, and took two steps to get better access around Eric. The gator writhed, but it hadn’t released the shrieking man, so Zachariah shot off the laser thrice more. Holes burned in the leather-like hide.

  One of his companions pried the jaw open while someone else pulled Eric away.

  “What the steam?” Someone slapped Zachariah’s shoulder. “You done saved his life!”

  Amethyst plucked the leaf off the nearest plant and turned it over to study the pale underside. The air in the square courtyard of the hotel hung thick and hot, no wind permeating the brick walls. The hotel owners had planted various things around the pebbled pathways. The things might have been miniature trees, or maybe bushes, but lack of water had left them brown and wilting. She’d chosen the only one that appeared somewhat healthy to sit beside.

  At least the stone bench offered a bit of coldness as it bit through her pink sateen robe.

  Amethyst tore the leaf down the middle, imagining she could hear the subtle rip as the fibers split. Helpless. She had become as helpless as a leaf in a wilting garden. Outside, only the moonlight would see her tears.

  She’d always had a plan. Back in New Addison City, it was to see how many times she could get herself in a newspaper for that day. She’d sought after fun, with the goal of landing a rich husband someday.

  In Hedlund, with her parents, she’d longed for the days she could return to the city. Living with Clark, she wanted ways to shock the citizens and make the west pleasant.

  Yes, pleasant worked as an adjective.

  Now, they wanted to get at the prince, but to what purpose? Would Clark land a bullet in the royal’s skull for kidnapping Jolene? They couldn’t even get at the buggers.

  She tipped her head to view the glowing windows of the hotel. Clark and her daughter were in one of those, Clark giving Jolene a bath. Amethyst had never done that before—baths were a task for nannies. She’d felt stupid holding the baby and staring at the tub her husb
and had ordered, so she’d begged off for a bit of air.

  She made a horrid mother.

  “Amethyst?”

  Bloody gears, now someone had found her. She dropped the leaf to her feet and adjusted her brown corset beneath the robe as she turned to face the newcomer. “Yes?”

  The woman wore a black caplet over a tight black skirt. She had to perspire like a cold glass under all that material, and the cloth looked to be wool to boot. Ha, to boot. A Hedlund saying.

  “He shouldn’t have gone to you,” the woman said. Black hair, thick and tangled, stuck out around her head as if it had escaped from a bun in a struggle.

  Amethyst rubbed the tears from the corners of her eyes. “What?”

  “Randolph,” the woman murmured. “He should have been happy with his life and let you be.”

  “Who under the steam is Randolph?” The looney. Amethyst had encountered a looney.

  The woman floated toward her—bloody gears, she floated—and smiled. In the night, Amethyst hadn’t noticed before that black hollows made up the stranger’s eyes. “I’m Clara Larkin.”

  o.” Amethyst stood, stubbing her toe on a pebble through her brocade slipper. Duh, of course she was. Clara Larkin was a ghost, just like this specter.

  “I loved Randolph,” Clara said. “I couldn’t have asked for a sweeter charge. I protected him as best I could, but they found me. They wanted to know where he was. I lied and they killed me. Decided I didn’t know where the boy was, that I’d lost him.”

  “You were his mother?”

  “Alas no, they killed his mother. The death certificate claims childbirth complications, but I was in on the game. That was their plan. Once the children were born, the mother would die and I would be their nanny. We would be secreted away, hidden until the children were needed.”

  Amethyst licked her lips. How would Clark handle the raving ghost? She owed it to the fortuneteller. “Can you start from the beginning?”

  Clara Larkin floated closer, her hands clasped over her heart. “The mother was given a potion that would allow her babies to foretell the future. I would keep them hidden from all eyes until a question needed to be asked.” Clara pursed her dark lips.