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

by S. K. McClafferty

  The candlelight in the room transformed the windowpanes into small, incandescent mirrors, which gave back Reagan’s reflection in a host of hand-sized squares.

  Was it really her reflected there?

  The woman in the glass panes was dressed in a luxurious white velvet gown, with glittering diamonds at her throat, and appeared more a princess than simple country maiden Reagan Dawes. “It feels like a fairy story gone all awry, and when I close my eyes I’ll be whisked away, back to the cabin in Bloodroot.”

  Outside, a closed conveyance rattled down the street. Long and dark and lumbering, it slowed as it passed the house; then, turning the comer, it disappeared from sight. Doubtless it carried more guests to the ball being held in their honor.

  The mantel clock struck half-past the hour of eight. Reagan sighed. It was time to go, time to face the world as Jackson’s betrothed.

  She was nervous as a cat as she took a deep breath and started down the stairs, and the thought that Jackson would be waiting for her at the bottom of the long staircase was her only comfort.

  Far below, a crowd had gathered, a sea of strange faces, bright with rum punch and curiosity. Reagan searched the throng, finding Catherine and Jase, Emil and G. D., the latter of whom winked and offered a deliciously wicked smile, Madame Chouteau, Madame Girard, Eloise Stimple, and at least a hundred other faces she failed to recognize.

  But the one face she needed to see was conspicuously absent.

  She searched the crowd, frantic now, her steps slowing.

  Any moment now he would push through those gathered and approach the steps to take her hand. Any moment now... Still, Jackson didn’t come.

  Another step. And then another.

  Uncertain, Reagan faltered. The crowd grew silent.

  Where was he?

  Where was he?

  He’d promised.

  He’d promised to be here, waiting. Promised to make this the most memorable night of her life.

  Glancing around, she swallowed hard, trying to act as if nothing were amiss.

  G. D. pushed through the crowd, rising to her rescue. “Since it seems our host has stepped out for a breath of air,” he said, offering his arm, “I would be honored to act in his stead.”

  A breath of air. Rain lashed the windows, the wind howling around the eaves. Everyone present knew that he was lying, but the look on his face defied anyone to remark upon it.

  Flashing G. D. a grateful smile, Reagan placed her hand upon his coated arm. “Where is Jackson?” she whispered.

  “I haven’t the slightest idea,” G. D. replied, “but the boss’s loss is indisputably my gain.” He signaled the musicians, who struck up a slow, lilting waltz, and without preamble led her out onto the ballroom floor.

  Reagan managed the dance quite nicely, without crushing his toes, and was just getting accustomed to the rhythm when Jason St. Claire cut in. He was a handsome man in his mid-fifties with hair that was starting to silver, and eyes of a clear crystalline blue. He gallantly led Regan through the dance, but there was no doubt in her mind that the light in his remarkable eyes was for Catherine.

  A number of partners followed, young men eager to step out with so lovely a companion, older gentlemen hoping to prove that they could still cut a dashing figure.

  And still Jackson did not come.

  Reagan cut short her reel with Monsieur Chouteau, and found her way back to G. D.’s side.

  At that same moment, a boy of about fourteen entered the room, heading straight for Reagan. His hair was plastered to his scalp, and rain dotted the shoulders and collar of his old woolen coat. “Are you Reagan Dawes?” he said in a voice loud enough to carry over the music.

  Reagan nodded. “What is it? Is something wrong?” Her imagination was running wild. Was Jackson hurt? Had some tragedy befallen him?

  “Papers for you, miss,” the boy said. “A bill of sale—a memento from an auction sale a while back.”

  “An auction?” Reagan’s stomach clenched painfully.

  “Aye. The rendezvous auction where Mr. Broussard bought and paid for the pleasure of your company.”

  The musicians’ latest offering died a slow, discordant death, and in the interim a ripple of sound moved through the assemblage, like the low drone of distant bees.

  Reagan heard it as if from far away. She saw the boy’s leering face as he thrust the bill of sale into her hand, yet somehow it all seemed strangely distorted.

  If only Jackson were here, she kept thinking. Somehow he would make it better; somehow he’d make all of the unpleasantness go away.

  But he wasn’t here, and her panic was rising.

  G. D. had the boy by the scruff of the neck. “Who sent you here with this piece of trash? Who, damn it?”

  Unable to bear the weight of the curious stares any longer, Reagan lifted her skirt in both hands and ran from the room, not slowing until she reached her bedchamber.

  Annette had doused the lamp, and the room was cast in shadow.

  Not that it mattered.

  There was no one to see as Reagan closed the door and slumped to the floor, racked by uncontrollable sobs.

  Hugging her upraised knees, she cried out her heart, and it was not until her tears slowed that she became aware of another presence in the room. Dashing the moisture from her eyes, she raised her head, half expecting to see Jackson.

  Then she recognized Abe McFarland, and a scream was torn from her throat.

  Jackson had searched everywhere for his uncle, beginning with the town house. Dragging Navarre’s manservant, Pierre, out of bed, he had questioned him thoroughly while the old man shivered and shook in his nightshirt and cap, and all to no avail. Pierre could tell him only that Navarre had gone out, information that was of but little use.

  Feeling frustrated, Jackson left the town house and began a methodical search of Navarre’s usual haunts, including the house of his friend, the eccentric Philippe Ormond, who lived a good ten miles north of the city.

  But Navarre was nowhere to be found.

  It was nearing midnight when Jackson abandoned his search and rode home to Belle Riviere.

  Because of him, the ball held to formally announce their engagement lay in ruins, and he would be lucky indeed if Reagan hadn’t thought the better of his proposal and run away to the Shenandoah Valley with G. D.

  Steps dragging, he stabled Euripides, rubbed him down with a handful of straw, and made his way through the garden to the rear of the manse.

  The windows of the great house glowed with lamplight, yet when he slipped in the back door, he noted that the house itself was oddly quiet.

  Bessie and Emil sat at the kitchen table, the former plying her handkerchief, mopping the tears that trickled over her weathered cheeks; the latter looked defeated, and sat with his head in his good right hand.

  Bessie raised her gaze, encountering Jackson’s, and snuffled loudly. “What is it?” Jackson asked. “What’s happened here?”

  Bessie groaned, while Emil patted her hand in an effort to calm her.

  “Will someone answer me? The house is silent as a tomb. Where are all the guests?”

  “Gone,” Emil said flatly. “A few frm out-of-tooown eez all eez left.”

  “Gone,” Jackson repeated. “Will one of you please tell me what is going on here?”

  “It’s the devil’s doin’s, dat’s what!” Bessie replied. “That dirty-faced boy come traipsin’ in here with his bill o’ sale, spreadin’ some cruel nonsense ’bout you buyin’ Miz Reagan at a fur auction! Poor Miz Reagan look like she’d been stuck in the heart with a knife! Mr. G. D„ he grabbed dat boy and shook him so hard his teeth like to rattle. No-good gutter trash!” she grumbled, nearly coking on her sobs.

  Jackson was stunned. “Mother of God. This cannot be happening now.”

  Word would have gotten out sooner or later, when the trappers returned from the mountains. But he’d thought to be safely married by that time. He just hadn’t expected it to happen so soon.


  Without another word he started from the kitchen. But he hadn’t even reached the door when Bessie called him back. “Mr. Jackson, it won’t do no good to go up there. Miz Reagan ain’t here, son.”

  “Not here. What in the hell are you talking about?”

  It was Emil who answered. “She’s gone. Reaagan run upstairs. When Stricklan’ follow, Reaagan gone.”

  Cursing viciously, Jackson strode from the room, down the hall, and up the stairs. In the kitchen, chair legs scraped the wooden floor. The thump of Emil’s cane and the sound of Bessie’s snuffles followed in his wake, marking their progress through the manse.

  Reagan’s bedchamber was exactly as she’d left it. The bed was neatly made, and nothing was out of place. The only thing to indicate that she would not walk into the room at any moment was the piece of foolscap that had been placed upon her pillow. Jackson picked it up.

  I could not stay after tonight. Go on with your life.

  Jackson stared at the curling flourishes on the letters. It could have been Reagan’s handwriting. After all, he had never seen it. Yet somehow Jackson wasn’t convinced.

  There was something about this whole situation that didn’t sit well with him. There were but four people in all of Saint Louis who knew about the auction: himself and Reagan, G. D., and Abe McFarland.

  And while G. D. would not hesitate to steal Reagan from under Jackson’s very nose, he would never be so deliberately cruel to her.

  Which left Abe McFarland.

  Abe and Navarre.

  The foolscap fluttered to the floor, discarded, forgotten. Jackson methodically rifled through the contents of Reagan’s armoire and tall chest of drawers, and found the homespun garments—her “travelin’ clothes”—tucked away in the bottom drawer.

  Emil appeared in the doorway. Bessie hovered somewhere in the background. “What weel you do?”

  “Find her, bring her back.” Jackson pushed past his father on his way to his bedchamber. “Where is Strickland?”

  “South road. L-look for Reaagan.”

  “When he gets back here, tell him to meet me down by the warehouse. I have an uneasy feeling that Reagan did not leave of her own accord, and I may need his help.”

  The old man’s brows drew down. “You think some-one took Reaagan?”

  Jackson gave a grim nod, shrugging out of his finery, donning a plain linen shirt, nondescript dark coat, and wide leather belt, through which he seated his matching heavy-bore pistols. Then, reaching into the pocket of the forest green velvet coat he had recently removed, he found the signet ring and placed it in his father’s hand. “Whiskey Joe was at the warehouse when Clay was killed. He picked it up when Clay’s killer lost it.”

  “Navarre.” The sound was like the growl of a wounded beast, low and piteous.

  From the doorway, Bessie snuffled loudly. “Not now, Lord. This can’t be happenin’, please.”

  “I am not sure why, but Uncle Navarre is up to his ears in this. ’Twould seem that he killed Clay, and I am certain he’s in league with Abe McFarland. Though I hate to think it of him, I fear that if I find Navarre, I’ll find Reagan.”

  Tremors shook Emil’s frail body, but his eyes glowed with a feral light. “I know why,” he said succinctly. Then, to Bessie, he said, “You must tell heem. He has a right... to know.”

  “Mr. Emil, please. It can’t do no good diggin’ ’round in de past now! What’s done is done, an’ there ain’t no goin’ back! We’ve got to concentrate on gettin’ Miz Reagan back—”

  “It must be now,” Emil insisted. “He must know the truth about his past—about his maman, and Navarre.”

  Jackson stilled. “What about Navarre?”

  This time it was Bessie who answered, her words coming out like a low, grieving moan. “I swore to Miz Miralee dat I would carry this secret to my grave! On her deathbed she made me promise you would never know!”

  “Know what?” Jackson said. “What secret?”

  “Your mama was a good woman,” the old woman confessed tearfully, “a God-fearing woman, but she had the misfortune to fall in love with the wrong man. It was just a few months before she married Mr. Emil, and because the young man she set her heart on was a younger son, her papa denied consent for them to marry, and he gave her in marriage to Mr. Emil instead.”

  “What in the hell are you trying to tell me?” Jackson demanded, impatient to be gone, feeling precious seconds ticking away.

  Bessie continued, undaunted by his words, and something in her tearstained face froze Jackson to the spot. “Always the dutiful child, your mama married Mr. Emil, but she never was happy in her marriage. Oh, for a while she pretended, and tried to be a good wife... den dat young man what stole her heart came back from the mountains, and God help her, from the moment she laid eyes on his handsome face again, she was lost. Dat man was Navarre Broussard.”

  Jackson felt a chill of pure foreboding come over him. He was afraid to speak, strangely afraid of what would come next.

  Bessie sniffed loudly, her dark eyes filling up with tears. “Mr. Navarre got a child on your mama that first year she was married, a child born of a forbidden and ill-fated love, and son, dat child was you. Dat’s why she put dis here house in trust for you before she died, and left you her fortune. She was afraid... afraid dat if Mr. Emil turned away from you, you’d be left a pauper, fatherless, alone.”

  “Is this true? Is Navarre my father?” The query was unnecessary, an afterthought really. The truth was written on Emil’s lined countenance.

  Jackson might have laughed had the situation not been so dire. Suddenly it all made sense, the feeling that no matter what he did, he could never belong, the dull ache in his chest when he was a boy, sprung from the certainty that his papa had never loved him—not really, not like he’d loved Clay.

  For a moment Emil stood, his mouth working but no sound issuing forth. Then gradually he recovered. Slowly he reached out and cupped Jackson’s ruined cheek, tears shining in his eyes. “S-Sor-ry, Jackson. Sor-ry—for everything.”

  Reagan awoke to the vague sensation of motion. It was dark—very dark—but there was a subtle rumbling beneath her feet, like that of a coffin rolling on wheels. The odd notion refusing to leave her, she searched her mind, grasping any cognizant bit of recall as to how she’d come to be here in this stifling, airless box.

  Then, as if in reply to her unspoken dilemma, flint struck steel beside her, the sparks igniting a scrap of cotton from a tinderbox. In turn, the flame was touched to the wick of a hanging lantern, shedding light on the interior of the closed barouche, as well as on Reagan’s recent recall.

  She remembered the ball, Jackson’s absence, the moment of her downfall, and that great, smelly beast of a man, Abe McFarland, who she could only surmise—since the interior of the coach did not reek of anything unpleasant—sat on the box of the lumbering conveyance.

  In the corner opposite, Navarre sat watching her, a pleasant, almost amiable expression on his face. “I’m glad to see you are finally coming around. For a moment there, I feared you would will your spirit into departing your body, simply to escape our simpleminded friend out there.”

  “It was you who sent the bill of sale,” she surmised.

  He stroked his smooth-shaven chin, seemingly pleased with himself. “A stroke of genius, that, and one more debt owed to Abe McFarland. Had he not imparted his tale of unrequited love, you would not have been humiliated in front of the entire town, the very people you were working so hard to impress. Consequently, you would not have seen fit to run away.”

  “But I didn’t run,” Reagan countered, “and Jackson will know it. He won’t stop until he finds me.”

  “He’ll no doubt try, yet I cannot imagine he’ll think to look where I am sending you. Your suitor, it seems, is eager for a new start, as far away from Saint Louis as he can manage. New South Wales should do nicely, don’t you think?”

  “New South Wales,” Reagan repeated dully. She’d heard of it a long time ago. Something
her mother had said about it being founded on a penal colony. An island a world away from Jackson, with no escape from Crazy Abe.

  “I thought you would appreciate that,” Navarre continued. “It’s a long and costly voyage, but never fear. The arrangements have all been made. There’s a steamboat due to dock here any moment, which will carry you both downriver. In New Orleans you will board the ship that will take you well away from here.”

  “Why would you do this?” Reagan managed to squeeze the query around the lump in her throat. “What have I done to deserve this?”

  “The answer is simple, my dear,” Navarre replied, still smiling pleasantly. “Like too many others before you, you got in my way, poking your nose into places it did not belong, aspiring to rise above your station in life.”

  “I never wanted his money, if that’s what you think,” Reagan shot back.

  Only his heart. It was all that had ever mattered to her.

  “No, but it might have gone better for you if you had. Avarice, you see, I can understand and deal with. Ah, but love... love is quite another matter. Put simply, I cannot allow Jackson to take you to wife. You are not good enough for my son.”

  Reagan sat very still, yet seemingly the look on her face betrayed her.

  “Are you shocked?” he asked. “Well, so am I. I thought you might have guessed by now, or at least suspected.” “Does he... does Jackson know that you’re his father?” Reagan could not resist asking.

  Navarre’s smile deepened, becoming cryptic. “Not yet. But he will. Rest assured, Miss Dawes, everything will work out in the end.”

  The barouche rattled to a stop. A few seconds later the door opened, and the doorway filled with the six-foot-seven-inch frame of Abe McFarland. He leered at Reagan, but directed his words to Navarre. “Steamboat a comin’. I’ll have that pouch with the gold now.”

  Navarre reached into his many-caped coat and came away with an oilskin packet, which he thrust at Abe.

  Abe thumbed through the paper notes, his frown of deep concentration slowly dissolving, a look of suspicion taking its place. “Wildcat notes. You give me wildcat notes? Specie ain’t no good, Navarre. Hard cash money is what we parleyed for.”