In that instant, a few of the missing pieces of the puzzle that had plagued him for months fell effortlessly into place. Turning away from the window he slammed from the room, taking the stairs two at a time. He knew what he had to do, and he could only hope to God that he could get to Joe before Clay’s killer did.
Chapter Fourteen
The apartments across town were a shambles. The contents of the old French armoire had been strewn about the floor. The drawers, torn from the dresser, lay upended among the books and papers knocked from their shelves. In the midst of the maelstrom of destruction stood Navarre Broussard, breathing hard and looking quite the madman.
“Accursed ring!” he shouted to the room at large, giving a drawer a vicious kick. “Where can it be?”
His shout died away, and the brooding silence settled on the room once again.
Navarre paced the length of his parlor, kicking the debris from his path, growing more and more agitated with each step.
Destroying his apartments had been an exercise in futility, executed solely to vent his uncontrollable rage. There was nothing to be gained by it; the gold signet ring he’d always worn, and which he had not seen since the night he’d taken the life of his brother’s only son, was not to be found within these walls.
It was crucial that he find the ring, the only fragment of evidence tying him to Clayton’s untimely demise.
Catching sight of himself in the gilt-framed mirror suspended on the parlor wall, Navarre stopped his pacing. “It must be in the warehouse still. It could not have simply vanished.”
Yet seemingly it had done precisely that.
While his brother’s son had lain in his coffin in the grande salle at Belle Riviere, and Jackson had hovered somewhere between death and despair in these very apartments, his face forever marked by Emil’s anger, Navarre had combed every inch of the warehouse.
But he hadn’t found the ring. Now, because of it, his world was disintegrating beneath his feet.
“How can it all have gone so terribly wrong?” he wondered aloud.
He hadn’t set out to murder Clayton.
He hadn’t set out to take the life of Malcolm Heath.
Both had been but obstacles to his ends—to his ambitions. Somehow it had all become so unbearably complicated.
Utterly defeated, he sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands, seeing Clayton, the way he had looked that rainy April night.
Clay had bloodied his knuckles on Jackson’s jaw, and was busy winding his kerchief around the slight wound when Navarre walked in, yet he appeared cool and unruffled... totally unaffected by the dire events he had just set into motion... uncaring that he would destroy not one life come the dawn, but two... so very like Emil.
“Uncle,” he said. “What on earth are you doing here so late? I thought you had gone home hours ago.”
Navarre had smiled, but the expression had been tinged with bitterness and hatred. “I had indeed. But upon my arrival I discovered that I had forgotten my driving gloves. And since I promised Madame Leachfield an early morning ride in the country, I quite naturally came to retrieve them.” He made a slight gesture with one hand. “I came around by the rear. The waterfront is a dangerous place after dark, you know, and one cannot be too careful. I would not wish to risk some miscreant making off with my new calash.”
He picked the gloves up off the bale where he had left them, tucking them into the pocket of his coat. He took a step, then turned back, fixing Clay with a brittle stare. “As I approached the building, I felt sure that I heard voices—yours and Jackson’s—voices raised in anger.”
Clay stiffened at the mention of Jackson’s name. “Do not try to talk me out of it, Uncle. His conduct is a blight upon the name Broussard, and can be tolerated no longer! He has overstepped the bounds of human decency for the last time. Brother or no, he needs to be taken to task for what he has done!”
Trying to reason with Clayton was like trying to reason with Emil, and Navarre knew the sting of the thwarted younger son all too well.
Always scorned, never quite good enough.
He glanced slowly around the warehouse. Except for an accident in the order of birth, this empire would have been his.
Miralee would have been his.
Unfailingly obstinate, Clay would not be swayed from the path he’d chosen, and Jackson was just reckless enough to give Clayton the chance to put a ball into his brainpan.
It was that final thought that prompted him to reach into the pocket of his waistcoat, and by the time he brought the pistol forth, the outcome of the episode had already been decided.
Clayton had the temerity to look surprised. “Is this some sort of jest, Uncle? Surely you can’t mean to use that thing.”
“But I’m afraid that I do. You see, nephew, by calling Jackson out, you have overstepped the bounds of human decency. Far be it from me to try to dissuade you from your plans. I am well aware that your stubbornness will not allow you to retract the challenge, and that Jackson’s pride will goad him into facing your fire. And, though he is the surer shot, I have little doubt that you will succeed in killing him.
Regrettably for you, he is all that I have left, and I cannot let anyone harm him. Not even you.”
“You can’t go on shielding him, Uncle. Now give me the pistol.” Stepping forward, Clay reached for the weapon, and as his hand stretched outward, Navarre slowly squeezed the trigger.
The pistol barked, a small but unmistakable sound, spewing fire and acrid smoke from its ornate muzzle. The ball took Clay in the center of his chest, jerking him backward, as if he were a puppet and some unseen hand had violently pulled on his strings.
Strangely, he did not fall. Instead he took a shambling step forward, catching at Navarre’s free hand, clutching it in a death grip as he slowly sank to his knees.
From outside came the sound of shouts and running feet. In that instant, Navarre panicked. Desperate to be gone from the scene, he pulled his hand from Clayton’s, wincing at the sound of metal striking wood. When he looked down, his signet ring was gone.
There had been no time to search. Navarre made his escape through the back alley at the same instant that Malcolm Heath came in the front door.
In that moment, when they both hesitated, locking gazes, Navarre’s world had begun to crumble. Malcolm Heath had been greedy, but his tastes ran to dockside whores and watered-down whiskey, nothing that Navarre could not afford.
“If Jackson had just heeded my advice, and stayed away awhile longer, I might have convinced Heath that he had no future in Saint Louis.”
But Jackson had returned, with a half-grown girl in tow, and once again the situation had spiraled out of control.
Massaging his temples with fingers that trembled, Navarre shook off his musings, concentrating again on the ring. “Someone must have found it. It is the only answer to this troublesome question. Someone who had access to the warehouse. But who?
Who had access to the warehouse besides Jackson, Emil, and me?” At first he could think of no one. Then, unbidden, the weathered brown visage of the old Peoria Indian who sometimes took shelter among the bales of fur leaped to mind.
A spark of hope igniting in his dark eyes, Navarre threw his caped coat around his shoulders, fetched his gloves, hat, and cane, and went out into the gathering dusk.
As he approached the stable, Abe McFarland stepped off the back portico into Navarre’s path, yet another complication to be dealt with by and by. “Goin’ somewhere, partner?” Abe rumbled low.
Navarre’s stomach clenched. “I believe I asked you not to come to my home.”
“I come to talk terms,” Abe said flatly.
“If it’s money you want—”
“Not money,” Abe said slowly, patiently. “It’s L’il Sister I want.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The woman that nephew of yourn bought at auction. She should’ve been my woman, but he stole her from me. And you’re gonna help me get her ba
ck.”
The sun was going down on the vast grasslands to the west of the city as Reagan slipped out of the charcoal gray silk and into her homespun shirt and breeches, but the transition from the well-kept ward of a rich and powerful gentleman to lowborn country wench was far more painful than she could ever have imagined it would be.
How foreign it felt now to wear her brother’s cast-off clothing. Foreign, yes, but necessary. She was making a clean break and taking nothing with her. She would exit Jackson’s life the same way she had entered it, as the ragged country wretch in the battered felt hat and clothing two sizes too large.
Buttoning the flap of the breeches, she donned her worn woolen coat and reached for the hat, catching sight of herself in the mirror, hesitating. The eyes of the woman in the mirror were huge and damp, and the image wavered and swam. “Don’t look like that,” she said to her reflection. “You don’t belong here! You never did. It was all just make-believe, a pretty dream—and now it’s over.”
Ever stubborn, her heart was wont to argue. If she didn’t belong in this place, then why couldn’t she just walk away? Why did she feel such a deep and spreading sadness at the thought of never seeing Annette, or Bessie, or even the proud old gentleman down the hall again?
As ludicrous as it seemed, this huge and elegant house, which once had terrified her, now seemed like a home. Bessie and Kevin and Annette were more like family than strangers. Their kindness had meant a great deal to her. And then there was Jackson, and Josephine, whose paw shot out from under the bed and playfully batted at Reagan’s boot.
Reagan sniffed back threatening tears, turning away from the mirror, and hurried from the room.
Using what little stealth she could muster in her haste, she hurried down the hall, past Jackson’s room. The door stood ajar, the chamber empty. As she passed the door to Emil’s apartments, she heard the rustle of movement, a low, ground-out curse, and step, scrape… step, scrape… step, scrape.
It was a strange sound, a sound that brought her up short. Turning quizzical eyes to the solid-oak panel, she thought of the old man who dwelt behind it, alienated from his son, cut off from the world, and she experienced a keen sense of regret. Without someone to nudge them in the right direction, they would never bridge the painful gulf that separated them.
Almost of its own volition her hand reached out, tapping lightly on the panel, then grasping and twisting the knob. Slowly, carefully, she edged the door open, expecting to see the stem-faced Antoine Garrett, or one of the new servants.
Surprisingly there was only Emil, looking very regal in his throne like chair, his silver hair a trifle mussed, a ruddy spot of color high upon his cheeks.
Suspicious now, Reagan frowned at him. At the same time, Emil’s sharp gaze flicked over her male attire, and he frowned back.
“Are you all right?” Reagan asked. “Just now I thought I heard—” She stopped, trying to reconcile the sight of the invalid with the sound she had heard. “What I mean to say is that from the hallway it sounded as if—” She broke off again, suddenly aware that she had no right to question him. “I was just wonderin’ if there was anything you needed?”
His frown easing a bit, he shifted in his chair, folding his hands over an ornately carved ebony cane. “Liar.” It was softly said, yet Reagan was amazed that a single word could weigh so heavily with accusation. “You came say g-g-goo-b-b—”
Unable to force the last syllable, he groaned, closing his eyes momentarily, battling down the anger, fighting for control of a body that would obey his iron will no longer.
Reagan fought for control, too, over her roiling emotions. It was totally irrational that she should care about him, yet she did. She felt empathy for his sufferings, and a strange sort of kinship, too.
His pride was great, so great that it ruled him, keeping him apart from the son he loved, the only son he had left.
Strangely, she understood.
Her pride was forcing her to run away, and she was leaving her heart behind. When she answered, her voice was small, quiet, meek almost, so unlike her. “Yes, I fear that’s so.”
He stared hard at her, and it took a herculean effort for Reagan not to flinch beneath that penetrating gaze. “Wwwhhhyyy?”
“Because I cannot stay!” Reagan shot back.
“You weel not.”
Reagan shook her head. “You don’t know, and therefore you can’t understand!”
The old tyrant fixed her with a look. “I know,” he insisted. “He needs you.”
“You don’t know anything! You keep to this room, away from Jackson, closed off from the world, skulking behind the curtains when you think that no one sees!”
She swept off her hat, and her dark hair tumbled down around her shoulders. She was aching inside, angry that he had goaded her, that he sat there in his chair, all judgment and disapproval. “What difference does it make, anyway? You don’t care about Jackson! If you did you would tell him that you’re regaining your strength. Instead you keep it from him! Since we’re askin’ questions, maybe you could tell me why that is? Are you tryin’ to punish him? Don’t you think he’s suffered enough? He didn’t kill Clayton; don’t you know that by now? It wasn’t his fault.”
“Know,” he said emphatically, his hands tightening on the head of the cane. “Know. Mist—mist—mistaaa—” He ground his teeth and tried again. “S-sorrrry. Jackson can-nnn for—g—fffffmmmm,” he said, breaking off, shaking his head. For a moment she thought his face would crumble beneath the weight of his struggle. His dark eyes burned with an intense light, fueled by his inner conflict; his jaw worked, but no sound issued forth except for a frustrated hissing through his teeth.
It took him several moments to recover his shattered aplomb, to drag his chilly dignity around his ruined self again. “He needs you,” he said, painstakingly, doggedly. A nod of his head, then softly, almost imperceptibly, “I know, Raggga-nn Dawes. I ooonce neeed sss-m-ooone... ‘n los her. Wwwd you haaaf m-m s-son b-becccome a-s me? O-O-Old. Bit-ter. Alonne?”
“It is your choice!” Reagan said, exasperated now. “You need not be alone. You have a son who loves you, your brother Navarre, Mr. Garrett, Bessie, and the others. You have a family... as does Jackson. He’ll do just fine without me.”
Emil harrumphed and jerked his chin, his words no less arrogant for the fact that they were slurred. “No Navarre, crackbbbrrrainn twit!” He made a disgusted motion with his hand. ‘What you know? No c-courrage. Tuck tail, run-waaay He shuddered with the effort at speech, and for an instant set to grumbling beneath his breath. When he spoke again, he jabbed a hand at the window, the panes of which were growing dark. “No haws,” he said emphatically. “Noooweaaponnn! Peril owwt thhhere, yyouu. You arrre afffool.”
“I’ve been lookin’ out for my own interests for more years than I can count,” Reagan assured him, despite her own self-doubts. “And I was doin’ just fine before Jackson came along. I can take care of myself.”
Flashing her a dubious look, Emil leaned over in his chair, fumbling with the drawer of his bedside table.
Reagan was strangely relieved. She’d made a mistake in coming here. Unlike Jackson, Emil could see through her bravado to the desperate, frightened young woman beneath, and she felt a sudden wild urge to flee his presence, to go as far and as fast as she could, before his logic and plain truth could penetrate her grim resolve to go.
She was just about to act upon her urge when Emil found what he’d been looking for, a rather large wooden box some four inches in depth, which he held out to her.
Reagan reluctantly took it and, at his urging, opened the lid, staring in disbelief at the pair of dueling pistols tucked away inside. “I can’t take these.”
“Weaaponn,” the old despot stated flatly.
Reagan shook her head, fighting against the tears that stung the backs of her eyes. “You don’t understand. I’m not coming back. Not for a long time. Maybe not ever.”
“Unn-stand,” Emil insisted. “Easier ru
n-hide than to ffface in-si—” He thumped his chest with his good hand to make his meaning clear.
He knew her heart, knew that she was running away to keep from facing her greatest fear: that Jackson could not love her— not the way she needed him to—not ever.
Reagan raised her chin, and a spark of defiance shone in her eyes. “Yes, well. I expect I’m not alone in my cowardice. You’ve found yourself a hidey-hole to hibernate in, when you ought to be tryin’ to fix things with Jackson.”
He said nothing to that, but she could see that the barb had hit its mark. Something shone in his dark eyes for a moment, a lingering trace of a keen regret that was there, then quickly gone, leaving Reagan to wonder if she’d seen it at all or merely imagined it.
A blink of an eye and he was himself again, arrogant, imperious, intent upon having his own way in everything. “Can shoot-ride?”
Suddenly tired of fighting, Reagan sighed. “Well enough to keep my seat, and to keep some fool jackass from stealin’ the horse out from under me.”
Emil gave a satisfied grunt. “Stables t--h-henn. Take hawse.” They were both silent for a moment; then, slowly, he extended his good hand.
For a moment Reagan stared at the appendage; then, a lump gathering in her throat, she reached out, placing her hand in his, feeling his fingers close around it. “Stay safe, Raggga-nn Daw,” he said. “Stay safe.”
Whiskey Joe was an obstacle thrust directly into his path by an unkind twist of fate. And Navarre could not let him walk away... not when there was a chance that Joe could tell Jackson the truth about Clayton. Conscience had no part in this night’s work.
He reined in his mount a little distance from the clapboard shack, dismounting in the road, then leading the horse off into the deep shadows of the woods. Abe McFarland was never far behind.
At the edge of the woods, they stopped.
“That’s Whiskey Joe’s place,” Abe said, turning a suspicious eye upon Navarre. “What business might a fine, upstanding gentleman like you have with a drunk old In’jun?”
Bride of the Shining Mountains (The St. Claire Men) Page 23
