A Western Romance: Cole Yancey: Taking the High Road (Taking The High Road Series Book 9)

by Morris Fenris

  Taking the High Road

  Book 9: Cole Yancey

  (A Western Romance)

  Morris Fenris

  Western Romance Publications House

  Taking the High Road Book 9: Cole Yancey (A Western Romance)

  Copyright 2015 Morris Fenris, Western Romance Publications House

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the author.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Thank You

  About the Author

  Booklist

  I

  The water felt hot and steamy, just what was needed to ease aching muscles and bones jolted almost to mush. The oddly hewn cake of soap smelled both spicy and citrusy, reminiscent of the wintersweet shrub flowers back home. The suds rose full to the top of the bathtub, enough to slop over the edge just a little, onto the worn wooden floor.

  Cole Yancey neither noticed nor cared. He had sunk his weary body down to the very depths, until only his hard kneecaps and bearded face protruded. Resting the back of his skull against the tub’s iron rim, he exhaled a gusty sigh of pure catlike comfort.

  “Smells like a damn two-bit whorehouse in here,” came a rough voice from the door swung suddenly open.

  Cole didn’t even bother to crack open an eyelid. “Ahuh. Plannin’ t’ shoot me for it, are you?”

  “Might consider the possibility. But, hell. Ain’t hardly worth firin’ unless I wanna unload my gun. You’re just one sittin’ duck for any feller with a price on his head and a grudge t’ match, aincha? Figure it mighta been smarter if you’d posted a lookout there by the window.”

  “Didn’t know I’d need one. How’re you doin’, you lard-livered ole sidewinder?” At last, Cole turned slightly to survey his visitor, with a wide friendly smile and welcome warming every craggy feature.

  “Better’n you. Didn’t have t’ ride a thousand miles t’ get here.”

  “Well, whydja think I hunted up the first public bathhouse I could find?” said Cole reasonably.

  “Been sittin’ in that saddle so long my backside was almost permanently stuck fast. How about you, Jordy? You been in St. Louis very long?”

  Jordan Butler pulled a cheap wooden chair forward and reversed it, rear to front. Then, straddling its seat, he shoved his Stetson awry and folded both arms across the chair back. “Ever since I wrote t’ you with my proposition, son.” Gray eyes twinkling, straw-colored hair newly cut low over the forehead and short to the collar, he seemed comfortably disposed to sit for hours, catching up on male chit-chat. “Lotsa details t’ handle, gettin’ a wagon train put t’gether for travel.”

  A soft splash as Cole searched out and found the washcloth he’d been provided, along with the scented chunk of soap. For a few minutes he was absorbed in lathering, washing, lathering again.

  It had been far too long since his last full-length bath in an actual tub; he intended to enjoy every sweet minute of it.

  His wavy black hair, overlong in the style he preferred, had tangled into ringlets from the steam; and his rangy, rawboned face had acquired a patina of moisture. Not unlike, perhaps, that induced by fine lovemaking, might a female’s comparison be made.

  Add to that an equally rangy and rawboned frame, delineated by whipcord muscles, hard sunbrowned skin, and a stance that could be tough or tender, depending on circumstances and counterpart, and you had Cole Yancey, an upstanding, proficient individual to whom women’s attention would always be drawn.

  As would men’s, for different reasons.

  “Whoo-hee,” said Jordan in a disbelieving tone. “That is some strong-smellin’ stuff you got there. Wanna watch yourself, once you step out the door, ’n case you’re attacked by a swarm of bees huntin’ for flowers. So, Cole, didja get everything cleared up back in Charleston?”

  “I did, Jordy. Exactly what my other wayfarin’ brothers set me t’ do, and exactly what needed t’ be done. Paperwork, mostly.”

  “Well, I remember you sayin’ that Belle Clare had been sold off after your paw died, back b’fore the War. That seemed purty smart t’ me, not havin’ t’ worry what damage might be done t’ your property with all the fightin’ roundabouts.”

  The Yancey family of ten rambunctious sons and the Butlers of Hickory Hill had lived cheek by jowl next to one another, on adjoining plantations that encompassed thousands of acres. While Cole’s older brothers had prudently decided to emigrate to other parts of the country during what would become an historic conflagration, leaving their old, familiar life behind, Jordan’s father had tried to ride out the ensuing storm.

  But four hellish years of bloodshed and deprivation had taken their toll on those left behind. Two of Jordan’s brothers had been mortally wounded in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania; another shell-shocked and left to die at the Battle of Chickamauga. A sister had been sent to visit relatives in what was assumed to be a safe zone, and was never heard from again. Both parents had succumbed to fear and grief, within a few months of each other, and were now buried in the Butler plot.

  Eventually, with family and fortune gone forever, Jordan, too, had shaken the dust of the Old South from his boots and headed west for a clean start.

  “Accordin’ t’ your letter, you planned on liquidatin’ whatever assets were left, get everything squared away,” he said now.

  Raising one arm to drip cooling water, Cole began scrubbing from hairy wrist to brawny shoulder. “Did that. We got us a pretty extensive family-run corporation, spreadin’ across quite a territory, so I worked with a lawyer to get everything moved around.”

  “That’s a job well done. Uh. Didja go visit the graveyard?” came in low tones.

  Cole raised the level dark far-seeing eyes so common among the Yancey kin. “I did. Both of ’em, Jordy. Paid my respects t’ your folks, and t’ mine. Prob’ly,” he added, thoughtfully, “for the last time. Ain’t no reason t’ go back there, never again.”

  “How’d things look?” His friend had removed the neatly brushed hat to turn it around and around, studying brim, crown, and band, as if to keep emotion at bay.

  “Huh. You might be guessin’ that. Properties sittin’ empty, no landowners, no crops. Some burnt t’ the ground and left t’ rot. Some fulla carpetbaggers with neither heart nor soul. It’s a sad place, what our South has turned int’, Jordy; I’m relieved t’ be away from it for good.”

  Butler nodded. “The future is here, that’s true. From St. Louis and on further west. So you’ve decided t’ take me up on my offer?”

  Beginning to work on the other arm, Cole glanced up to flash a lopsided grin. “You’ve managed t’ persuade me, son. Here I figured on headin’ out t’ California, t’ help Quint operate that saloon he’s just opened up. Was even gonna get there by ridin’ that new Pacific Railroad they just finished buildin’.”

  �
��Aw, hell,” scoffed Jordan, flashing his own grin. “Whydja wanna even consider sittin’ at your ease in a rail car when you could be roughin’ it with me on the trail, through heat and storm, desert and mountains, playin’ hero t’ a bunch of greenhorns?”

  Pausing with one leg bent at the knee, foot braced on the edge of the tub, Cole merely shook his head. “The amount of pay you offered me as scout didn’t set off no fireworks, my friend. You think t’ convince me it’s all for the spirit of adventure?”

  “Betcher boots, it’s for adventure. And what a grand way t’ see the country, b’sides.”

  Cole sighed. “Well, then I reckon that’s that. I’ll just have t’ try my hand at that spiffy railroad some other time. You gonna provide me a list of provisions I need?”

  “Yep.” Butler rose, pushed the chair back in place with one boot, and plopped the Stetson onto his head. “Tracked you down t’ the Hotel St. Pierre. How’s about we meet up there a little later, and we get us some supper and talk over plans?”

  “Works for me.”

  “Ahuh.” At the door he turned for a final word: “Don’t forget t’ wash the other leg.”

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  Although St. Louis had been hurt economically by a Union blockade of traffic on the Mississippi River during the Civil War, the cessation of hostilities and increased trade with the west had restored the growing city to a solid footing. More than 160,000 residents called this place home, and Cole found himself surprised by its cosmopolitan appeal.

  Buildings, for one thing. Schools and cathedrals, manufacturing plants, a brewery, industrial developments, restaurants and bakeries and small coffee shops. Fashionable haberdasheries and ladies’ apparel emporiums. Jewelry shops and dry good stores. Administrative architecture—libraries, city hall, police and fire departments. Infrastructure, such as city streets and bridges.

  “And you can get yourself a damn fine meal from the kitchen of this establishment,” Cole made the comment to his guest at the hotel’s dining room table.

  “Yeah?” Jordan reached for his coffee cup, filled and refilled for the third time. “As long as we got good thick steaks and some apple dumplin’s, that’s all I need.”

  “Not lookin’ for no stuffed-up French truffles, nor cock-a-leekie pie?” teased Cole, blurting out the first thought that came to mind.

  Jordan merely sent him a look. He was the elder, after all, a sedate and somewhat dignified man; beholden to more people, laboring under more responsibilities. “Got me a map, here, if you wanna take a look.”

  “Sure ’nuff. Since you’re expectin’ me t’ serve as scout, it would be helpful t’ know where I’m leadin’ you.”

  “Excuse me, sir, your serving,” interceded the waiter, dexterously moving forward to slide heated plates in place here and there. “The tenderloin of pork in wine sauce, with mashed potatoes and asparagus. And this, the roast chicken, with boiled rice and cooked spinach. Salt and pepper, so. Anything else? No? Please enjoy.” And he hurried away, on to the next hungry diner.

  At seven o’clock, the place was filling up. A few, leaving from the hotel with tickets for the opera a distance away, were anxious to finish and be on their way. Others were settled in for the evening, with bottles of wine or brandy to liven up already high spirits. Dark wood abounded, from floor to wall to ceiling; every board had been polished to a sheen that reflected candle glow and lamp light. Although sheltering alcoves and occasional half-walls or pillars segregated diners for privacy, plenty of noise—the hum of conversation, the bounce of laughter—reverberated in convivial harmony.

  From across the room Cole caught the eye of a young woman dressed all in low-cut white lace. She risked a slight small smile in his direction, then immediately returned to her dining companion, a gray-haired, distinguished gentleman at least twice her age. A man with quite the paternal look to him.

  Cutting into the tender slices of roast chicken, Jordan followed his friend’s glance. “Huh. I see you haven’t changed,” he observed, amused.

  “Change? Why would I?” Cole grinned. “Too many likely sweet ladies in the world, doncha think? Ain’t plannin’ t’ become a monk at any time soon.”

  “And b’sides,” a moment to indulge in the shared sense of humor, “we’re gonna be out in the middle of nowhere right soon, without much chance t’ enjoy female company. May’s well take advantage of things whilst you can.”

  “Sorta what I was figurin’.”

  For a short time, while Cole sawed away at his pork in wine sauce and savored the tender fresh asparagus, the darting sideways glances continued.

  Finally Jordan had had enough. “Oh, hell, gettin’ tired of them moony eyes. Whyncha g’wan over and see what gives?”

  Touching the crisp white napkin to his chin, Cole allowed a slight smile. “No point in givin’ it all away in one sittin’, son. Wait’ll she starts pantin’ for me. Wanna make it worth my while.”

  Eventually, of course, with a precision of timing that could only arouse admiration from any spectator, the Southerner pushed back his chair, rose gracefully, and shambled his way between tables and past waiters to the opposite wall. There temptation, in the form of one lush and lovely young thing, awaited.

  His savory meal finished and utensils put aside, Jordan picked up his glass of claret, leaned back in utmost content, and watched the master at work.

  A pause beside the targeted table; a smile, a raised brow, a handshake; easy conversation between both men and a demure yet flirtatious demeanor from the lady; a laugh or two and more conversation.

  Within a few minutes Cole Lothario Yancey was making his way back.

  “Well?”

  A shrug of the shoulder covered by immaculate black broadcloth as its owner easily resumed his seat.

  “Huh.” Jordan, not the least disconcerted that even a charmer such as this Charleston native might occasionally lose in the game of love, rumbled out something close to a belly laugh. “Not interested after all, hey?”

  Cole’s impish dark eyes looked up over the rim of his cup. “Married.”

  “Married. And her flirtin’ away like nobody’s business. Where’s her husband?”

  “Sittin’ right there b’side her.”

  Jordan sent another surprised glance across the room. “What, that old geezer? Well, then. No wonder she was lookin’ for greener pastures.”

  “Yep. Who could blame her, comparin’ him t’ me?” The grin held all the teasing and self-deprecation remembered from boyhood, brought out full force.

  “Hmmph. And just what pretext didja use, goin’ over there as a complete stranger?”

  “Simple enough. Told the lady I’d found a handkerchief by the door, and was wonderin’ if it might be hers. Nice white lawn, edged in lace, all covered over in pink rosebuds…sorta looked like what she might wanna carry.”

  A disbelieving chortle. “And what were you gonna do when she asked t’ see it?”

  “Why, Mr. Butler, I do declare!” The good old Southern accent poured out like good old Southern molasses, thick and heavy and sweet as sin. “Didja think I’d actually gwan over there, unprepared?” Grinning, Cole whisked a folded little furbelow from his inner coat pocket to display with pride. “This purty scrap goes wherever I go, Jordy, just lyin’ in wait for the opportunity to use it.”

  Jordan shook his head in disbelief and admiration. “You son of a gun. Be interestin’ t’ see how far you’d go in life, were you t’ get a little more serious about your future.”

  “Doncha be worryin’ about my future, mister. What happens, happens, and I’ll deal with it.” Pushing aside his own empty plate, Cole took a deep breath as if to push aside boyish pursuits, as well. “All right, son, let’s talk plans. You still got that map handy?”

  Over some quite decent fire-warmed cognac and another few cups of coffee rich with cream, they sat forward to delve into traces of routes west and studies of topography. First, at the dining room table; then, as the room cleared and th
e waiters began making impatient little motions to send these late diners on their way, at a library table in the men’s lounge.

  “Who’s puttin’ this t’gether?” Cole wanted to know.

  “The trip? I am.”

  “You? You recently become a multi-millionaire I didn’t know nothin’ about?”

  Chuckling, Jordan leaned back, surreptitiously undid the top button of his trousers, and lifted his wobble snifter to admire the cognac’s depth and color. “Naw. Friend of mine contacted me about six months ago, had some people interested in makin’ the trek and asked if I’d consider takin’ charge.”

  “Don’t say? You got friends other’n me, Jordy?”

  “Surprisin’, ain’t it? Yeah, I served with Cap’n Howard durin’ the War, while the two of us sashayed up and down the whole Eastern seaboard. We got t’ know each other purty well, and he seemed t’ appreciate my leadership skills.”

  “Leadership skills!” Cole hooted good-naturedly. “Hope they’ve improved some since the time you drug my sorry ass up int’ the hills t’ go squirrel huntin’.”

  Jordan raised both palms in self-defense. “Hey. Wasn’t my fault we come across that ornery ole peccary just a-flashin’ his tusks and lookin’ for trouble.”

  “No, sir, sure wasn’t. Took a long time for the wound in my leg t’ heal, though, and I still got the scar t’ this day. Thought my poor mama would keel over dead on the spot, when we staggered back home with blood gushin’ everywhere.”

  “Oh, hell, every one of you Yancey boys was always gettin’ int’ hot water. She shoulda been used t’ it by then.”

  In the glow of the many lamps scattered about, Cole surveyed his friend with the amusement of shared memories. “Never did dare let on about that weekend you shanghai’d me t’ your favorite Charleston cathouse.”

  A soft whistle. “Whooee. Packed a lot int’ them two days, didn’t we? Can’t recollect much more’n just walkin’ in the door at the beginnin’, and walkin’ out at the end, but, man! Not a cent left in our pockets afterward, and not a full bourbon bottle left standin’. Musta had us one swell time. However,” Jordan paused for a stern admonishment, “there was no shanghai’in’ about it. You come along of your own free will.”