Cecelia was glaring at him. From those eyes, those brilliant bedazzling eyes with the firepower of an erupting volcano, he could almost feel the scorch marks.
“Well, now, Mr. Yancey, I misdoubt we’re not gettin’ the whole truth about your doin’s in this town,” Gabe said mildly but stiffly. “So this is your warnin’: I’ll be watchin’ you. Best advice I have is that you keep your distance. Understood?”
“Keep my distance? I can hardly keep my distance if I don’t know where you—”
“Good day, Mr. Yancey,” said Miss Powell, in tones that might freeze a man’s marrow. And swished away.
“Son of a gun,” murmured the southerner from Charleston. Taken down by a woman and an old man, both of whom seemed to be quite practiced in the art of verbal swordplay.
Of course, distracted as he was by the woman herself, his own performance had been sadly lacking. She was a looker, all right. Too bad she was also possibly a criminal.
Or was she?
Damn. Time to send information to his client as to the suspect’s whereabouts.
John decided to seek out the local Pony Express office.
VI
Noah Harper was a man with a mission. That mission had kept him going while he appointed a Power of Attorney to handle business affairs, a corporation surrogate, a guardian for Mrs. Harper, and whatever other necessary officials to manage his Boston life while he was gone. Making all those arrangements was the easy part. Explaining the plan to his dear mother was not.
“Excuse me. You are appointing a guardian to handle my affairs?” Elvira demanded.
“It’s customary, Mother. I’m leaving soon for California, to help track down that—that little tart whose name I hesitate even to speak. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, or what might happen to me while I’m there or en route. The most logical course for you and the estate is that a conservator be established to handle everyday matters.”
Her son’s soothing attempt at justification did nothing to calm Elvira’s umbrage. They were gathered in the large drawing room, a dark depressing chamber papered with the ugliest wall covering Noah had ever seen. When his mother passed on to her great reward, he planned to gut this house and change every detail of decoration she left behind.
She rose now, and swept herself in her immaculate afternoon gown to the window, peering out as if something important were happening on their side lawn. “So you consider me incompetent.”
“Not incompetent, Mother. Never incompetent. Say, rather—naïve…in business affairs, at least.”
The heavy draperies fell back into place with an audible snap. “Then I shall go with you.”
“No, for God’s sake, no! I mean…someone has to be here to make sure everything goes as it should. I need you here.”
“I’m hardly needed here when you’ve already arranged for others to replace me. I’m not needed on your journey west. Just where am I needed, Noah?”
Again. She was doing it again. What a talent for making him feel guilty! In her eyes, his every decision was questionable, his every act poorly reasoned.
“I already told you,” he answered coldly. “Here.”
Turning on his heel, he strode out through the tall double doors with all the dignity he could muster.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
From the deck railing where he had taken up position several hours earlier, Noah watched as his steamship Pecatonia hove into San Francisco Bay. The distant skyline encompassed what was known as “The Seven Hills”—Telegraph, Nob, Russian, Rincon, Mount Sutro, Twin Peaks, and Mount Davidson—along with wharfs, woolen mills, and the waterfront itself.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Harper.”
Noah glanced sideways. “Hello, Captain Fielding. Safe port at last, eh?”
“Ah, it’s a fine day to reach harbor. And you, sir…you’ve been a fine sailor throughout the voyage. I hope you found everything to your liking.”
“Both the food and the service have been excellent, Captain, thank you. As for the speed, I suspect you’ve beaten several records to get us here so quickly.”
The captain assumed a modest expression that fooled no one. He was the master of his craft, and he, and everyone else, knew it. “Well, Mr. Harper, you are the owner of our magnificent vessel. And once you told me you hoped to reach San Francisco in jig time…” He spread his hands, palm open, in a what-will-you gesture, “…of course I knew we would do our utmost to comply.”
“I appreciate that. With pressing business here to transact, time was of the essence.”
Pressing business. That of tracking down his bastard half-sister and reclaiming what was his rightful due.
Upon disembarking, Noah and his quantity of fine luggage were hauled by carriage to a place recommended by Captain Fielding, the Hotel Alexandria. There, after making sure that it was suitable for his needs, he registered and settled into a spacious room that was well-kept and clean, if not as extravagant as those to which he was accustomed. This place was the wild backside of an uncivilized nation, after all, and he was resigned to the premise of making do.
He took his dinner that evening in the hotel dining room, where actual linen cloth draped every table. The meal consisted of some sort of beef, cooked to the texture of his old steamer trunk, and vegetables that were not quite identifiable. A very good wine took the edge off his hunger, however, and the quite delicious fresh-baked bread filled up the hollows in his middle.
While he worked away at the entrée with what looked like the local carpenter’s hand saw, he formulated his plans for tomorrow. First, he would need directions to an address. Next, he would need transport of some sort. Then, at long last, then…he could confront his nemesis.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Although the date was early June, and sessions were likely finished until fall, Noah had decided that his first stop in tracking down Miss Cecelia Powell must be the Academy. His Pinkerton agent, though taking no concrete steps to apprehend the felon, had been able to provide plenty of information. If necessary, Noah could certainly contact the local constabulary for assistance.
Unpaved dirt passageways, each one flatteringly considered a street in this backward crazy-calico city, must surely be reduced to a sea of black mud during the rainy season, from late October through March. Noah fervently hoped to be long gone by then. God had never meant for him to suffer living like an ignorant savage amongst rubes and boors; he much preferred the amenities of his comfortable life in Boston, and was quite anxious to conclude his business and return.
A shiny black single top barouche carried him hither and yon from his hotel, until reaching their destination halfway up one of the famous hills. There, Noah climbed down, asked the driver to wait until he reappeared, and stopped in the shade of a plucky little manzanita tree to survey the building that he had come to see.
Surprisingly, he approved of its construction, if nothing else. A narrow one-story structure built of brick, each wall held a number of windows; open now to light and air, with a small enclosed porch on one side to shelter those inside from uncertain weather. A whitewashed picket fence surrounding the property added a nice respectable touch.
Aggrieved, Noah gnawed at his lower lip. How many nuggets had been plucked from his gold mine to pay for all these niceties? And for girls, at that!
He plunged up the walk, laid out so neatly and compactly.
The door was, remarkably, unlocked. While this seemed to be a safe neighborhood, why take chances? More fool she, trusting not to be bothered—or even assailed—by some combative passerby.
“Miss Powell? Miss Cecelia Powell?”
“One minute, I’ll be right there.” True to her word, very shortly she appeared in the outer hallway, frowning slightly against the brilliant sunshine behind him. “Mr. Townsend? Welcome, sir. Please, do join me in my office, and we can discuss—Oh…” As Noah moved forward, to be identified, she backtracked just a little. “I do sincerely beg your pardon for the mistake. I’ve bee
n waiting to meet with the father of one of my students, and I—But…wait…I know you, don’t I?”
All in the space of a few seconds, her voice had gone from confident to apologetic to uncertain.
A state of affairs Noah deeply appreciated. And could capitalize upon.
“You don’t know me, exactly. We nearly bumped into each other late one afternoon at Gabe Finnegan’s old office, in Boston.”
“Yes, of course, I remember now. But then—you—you’re…”
“I’m your half-brother, Noah Harper. And I’m here to retrieve the gold mine shares you stole from me and my mother.”
She had gone deathly pale, and he could see the sudden lift of her breast in the floaty muslin thing she was wearing. Another affront to the senses. Cheap, too; just what he would expect. The garment was more suited for her boudoir, not racketing about in public.
“Our father—”
“My father, little Miss Gutless Wonder. Not our father. Mine. My father. And everything he had was left to me.”
Cecelia was retreating to a room at her back. What she called her office, apparently. As if that would save her! Instantly, Noah followed and shoved his way inside before she could close the door and lock it against him.
“There, now, isn’t this pleasant?” he said silkily, pulling out a white painted chair, uninvited, to plop down upon its seat.
“Please—leave,” she managed, trembling. Yet ready to stand and confront him, to fight for what she wanted. Brassy; he’d give her that much. Probably just like her mother, the old soiled dove herself. “You have no—no right to be here. This academy belongs to me!”
He leaned back, perfectly at ease and in command of the situation. “Sit down, Cecelia. I may call you Cecelia, may I not, since we are related? Under the blanket, so to speak.”
Pale as she was, a splash of rose hue painted her cheekbones. With that, and the splendid piercing blue of her eyes, Noah was beginning to feel slightly as if he had been shoved beneath some giant microscope, for examination.
“I want you to go. I want you out of my building; I want you out of my town. Go back to Boston.”
“Oh, now, sister dear, there’s no need to be nasty about this.” He would know about nastiness; his smile was full of it.
“Mr. Townsend will be here any minute,” she pointed out. “I’ve been expecting to meet with him for a conference about his daughter. You won’t want to be sitting in my office when he arrives.”
Unperturbed, Noah cast a slow glance about. “Been waiting long, have you? I’d say you’ve been stood up for today. We’re all alone here, so we can settle this like the gentleman I am and the—lady—you are not.”
Cecelia gasped. “Get out, you miserable worm!”
“Oh, it’s name-calling we are, now?” Furiously, he surged out of his chair, lunging across the desk to grab her left arm in a killer clinch. “Understand this, you floozy who’s the daughter of a floozy, I want those shares. I want control of the Catherine handed back over to me. Immediately. That mine should have come to me, along with everything else. You will return any interest you have, or I will by God have you run out of town on a rail with your reputation in tatters!”
Too proud to jerk free, she halfway dangled from his grip to glare at him. “I shall not! Father meant for me to have financial security, and that was his way of ensuring it. And, seeing your behavior here, today, I begin to understand why he hated your mother!”
“Bitch!”
Incensed, he swung at her, slapping her across that brightly tinted cheekbone with the back of one hand. Cecelia let out a cry and crumpled.
“There’s more where that came from,” Noah snarled, panting with exertion. “Give it up, do you hear me? I’ll have those shares, or I’ll see you in jail for theft. This town will hear all about how the high-and-mighty Miss Powell was born a bastard in the upstairs room of her mother’s brothel. As will your so-called betrothed!”
Cecelia stirred, moaning in pain and horror. “Josiah,” she whispered. “Josiah. You can’t—”
“Oh, I assure you, I can. All the power lies with me, Cecelia. Learn that, and learn the lesson well.”
The release of his crushing hold flung her aside like a heap of used laundry. He straightened, smoothing his gray silk vest and navy frock coat into immaculate lines. At the threshold he paused, to add one more warning.
“I’m a fair man, Cecelia. I am willing to wait briefly, for you to see the error of your ways, and to come to terms with what must be done. As I say, I am a fair man. But I am not a patient man. Pray, do not test me.”
A slam of the door behind him, and he was, thankfully, gone.
He had left behind a mess. Nauseated by the violence of the encounter, shaken and sickened and tumbled like a rag doll emptied of stuffing, Cecelia pulled herself upright enough to collapse in her chair.
Dear God in heaven! Who would have expected Paul Harper, that dear, good man, to beget such a monster? Evil had appeared in her office today: the devil personified by a half-brother she had no desire to claim. As vile and vicious as his abuse had been, she had truly feared, seeing the light of madness in his eyes, that he might kill her.
The sound of the outer door opening and closing once more sent her heart racing like a steam engine. No! Surely he hadn’t returned!
She had half-risen from her desk in panic, frantically questing as to where she might hide from another onslaught, when a slight knock came on the doorframe.
“Mr.—Mr. Townsend—?” she quavered.
“No, ma’am,” said someone in a southern drawl, entering the room. “It’s me, John Yancey. I stopped by, b’cause—good almighty God!” he jerked out.
“Yes, I—I know I must look—uh…” Cecelia’s trembling hand brushed futilely at the hair once so carefully coiffed, now falling in disarray around her shoulders, and pulled together the fragile butterfly sleeve that had been torn. “For—forgive me, Mr. Yancey. I’m afraid—I’m afraid I’m not at—my best—right now…”
Time. She needed time to recover; time to make sense of what had happened. Please go away, she wanted to shout at him, and give me time. Because in another minute, she’d be blubbering, and she desperately needed to do it in private.
“What went on here, Miss Powell?” His tone was low and quiet, so as not to cause her further upset, but intense.
“Uh…well…”
She dared not meet his commiserating eyes, dared not hope for kindness offered in her jittery state, or she would fall apart.
“Miss Powell?”
Helplessly, she looked up. Tears converged in those blue eyes, pooling around her lashes, and then overflowed. And suddenly, she began to sob.
Just like that, he moved in beside her, took her gently and carefully into his arms, and held her while she wept. For some endless span, while the wall clock ticked quietly away and a bird cooed from its nest in the eaves, he soothed her with soft meaningless words and a light smoothing stroke from the back of her head down to her shoulder blades. Exactly as he might have assuaged the qualms of a restive horse…and probably had.
Eventually, the vehemence of the sobs lessened, easing into only an occasional shudder for a breath or a hiccup. Cecelia’s consciousness surfaced to find herself at rest in a strange man’s embrace—and that man one she didn’t even particularly like. Horrors! What if one of her students had happened by about now, or one of her student’s parents?
“I—I’m so sorry—Mr. Yancey—” she fumbled, in an attempt to extricate. “I seem to have—to have ruined your coat. And you—almost as much…”
Relieved that the lady seemed to be recovering, John flashed her a grin. “I think my coat and I will survive, ma’am. For right now, sit down in that chair and let me look at you. Sure, grab your hanky. Don’t s’pose you got any whiskey around?”
Cecelia managed a wobbly laugh. “You sound like Gabe. No, Mr. Yancey, no whiskey in a schoolroom.”
“Water, then. You hang on a minute. Don’t move
, you hear me? Don’t move.”
The door banged behind him, and from outside, she could hear the screech of the pump handle being worked. Almost immediately, he returned, handing her a glass of fresh cold water. That helped. Her insides stopped roiling around, and the gait of her breathing steadied.
But he wasn’t finished. Kneeling before her, he picked up his own wetted handkerchief and began to wash her face with the same gentle, unhurried touch he had used earlier. Was it possible that she had misjudged the man? Under his ministration, she closed her eyes, involuntarily re-living the feel of his tough, staunch chest, the reassurance of being enclosed and sheltered, the scent of leather and pine that clung to his clothing.
“Ouch!”
“Sorry, Miss Powell. That’s gonna be quite some bruise on your cheek. Maybe a shiner, too.”
Finished, John hunkered onto the corner of her desk to survey her. “Looks like you went a few rounds against some damn good prizefighter. I hope you gave him back as good as you got.”
“I—no, I don’t think I did.” Shamed, she looked away from his questioning, speculative gaze.
He bent forward slightly to slip one forefinger under her chin. “You ready now to tell me who did this to you?”
“Mr. Yancey, I don’t know you well enough to tell you anything.” She turned her head slightly.
Spunk. Damn, but she had spunk.
“Huh. All right, then. Reckon all I can do at this point is to walk you home.”
Cecelia drew in a deep breath. “I would appreciate that, Mr. Yancey. But, first, I’d like to find out what you’re doing here.”
“Me? Doin’ here? Well…the truth is…”
She waited. Patient as Job.
So there were his choices. He could confess to his profession. He could confess to the fact that he had been hired by her half-brother to track her down. He could confess to his suspicion that she was a thief, hardened or otherwise. He could even confess to his sending information as to her whereabouts and status to someone who was very likely her arch-enemy.
Good God, what a dilemma.
Taking the High Road Page 6
