Atlanta

by Sara Orwig

  “I’m armed and I’m careful and I’ve had Badru with me the past three weeks at night.”

  “I didn’t see him tonight.”

  “No. I didn’t intend to stay this late.”

  “I can wait with you.”

  “No, thanks. I’ll be safe. I need to get this done.”

  “All right. I’ll go and leave you alone, but take a good look at your son and what you’re doing to him. Michael isn’t the same happy little boy.”

  “He’ll cheer up.”

  “Fortune, forget Wenger and look at Claire and Michael and what you’re doing to them.”

  “Dammit—”

  Alaric moved quickly. As Fortune pushed back his chair, Alaric sprinted to the door. “I’m going.” He vanished, his footsteps sounding hollow in the empty building.

  Fortune looked at the darkened windows and then sat down, bending over the books in front of him, seeing Claire’s pale face, remembering her arms wound around him, her body pressed against his. As swiftly as the image came, he recalled that dreadful panicky moment when he had thought Wenger might have Michael. He couldn’t forgive her what she had done or for breaking her promise to him.

  “Dammit,” he said, trying to concentrate, finally getting his mind on the figures in front of him.

  When Fortune next glanced at the clock, he was startled to see it was midnight. Engrossed in work, he hadn’t realized it was so late. “Just a little more,” he said, turning a page. Then something clicked in the hall.

  He raised his head, listening. His hand inched toward the gun belt with his revolver on his desk. It had been only a tiny click, yet no one was in the building.

  He closed the ledger, feeling his skin prickle, knowing he shouldn’t have worked so late when he was alone. He could go into the mill and get one of the men to accompany him home.

  He extinguished one lamp and wrapped his gun belt around his hips. As he started to buckle it, Trevor Wenger stepped into the doorway and raised a pistol.

  The two blasts were loud. A searing pain erupted in his shoulder, then in his side.

  Fortune lunged at him. The third blast was deafening in the small space, and Fortune felt as if a knife had cut through his head. Then blackness closed over him.

  “Michael—” he gasped as he fell.

  Conscious of Penthea quietly sewing in a corner of the room, Claire read to Michael and finally tucked him into bed, thankful to have an evening with him. She tiptoed out, descending to an empty downstairs. Soon she became restless, wondering if Fortune was working late or with another woman or gambling. She suspected he was working. He seemed to fill all his time with work.

  She felt caught in an impasse. Neither of them would give up Michael, and now another baby might be on the way. Would he be as fiercely possessive about their child, or would he treat it as coldly as he was treating her?

  She pushed aside that worry. Fortune was far too good with Michael to mistreat a tiny baby. Pray the next one also looked like its father. It was too early to really know if she was pregnant, but each day made her more hopeful. Her own baby. And in spite of his anger, she loved Fortune and this would be a part of him that she could have.

  She sat on a settee and sewed until she finally looked at the clock and saw that it was two o’clock. Would he stay away all night? The thought hurt because the only reason she could imagine to keep him away from home the entire night was a woman.

  She wiped her eyes, wondering how long she would cry over him. She loved him desperately, missed all that had been growing between them. When he had been so angry before, they had been traveling together. Now she never saw him. How would the situation ever change if they were never together?

  Tired, she went upstairs to bed, stopping in Michael’s room, seeing Penthea dozing on the extra bed. Claire tiptoed across the room to look down at Michael, thinking she would always feel he was her son as much as the baby she was carrying. She pushed Michael’s silky curls back from his forehead and picked up a book from the pillow beside him, wondering if he had fallen asleep reading.

  With a sigh she leaned down to brush his cheek with a kiss, feeling love well up for him. She tiptoed out and closed the door, going to her room to get ready for bed.

  When she slid between the covers, she was overcome with yearning for Fortune.

  Suddenly a stair creaked and she turned her head, listening to hear if he had come home. But then all was silent and she realized that it must have been her imagination. There were no sounds of boots on the hall floor. She closed her eyes, knowing she would doze fitfully as she had all the past nights since Fortune had moved from her bed.

  She ran her hand over the pillow, aching for him. “Fortune, I love you,” she whispered. Finally she slept.

  Claire stirred, opening her eyes, running her hand over the empty bed. She raised up to look at the bed, remembering Fortune stretched on it, remembering his wild kisses, his passion. Hurt enveloped her, as suffocating as a blanket thrown over her.

  A faint moan came. She frowned and listened and in a minute heard the sound again. She stared at the darkness, feeling a frisson of panic. It wasn’t like any night sound she had ever heard before. Frowning, she swung her legs out of bed and yanked on her wrapper. Fumbling to light an oil lamp, she picked it up to carry it with her. In the hall she looked around, with long, eerie shadows thrown against the wall from the lamp, and the hairs on her arms prickled. The house suddenly seemed enormous and empty. Fortune’s bedroom door stood open on a darkened room, and her alarm grew. As angry and remote as he had been, he wouldn’t have stayed away from home all night.

  She looked at Michael’s closed door and heard the moan again. Her heart seemed to stop—the noise came from the direction of Michael’s room. She rushed down the hall, flinging open the door.

  Michael’s bed was empty. Light spilled over the bed, the covers thrown back. Claire raised the lamp. Penthea was bound and gagged, tied to a chest and lying on her side on the floor.

  Terrified, Claire ran to kneel beside her and yank away the gag. “Michael?”

  “They took him,” Penthea sobbed. “They grabbed me and tied me up. They picked him up and carried him out.”

  “I’ll cut you loose, Penthea, but let me get Badru first,” Claire said, feeling icy, terrified because Wenger had Michael now. “How long ago did they take him?”

  Penthea sobbed and Claire suspected she wasn’t going to get an accurate answer anyway. Trying to think what to do, she ran downstairs. The back door was open. Across the lawn she raced to Badru’s quarters and pounded on his door. How long ago had they taken Michael? How much of a head start would Wenger have? Where was Fortune? If he was working, they could find him, but if he was with a woman or gambling—

  “Ma’am?” Badru said, sounding fully awake.

  “Come quick! Penthea’s tied upstairs and Michael is gone. I’ll hitch the buggy. We’ve got to go to the mill to find my husband. Run cut Penthea free and then come back here.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I’ll get my boots.”

  Thankful he didn’t ask questions, she rushed to the carriage house. Her hands kept shaking as she tried to hitch the team, terrified for Michael. She dropped the harness, had to bend to pick it up. Finally Badru appeared in front of her. “Ma’am, I’ll finish hitching the horses if you want to wait in the house. In fact, I can ride out to look for Mr. O’Brien.”

  “No, I’ll go with you,” she said, wondering if Badru was trying to keep her from discovering his whereabouts. “While you do this, I’ll change my clothes.”

  She ran up the stairs, and passed a sobbing Penthea. “Penthea, I have to hurry to get Mr. O’Brien.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Will you be all right alone here until I get back?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Drink some brandy. It’ll help your nerves.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Upstairs, Claire yanked on a poplin dress, her underdrawers and her shoes, rac
ing back down. Badru was driving the team toward the door, and he halted so she could get in. She climbed up beside him. “Do you have a gun?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Hurry.”

  “You hold on.” He cracked the buggy whip and flicked the reins, yelling at the team, and they sprang forward. The buggy rushed down the drive, pebbles flying, wind blowing her hair away from her face. They careened around the turn and clattered over the street, swaying wildly at corners and shaking when they left town and took the rutted road toward the mill.

  Smoke rose from the mill stack and spread across the sky. She saw a light burning in Fortune’s office. “There, Badru. There’s his office.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  He pulled in front of the door and she started to climb down. “I’ll get him. You wait here.”

  Badru jumped to the ground and pulled the revolver out of his waistband. “I better go with you.” He held the door and she ran past him.

  “Fortune! Fortune!” she cried as she raced toward his office. Light spilled from the open door into the hallway, and when he didn’t answer, she wondered if he was working after all. Once through the doorway, though, she stopped dead. Fortune was sprawled on the floor, a pool of dark blood spread beneath him.

  Chapter 23

  “Fortune!” She hurried across the room and knelt beside him. As she placed her hand against his throat, her head swam at the sight of all the blood.

  “Badru, he’s alive!”

  “Ma’am, let me pick him up. We have to get him to a doctor.”

  Dazed, unaware of tears on her cheeks, she stepped back as Badru lifted him easily. She followed him out to the buggy, where he carefully placed Fortune in the back seat.

  “Mrs. O’Brien, we need to keep the wounds stanched.” He yanked off his shirt and balled it up. “You hold that against his side. It seems the worst. He’s been shot twice, but I don’t think the shoulder wound is as bad.”

  She nodded, kneeling on the floor of the buggy beside an unconscious Fortune while Badru climbed in front. “Mrs. O’Brien, I’m going to ride hard unless you tell me to quit.”

  “Go.” She cried softly, praying that Fortune would survive. The return ride was almost as wild as the ride out to the mill, and she had to cling to the buggy and brace her body to keep Fortune from rolling off the seat. She could feel the warm ooze of blood as it soaked Badru’s shirt and her panic increased.

  Badru stopped in front of a two-story brick house. She climbed down and watched as he picked up Fortune. “Run tell the doctor we’re coming.”

  She raced up the front steps, remembering Fortune bringing Dr. Newsom over one time when Michael’s throat hurt. She rapped on the door. As Badru joined her, she knocked again and then a light shone through the beveled glass of the front door.

  When the door swung open, Dr. Newsom stood wearing a dressing gown, his brown hair in a tangle. “Bring him in here,” he said, sounding alert and calm, as if he received wounded men at any hour of the night. “Down the hall, Mrs. O’Brien.”

  “He’s been shot.”

  “You sit down here. I’ll look at him.” He left and she stood in the hall, stunned by the events of the past hour. And the thoughts that had nagged her now came rushing at her, too painfully clear. Fortune had been right! Trevor Wenger was a monster, and he could only have taken Michael for his own selfish purposes.

  She paced the floor, wanting to go in with them, not knowing what to do to try to get Michael back. She thought of Alaric. He would go with her if she went after Wenger. And then she looked down the hall at the closed door, knowing she couldn’t put Alaric at such risk. Would Badru go with her? If Fortune was dreadfully injured, she would have to stay, to try to find Trevor Wenger and Michael later because she couldn’t abandon Fortune.

  Too nervous to sit down, she made another turn around the hall, looking at the pictures on the walls without really seeing them. The passage of time seemed interminable. She looked down at the blue poplin, spattered with Fortune’s blood, and agony enveloped her. He had been right about Wenger. She clutched her hands and bowed her head, praying quietly that Fortune would survive.

  Another half hour passed before the door opened and Badru emerged with the doctor behind him. Dr. Newsom motioned to her.

  “He’s ready for you to take him home. Both shots went clean through him. Nothing vital got hit. He had a nasty slice across his hand. He was shot in the shoulder, and the other shot went through his right side. If we can keep infection from setting in, he should recover nicely. If infection starts, he’ll be in trouble.”

  Overwhelmed by relief, she closed her eyes a moment. “Thank you, Dr. Newsom. He looked so bad.” She turned around. “Badru, will you take the buggy and get a wagon to put him in?”

  “Here’s laudanum,” Dr. Newsom said. “Give him enough to stop his pain.”

  “Thank you,” she said, taking the bottle and watching Badru go out the door.

  It took another hour before they had Fortune loaded into the wagon and moved to a downstairs bedroom. “Badru, ride out and get Major Hampton. You know where to find him.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  She looked at Fortune’s heavily bandaged shoulder and middle. One hand had a white bandage. He looked pale and still and vulnerable. She had never seen him that way. It brought back fear for him and worry that they wouldn’t get Michael back. And if he didn’t, he would search the world over for Trevor Wenger.

  She moved close to the bed, wondering how long they could keep from him that Wenger had taken Michael. Fortune needed to heal, and the moment he heard what had happened, he would want to go after them.

  Hearing voices, she left the room, closing the door and hurrying to the stairs. Badru and Alaric were in the hall. Alaric wore denim pants and a blue chambray shirt, and his hair was tangled as if he had just stepped out of bed and come at once.

  “Badru, will you watch him while I talk to Major Hampton?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Penthea has gone to her quarters.”

  Claire nodded as Badru passed them, and she looked up at Alaric.

  “Badru said that he’ll live.”

  “Dr. Newsom said if there’s no infection he should be fine. Alaric, Trevor Wenger had taken Michael. I don’t know how long they’ve been gone—two hours, three. It can’t have been much longer than that.”

  “Damn,” he said, glancing beyond her at the sick man’s door. “He’ll be wild. He won’t wait to heal.”

  “If I stay here—”

  “Dammit, you can’t go after Wenger. If he went out to the mill and shot Fortune, he wouldn’t hesitate to kill you.” He reached out to grip her shoulders, his fingers clutching her tightly. “Promise me you won’t go after him.”

  “I can’t!”

  He frowned. “Look, Fortune won’t live if he gets up and tears up those wounds and gets them infected. You stay here and keep him from knowing what’s happened as long as you can. If I start searching and asking questions now, I can have a dozen men looking in the next hour.”

  “Oh, Alaric, thank God! Please try to find out where they’ve gone.” Tears threatened and she drew a deep breath. “He’s such a little boy.”

  “Wenger won’t hurt him, at least not physically. Send Badru down here. I’d like to take him with me. He knows a whole different group of people. Someone is bound to have seen the Wenger carriage with those yellow wheels. Badru will know the servants, and their gossip goes through town quicker than wildfire. And for God’s sake, keep Fortune on laudanum. That way you might manage to keep him quiet.”

  She motioned to Badru. He glanced at the bed and came into the hall. “Will you go with Major Hampton now? I’m going to try to keep Mr. O’Brien from learning that Michael is gone.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I would too.”

  Once the two men had left, she returned to Fortune’s side, gazing down at him, wondering how long she could convince him that Michael was in the house and all right.

&
nbsp; For hours she kept watch with him, frightened in spite of Dr. Newsom’s reassurances because Fortune lay so still and looked so pale. When he began to stir she found the laudanum and got it ready, along with a glass of water for him. But Fortune lapsed back into sleep, and she looked out the window, wondering when Alaric would return. As her gaze dropped to her lap, she realized she was still in her bloodstained dress. She glanced at Fortune, who was sleeping quietly, and she hurried upstairs to wash and to put on something fresh.

  When she returned, he was just the same as when she left him. As she sat on a rocker near the bed, Badru appeared in the doorway. Hoping he had some kind of news about Trevor Wenger, she hurried into the hall.

  “I can sit with him, ma’am. Major Hampton is in the parlor, he has some information.”

  “Thank heavens. The laudanum is on the table next to a glass of water.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Penthea is starting breakfast.”

  “How is she?”

  “She’s fine. She’s nervous, but that will pass. And she keeps crying over Michael.”

  “It wasn’t her fault. I was home too when it happened.”

  Claire found Alaric in the parlor. He was seated on a chair, leaning back with his eyes closed, but when she walked into the room, he came to his feet and crossed to her. His boots were dusty, his shirt and pants wrinkled, and she wondered where he had been.

  “We’ve found out which way they headed out of town. He’s going to Savannah. I’d guess he’ll get on a boat to Europe because Fortune said he has a home in France and he spent most of the war over there.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. Badru found someone who saw the carriage, and one of my men found someone. I’ve sent some men along the road toward Savannah. I would guess that he thinks he killed Fortune and that there’s little you can do. He may figure he had the whole night’s head start.”

  “So, if I leave—”

  “Dammit, you’re not going after him. Claire, you have to promise me if you go, you’ll tell me and I’ll go with you.”

  “I don’t want you to risk—”