Bride of the Shining Mountains (The St. Claire Men)

by S. K. McClafferty

  Reagan felt her temper stir to life inside her, and did her best to tamp it down. “I didn’t ask for any of this, if that’s what you’re saying. It wasn’t my idea to come here, to wear these fancy clothes, and I’ve got family of my own.”

  “Really?” Navarre said, scrutinizing her over his coffee cup. “Then perhaps you will explain just how you came to be under my nephew’s protection?”

  Reagan opened her mouth to reply, and at that same moment Jackson entered the room. He was dressed in a plain white shirt and buff-colored trousers; he carried a frock coat of deep blue broadcloth over one arm. His face was still lined from sleep, and he’d neglected to shave.

  Reagan’s willful heart turned over at the sight of him, and she hoped against hope that her feelings did not show.

  “Precisely what would you have her explain, Uncle?” he asked as he slid into his seat.

  Navarre’s expression was bland. “Why, the manner in which the two of you became acquainted, of course. I assumed that the girl had no family, and that was the reason for your guardianship, but she has just informed me that such is not the case. How is it, then, that she is here, under your care?”

  Kevin came forward discreetly, filling Jackson’s cup with steaming black coffee as Jackson sought an appropriately noncommittal answer. Once the pack train arrived from the mountains, the truth would come out and there would be no preventing it. But by then she would be safely wed. “It’s true that Reagan has family, if indeed you wish to call them that. Her father passed on when she was little more than an infant, her mother earlier this year, and the man who married her mother and took her father’s place did not a fitting guardian make. He and her twin half brothers left her stranded in the mountains. Luckily I came along in time to prevent a tragedy from occurring.”

  “And so you took her under your protection, brought her into your home, and, if Garrett is to be believed, lavished her with gifts that must have cost a fortune.”

  “Antoine Garrett talks too much.” Jackson calmly sipped his coffee, fixing his uncle with a level stare. “You have your answer, Uncle. You may accept it or discount it, as it pleases you. I will remind you, however, that Belle Riviere is my home, and the money left to me by the Parrish estate is mine to dispose of as I wish. If I should decide to turn this house into a home for wayward young women and lavish my last coin upon them, I shall do exactly that, and no one has the right to question my motives. Not even you.”

  His gaze slid to Reagan, who had sat quietly through the entire exchange. How virginal and innocent she appeared in the white dimity gown. Not a trace of the temptress he’d so blithely led into sin on the gallery was evident.

  A glimpse of the small, perfect breasts he’d suckled, artfully displayed above her decolletage, was enough to set his pulse to pounding. How could she appear so cool and detached? Had their lovemaking meant so little to her that she could totally banish it from her thoughts? The notion nettled him more than he cared to admit.

  He wasn’t sure why it mattered to him. Falling in love with a man like him was a dangerous venture indeed. His plans hadn’t changed, despite the earth-shattering events on the gallery. He still intended to get her a husband, still considered it the best, most logical course to follow—for both of them.

  She needed some stability in her life, someone who would see to her needs and cherish her bright presence. Someone with whom he had nothing in common.

  Still, he could not seem to help but wish—could not seem to tear his gaze away from her, nor prevent himself from silently willing her to meet his gaze.

  As if on cue, she raised her gaze to his, then froze, her fork halfway to her lips. Something kindled in her gaze... her soft gray eyes turning smoky just before she tore her gaze away. She blushed prettily, the reaction so sweet, so endearingly feminine that he thought with a pang that she would not be long without a mate, nor long in his scandal-ridden company.

  He had delayed as long as he dared. They’d been in the city for three days, and though he had threatened, he still hadn’t found her a tutor. The truth was that he rather liked her just the way she was.

  Something else to overcome. Another inner battle to be fought, heart against head, common sense against his baser urges. She was not a stray kitten he’d found in the wilderness, to be petted and spoiled and kept here out of selfishness. By postponing the implementation of his plans, he was only delaying the inevitable, and the hard fact was that if he delayed too long, her reputation would be in tatters and there would be no chance for her to make an advantageous match.

  Well aware of his own limitations, Jackson knew that it was a chance he could not afford to take. For a moment he mentally debated the best manner in which to make his announcement. Happily, Navarre solved his problem for him.

  Until now he had held his tongue. When he spoke, his pique at Jackson’s reprimand was clearly evident. “Since I am not to comment on your living arrangements, might I at least inquire as to the young lady’s future? How can she hope to meet young people her own age, closeted here with Emil and the servants?”

  “I have given it a great deal of thought,” Jackson said carefully, “and I have decided to hold a soiree a week from Friday, a full-dress affair to properly launch Reagan into society.” He was watching Reagan’s face as he spoke, trying to gauge her reaction, but she gave little away, no clue as to what she was feeling.

  There was only a slight tightening of her kissable mouth, a shadow that flitted behind her eyes and then was gone. Not a word did she speak; it was Navarre who answered. “A ball. Have you discussed this with Emil?”

  “I informed him of my intentions, yes.”

  “And does he approve?”

  “The news was received with Papa’s usual warmth. He glared his hatred at me, then turned to stare out the window. Not that it matters. My mind is made up, and I do not need his approval to proceed with my plans.”

  Navarre just smiled, glancing from Reagan’s pale face to Jackson’s.

  “Judging from your ward’s sudden pallor, I would venture to say there are things that you need to discuss, so I shall take my leave. I must go up and see Emil, in any case. What an unhappy circumstance it would be if he became so upset over this that he succumbed to another fit of apoplexy.” He stood. “Reagan, dear, I greatly enjoyed our chat. It was... enlightening. Nephew.” He sketched a shallow bow, then made a graceful exit.

  Jackson watched him go, but the older man had barely left the room when Reagan turned on Jackson. “Have you taken leave of your senses? No!” she said. “Don’t answer that! Of course you have.”

  “On the contrary,” Jackson said, adding sugar to his second cup of coffee with a heavy hand. “I have never been more lucid. If I’m to ever see you safely settled, then I cannot continue to keep you closeted here with only Josephine and me for company. You need the society of eligible bachelors, men of good standing and at least moderate wealth. I’ll not have you wed to a pauper, and there seems but one way to accomplish it.”

  “You want to parade me in front of a bunch of aging widowers drooling for a warm body to occupy their beds or a nursemaid to look after their snot-nosed children!”

  “I only want what’s best for you!” Jackson replied harshly, “and at the moment that means keeping you as far away from me as possible!” He passed a hand over his face, seeking calm. How could he make her see that he was trying to keep her safe? Something she would never be in such close proximity to a man with damn few morals and even less restraint. Last night on the storm-swept gallery he had proven that given half a chance he would abandon all of his lofty intentions and take her. He wanted her, and the interlude outside her bedroom window, instead of cooling his lust for her, had served only to increase it.

  Sighing, he pushed out of his chair and crossed to where she sat, white-lipped with fury. Reaching down, he took her hand and drew her up to stand before him. “Look at me, Kaintuck, and tell me what you see.”

  Reagan raised her gaze to his re
luctantly, and felt her resolve, her anger, slowly crumble. She swallowed hard. He was so handsome that it hurt to look into his face. It hurt even more to look into her heart.

  I see the man I love, her heart replied, the only man I would willingly take for a husband, for a lover. Aloud, she said, “Please don’t make me do this.”

  “Humor me just this once. Tell me what you see.”

  “I see a man, a stubborn, pigheaded man hell-bent on havin’ his own way.”

  He reached out, cupping her face in his hands. “A man who cares about you, who wants to see you happy. You deserve to be happy, Reagan. I have done so damnably little good in my life. Let me do this one thing for you... please.”

  Tears sprang to Reagan’s eyes; she battled them back, groaning softly at the inward struggle. “Even if I agree, what difference could it make? What makes you think that anyone will come? The town didn’t exactly welcome you with open arms when you came back.”

  “Trust me, they will come. Curiosity will drive them here in droves, and despite my failings, the name Broussard still carries considerable weight in this town.”

  Trust me, he’d said. Reagan snorted at that. She’d trusted him last night, and look where it had gotten her. Not quite a scarlet woman, not exactly innocent, and he still planned to marry her off to a stranger.

  And he wanted this so passionately that she didn’t have the heart or the will to deny him, despite the knowledge that she was setting herself up for disaster. He wanted her to join him in a grand masquerade in which he would pose as her benefactor, and she would portray a young woman of breeding and refinement... an impossible thing to ask. She didn’t know the first thing about fine manners. She could not ape the aristocracy. She could not even dance!

  And she could not refuse; he wouldn’t listen.

  “Will you grant me this one thing?” he asked, and Reagan could only dumbly nod her head.

  His expression softened then, he inclined his head slightly, and Reagan was certain he meant to kiss her. She covered his hands with hers, straining up to meet him. But he only held her there for a moment, staring intently into her upturned face; then, seeming to think the better of it, he released her. “It’s decided, then,” he said, and, retrieving his coat, he left her.

  A heavy fog rolled in off the river, blanketing the city in a thick shroud of sinister white. Seated at a table in the shadows of the Painted Lady, Jackson lingered over his whiskey, watching and waiting, hoping for something... some revelation to present itself... some rumor, some scrap of information that would provide a clue, no matter how remote, as to why Clay had been killed.

  This wasn’t the first time he’d come here. Since his return to Saint Louis he’d haunted the waterfront nightly, talking to the harlots who plied their trade in the cribs above the taverns, to anyone who would listen, and to a few who required a bit of artful persuasion. No one knew anything about Clay’s death, nor about the whereabouts of Malcolm Heath, the man who’d overheard him arguing with Clay just prior to the murder. Heath had been there, outside the warehouse, and there was always a chance that he might have seen or heard something that Jackson could use to catch Clay’s killer, to vindicate himself.

  He’d started that very afternoon, with the clapboard shack Heath shared with his wife and three children on the outskirts of town. Elizabeth Heath, a full-blooded Peoria Indian, had been polite but closemouthed. Her children had clung to her skirts as Jackson asked after her husband, their eyes round in their dirty brown faces.

  Mrs. Heath gave away nothing, and Jackson had come away dissatisfied. He’d inquired discreetly after the man at the warehouse and all along the waterfront, yet Heath seemed to have vanished, and Jackson had exhausted all other leads, a circumstance that served only to fuel his frustration.

  Night after night he searched, until he was exhausted and his patience was worn thin, yet he was no closer to solving the puzzle that Clay’s death had become than he was to securing Reagan’s future.

  Thoughts of his tempestuous ward swirling in his head, Jackson laid a coin on the table and was about to push out of his chair when he saw a familiar figure in the far corner of the room.

  At six feet three inches and one hundred fifty-five pounds, Malcolm Heath’s scarecrow like frame was difficult to mistake, even in a crowd as sizable as this one. Shouting for a bottle of whiskey, he sank down at a table, roughly pulling a pretty little red-haired prostitute named Betty onto his lap. The girl put up a nominal struggle, then squealed with delight when he thrust a coin into her cleavage.

  Malcolm Heath looked up just as Jackson’s shadow crept across the table, and Jackson could have sworn the older man paled beneath his ruddy tan. “Hey,” Betty said, her voice roughened by years of whiskey and smoke, “I know you. You’re the one who used to come by once a month and bust up Kate Flannigan’s. Kate always said that she’d have had you to the sheriff if you hadn’t been such a looker, and so fewking rich.”

  “Leave us, will you, Betty?” Jackson said in a tone that brooked no argument. “I’d like to have a word with Mr. Heath in private.”

  “I ain’t got nothin’ to say to you,” Heath growled, clamping an arm around the girl’s waist, holding her on his lap when the look on her face said she would have gladly complied with Jackson’s wishes.

  “Oh, but you do,” Jackson countered. “In fact, we have a great deal to discuss, starting with the night my brother was killed. You told my father that you’d heard Clay and me arguing. But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there? A great deal more.”

  “Betty, honey, fetch me a bottle, will ye?” Ignoring Jackson’s glower, Heath dug in his filthy trousers and came away with a fistful of coins.

  Jackson seized Malcolm’s wrist, surveying the contents of his palm at a glance. “There’s more than fifty dollars here. You haven’t worked the waterfront since the night Clay was killed. I know, because I’ve asked around. How does a man who can’t hold a job come by so much hard coin?”

  “You go to hell, you murtherin’ scum.” Malcolm tore his arm from Jackson’s grasp and leaped to his feet, flinging Betty into Jackson. Jackson tried to block Malcolm Heath’s path, but the whore clung tenaciously to him, screeching loudly all the while.

  Cursing, Jackson pried her loose and set her roughly from him; at the same time another man stepped up to block his path, grinning an evil, drunken grin. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere till you make proper amends to the little lady.”

  Jackson swung a chair at this new obstacle, and, snatching the pistols from his belt, leveled them at the crowd as he backed slowly into the dense fog that choked the alley.

  Thrusting the pistols through his belt, he searched for some sign, some indication of Malcolm Heath’s passing.

  There was only a thick blanket of white. More blindingly opaque than before, it concealed all but the largest objects from view. Sound was muffled and distorted, the heavy slap, slap of footfalls echoing eerily along the narrow passageway.

  Jackson instinctively followed the sound.

  Heath fled like a frightened deer, down the length of the alley and onto Front Street, then south along the waterfront, Jackson right behind him. As they sped past the scene of Clay’s murder, Jackson lunged for Heath, so close that he could taste his victory. Then, at the last crucial second, something loomed up from behind the crates and bales piled high on Jackson’s left, stumbling directly into his path.

  The obstacle was warm and solid. He barreled into it, taking it down with him, slamming hard against the cobblestones. Blinding pain shot through Jackson’s right shoulder at the impact. He ignored it, scrambling to his feet, cursing roundly as he realized that Malcolm Heath had escaped.

  At his feet, the old man with whom he’d collided had rolled into a ball. Bending down, Jackson gripped the man’s shoulder, staring down into the ancient, wizened features. “Whiskey Joe, are you all right?”

  “Ho, Jack Broussar’,” the old Indian said drunkenly. “Joe mighty fine... mighty fine.”
That said, Joe lay back down and closed his eyes.

  Jackson frowned. The old man reeked of whiskey, and though he knew that Malcolm Heath was out there, he couldn’t walk away and leave the man lying here in the open. He’d known Joe a long time, since before he’d lost his only son to the white man’s spotted fever and found his solace in cheap whiskey. From the age of sixteen Jackson had been extracting the old man from the street and letting him into the Broussard warehouse, where he could curl up between the bales and safely sleep off his whiskey, undisturbed.

  “C’mon, Joe,” Jackson said, helping the old man to his feet and steering him back toward the warehouse, just as he’d done a thousand times before. Only this time, as they neared the building, and the grim facade with its faded lettering loomed up out of the fog, Joe panicked.

  “No, no, no,” Joe said, cringing away from Jackson as he stared in horror at the building, adamantly shaking his graying head. “No, no, no.”

  “It’s a safe place, Joe,” Jackson said. “You can sleep inside where it’s warm and dry, and no one will disturb you.”

  Still the adamant wagging of his head. “Not safe, Jack Broussar’. Not safe no more. Don’t go there. Don’t go there.” He gripped Jackson’s shoulder with a gnarled hand for a long moment, looking into his eyes as if trying to convince him of the dangers within the warehouse; then he turned and shuffled off, swallowed in an instant by the thick, concealing fog.

  Jackson collected his mount and made his way back to the great, hulking house that was his legacy, unaware that at that very moment his quarry emerged from the mist just long enough to cast a furtive glance around before plunging down yet another alleyway some three blocks north of the warehouse.

  Heath hurried down the narrow passage, yet when he approached a darkened alcove in the side of a dilapidated building, a tall, slim figure of a man stepped into his path, bringing Heath up short. “Damn me,” Heath said with a shaky, wheezing laugh, “you ought not to lurk about in the shadows. You gave me a terrible start just now.”