Sandra Hill - [Creole]

by Sweeter Savage Love

  Saralee rushed into her arms, sobbing profusely and burying her face in Harriet’s neck. “They took Papa,” Saralee whispered in a rush of words. “The bad men beat him…bad…. Papa was crying…and they took him away.”

  Crying? Etienne? Harriet studied Cain’s demeanor, and she knew the situation was very grave.

  One of Briggs’s two armed men motioned her toward a little sitting room off the lobby. Apparently they weren’t going to speak and provide any means of identification to any townspeople who might be eavesdropping. Within seconds, Harriet was informed by Cain of what had transpired.

  Six of Briggs’s men had been killed, including Brisk and Franklin, the two men from the train, and Pope. Etienne was beaten to a pulp to get information on the gold shipment and just how much President Grant knew of their operation. Now he was incarcerated in a jail of sorts on Briggs’s property.

  Etienne imprisoned again? Oh, Lord! After he’d said he’d never allow himself to be put in a prison ever again. But he’d done it for his daughter. He’d had no choice. Oh, Lord!

  “What now?” Harriet asked, glaring at the two deliberately silent Rambos in cowboy boots who glared right back at her. Their dark eyes above the masks were cold and merciless.

  “Saralee and I are going back to New Orleans by train with these men to hand over the gold. It should take two days.”

  Saralee whimpered at the prospect of having to go anywhere else with these men.

  “I thought the gold was—” She started to say “here in the livery stable,” then stopped herself.

  Cain shook his head. “No, those really are Bibles in those crates. The real gold is back in New Orleans.”

  That was news to her. “Can’t they get it themselves?”

  Cain shook his head. “Gautier has instructions to turn the shipment over only to me or Etienne.”

  Harriet realized that M. Gautier must also be in the government service.

  “You’ll stay here at the hotel,” Cain went on quickly, “under guard, of course.”

  “And when the gold is recovered?” Harriet asked with a shiver of foreboding.

  “Saralee will be released,” Cain said flatly.

  The message was clear. Saralee would be free, or at least they’d promised to release her. But the rest of them…Etienne, Cain and Harriet…would be killed.

  “Why don’t they just kill us now?”

  “Because if I alert the authorities at my end, they intend to take you to the Double B and torture you in front of Etienne. You and Saralee are their guarantees that neither I nor Etienne will try to escape or call for help.”

  Harriet concluded, as Cain must have already, that there was no way these men were going to release Saralee. Even though she was a child, she’d seen and heard too much.

  Harriet nodded her agreement. After much soothing of Saralee and convincing the Rambos that Saralee would be more docile if allowed to take her dog with her, Harriet handed her and Lance up to Cain’s arms. She shoved the dog’s basket at one of the men. Finally her eyes locked with Cain’s, and Harriet hoped that he understood that she wasn’t going to sit still and let anyone die. No way!

  Two men stayed behind to guard Harriet.

  And guard her they did. She wasn’t permitted to leave her room for any reason. They brought her food. They emptied her chamber pot and brought fresh water. One of them slept on the double bed beside her. The only privacy she was permitted—such as it was—was when she retreated behind a screen in her room.

  By the end of the fourth day, Harriet was running out of ideas. She’d tried cajolery. And bribery. Even seduction. Nothing worked. Time to use some of her modern psychological skills, Harriet decided. For the first time in her life, she questioned whether her expertise would be sufficient.

  “Frank,” she said to her guard of the moment. She stood at the foot of the bed.

  “What now?” he growled. The hardened, pockmarked man of about forty was lying on the bed, propped up by two pillows, watching her with lewd interest. Oh, he hadn’t made a move on her, but his eyes did. Frank fancied himself a ladies’ man. His graying hair and mustache were trimmed to perfection. His black jacket and trousers and white linen shirt were of better than average tailoring. “I’m not gonna release you for any reason, sweetheart. Not if you keep preachin’ all that mind mumbo jumbo till your voice runs out. Not to save my soul. Not for your money, which I reckon I’ll get soon anyways. And not for a quick poke, either, which I also reckon I’ll get soon. And I ’spect you’ll like it, too, honey. You look like a woman what enjoys a good poke from a real man.”

  Harriet forced herself not to grimace with revulsion.

  Okay, so he was a vain man, Harriet thought. Work on the man’s weakness. “Has anyone ever told you that you have beautiful eyes?” Harriet remarked, hoping that this brute would be susceptible to flattery.

  “No.” he snorted with disbelief, but she could see that he was pleased.

  “Really?” she said sweetly. “Let me see. Are they blue or gray? No, I see hints of violet in there, too.”

  “Well, my mother did have right pretty eyes,” he conceded, allowing her to come closer than he had thus far. He widened his eyes for her perusal.

  “They’re so pretty. The kind of eyes a lady could drown in. Like mine. Lots of people say they could drown in my eyes. What do you think?”

  Frank stared into her eyes. “Now that you mention it, they are mighty strange. Green, like a cat. They make me feel kinda funny.”

  “Tired,” Harriet offered. “Some men say when they stare into my eyes, they feel so relaxed. Sleepy…sleepy…sleepy…”

  Within minutes, Frank was zonked out.

  Thank you, God!

  The posthypnotic suggestion she gave Frank was to keep singing “Nobody Knows the Trouble I Seen” once he was awakened, and to refuse to come after her. Furthermore, he was to restrain his partner from coming after her, too. The sound of a door slamming would be the cue to come out of the trance.

  Lord, she could lose her license for all these unethical uses of her hypnotherapy skills. Or would this be considered unethical? Well, it was a moot point, really.

  Harriet worked quickly, binding Frank with the ties from the draperies, gagging him with a linen towel, then shoving him under the high bed, where she further incapacitated him by fastening his bound feet and hands to the top and bottom legs of the bed.

  That done, Harriet took a deep breath and tried to slow her thundering heart. Charlie Mendel, the other guard, should be back soon. He’d gone down to the dining room to get their midday meal. Harriet was afraid to risk hypnotism again. So she waited behind the locked door for Charlie’s return, the wooden stock of an empty rifle raised high in the air.

  “What the hell!” Charlie barely got out before Harriet slammed the stock down hard on his head, knocking him unconscious. She bound and gagged him the same as Frank.

  Now what?

  A plan. I need a plan.

  Soon after that, Harriet left the telegraph office, where she’d sent wires to Abel in New Orleans, James Baptiste in California and Blossom at Bayou Noir. She was covering all her bases, hoping someone would respond.

  An hour later, Harriet, whose riding skills left much to be desired, was riding astride a mare that the gape-mouthed livery stable owner had assured her was gentle. He was gape-mouthed because she wore her red harlot dress, covered only with a thin, black lace shawl. She’d tied her money in a pouch under her panty hose as she’d done before, but this time Harriet wore a gun belt on her hips, and she carried a rifle in the side scabbard of the saddle. Her briefcase was tied to the back. Harriet headed out of the city in the direction of the Double B, which the liveryman assured her she couldn’t miss if she kept riding south.

  She was going to rescue Etienne, or die trying.

  Brandon Briggs was an oilier version of J. R. Ewing in a nineteenth-century leisure-style cowboy suit. His graying brown hair and goatee were too perfectly styled with too much M
acassar oil. His fancy boots carried too high a shine. The gold onyx ring on his left hand was too gaudy for a rancher, or a senator.

  “Have a drink, Scarlett,” Briggs advised with exaggerated concern. His clammy hand rested a second too long on her shoulder as he steered her forward through the hallway of his rambling mansion in the middle of nowhere. “I think you need a spot of brandy to settle your nerves after that ride.”

  Harriet had decided to pretend to be Etienne’s sister, Scarlett Baptiste, to give her story a note of authenticity, just in case Briggs had some background information on Etienne and his family.

  “Thank you,” Harriet said, sinking into a leather wing-back chair in the plush library. The walls were lined floor to ceiling with leather-bound first editions whose pages had probably never been slit.

  As Briggs leaned against the fireplace mantel, he studied her through crafty, hard-as-steel eyes. “Tell me again why you made that long ride from Houston, my dear.”

  Harriet hadn’t wanted Briggs to know she’d come from Devil’s Junction; so she’d ridden slightly west and south of Beaumont, coming to his ranch from the southwest. She probably wasn’t fooling him, but she’d thought it was worth a try.

  “I have to admit,” she said, batting her eyelashes at him, “that I ran away from home. Again. My Papa is such a tyrant and so…so rigid in his way.”

  Briggs made a clucking sound of commiseration, but the whole time his eyes were riveted on the expanse of bare shoulder she exposed when her shawl “accidentally” slipped. Harriet wasn’t comfortable in this vamp role, and hoped she wasn’t making a real muddle of things.

  Licking her lips, which really were dry with nervousness, Harriet continued, “I always wanted to visit my brother, Etienne, in Louisiana. Papa said he was such a wild ruffian, and, well, I figured Etienne would be more understanding of a young woman’s…uh…needs.” She put special emphasis on that last word, and was pleased to see Briggs’s florid complexion burn a shade brighter. “But then when I got to Bayou Noir, I learned that he’d gone off to Texas. I didn’t know what else to do but follow after him.”

  Briggs looked skeptical.

  “But I didn’t know he was a thief,” Harriet added, taking a good swig of brandy to bolster her flagging courage. “Truly I didn’t know about his horrible character, or I never would have come. Please let me apologize on behalf of my entire family for his stealing your gold. Papa would be horrified.”

  Briggs’s skeptical demeanor softened a bit. “There’s always one black sheep in every family.”

  Briggs seemed to accept her story about being Scarlett, but she didn’t doubt that he considered her a gift horse…another wedge to use against Etienne. She would have to be careful.

  “Now I guess I’ll have to go back to California.” She sighed. “I don’t suppose you could have one of your men drive me to Houston?” There were dozens of cowhands and what she assumed were armed guards all over the sprawling ranch and the house itself. “I’m sure I could arrange transportation from there to California, but I don’t think I could face riding there myself. The trip here about did me in.”

  “Certainly, my dear, but you must stay overnight. It would be best to leave early in the morning after you’ve rested.”

  Uh-oh! “Oh, I couldn’t intrude on your hospitality. Nor that of Mrs. Briggs.” Oh, please, God, let there be a Mrs. Briggs.

  “My wife is in Washington,” he told her with a smarmy leer. “But you’ve no need to fear for your…ah, reputation. There are maids aplenty about the house.” The way he said reputation made it clear he didn’t think she had one worth saving.

  “Well, if you insist.” She smiled weakly at him and batted her eyelashes again. God, her eyelids were beginning to hurt. How did those Southern belles do it?

  “I’ll have Lillian take you up to a guest room,” he said, ringing a little bell. “You can refresh yourself; then we’ll talk some more before dinner.”

  “You are so kind.”

  “I suppose you’d like to see your brother?” he asked, as if reading her mind.

  Harriet forced herself to remain calm. There was a calculating glimmer in Briggs’s beady eyes. She couldn’t appear too anxious. What would be the best reaction to his question?

  Harriet fluttered her fan. “If you insist, although I have to admit I’d like to clobber the fool. I’m ashamed to claim he’s my brother right now, I truly am. I don’t think we’ve ever had a thief in our family before.”

  Briggs relaxed, obviously pleased with her answer.

  “Perhaps you can tell me later how you built up such a big ranch. From what I could see, the Double B is very impressive. Why, it must be twice the size of my papa’s ranch in California.”

  Preening at her compliment, Briggs said, “Yes, I can see that you are in no way like that villainous brother of yours. I look forward to our conversation. You will join me for dinner, of course. Perhaps we’ll find other areas of common interest.” His gaze was directed at her breasts as he spoke.

  In your dreams, mister. In your dreams.

  It was late evening before Harriet got to visit Etienne. Holding lanterns, Briggs and a guard led the way out the back door and about five hundred yards to a small stone building with iron bars on the windows. The two wagons sat beside the miniature fortress, with open crates and Bibles strewn about.

  Only one guard sat in the little anteroom before the iron-barred cell that presumably held Etienne. The guard was reading a dime novel by the light of an oil lamp. Harriet was afraid to examine her surroundings, fearful of appearing too anxious, and fearful of what she would see.

  “Are you sure I should be here, Mr. Briggs?” Harriet twittered. “I know you insisted, but the smell is atrocious.”

  “It’ll only take a second,” Briggs soothed, then banged on the cell bars with the butt of his pistol. “Wake up, Baptiste. You got a visitor.”

  There was a stirring in the pile of rags in one corner, which, to Harriet’s horror, turned out to be Etienne. He stood slowly, painfully, and blinked in the dim light from the two lanterns. A bone protruded against the skin of his left forearm where the arm had been fractured and left unset. His once beautiful face was a mass of purple and yellow bruises.

  Harriet steeled herself not to show her distress.

  “I brought your sister Scarlett to see you, Baptiste,” Briggs announced with jovial cruelty. “Don’tcha wanna come over here and show her what a brave brother she has? Ha, ha, ha!”

  If Etienne doesn’t kill this man, I will, Harriet vowed.

  Etienne inhaled sharply on recognizing her. “Scarlett?”

  Harriet tried to signal him with her eyes, but she wasn’t sure he could see with his almost swollen shut. “Etienne Baptiste, I am ashamed of you. Stealin’ gold from decent folks. Runnin’ from the law. Why, Papa would whup you good if he was here, just like Mr. Briggs’s men did.”

  Etienne shuffled closer.

  “What the hell are you doin’ here, Scarlett?” Etienne gritted out through his split lips. That little speech caused the cuts to start bleeding again.

  “I ran away from home, if you must know. I went to Bayou Noir, but I shoulda known I wouldn’t be able to depend on you. You no-good rascal.”

  “Go away, Scarlett,” Etienne said. Harriet could see that her presence angered him. “I don’t want your help.”

  “Well, I’m not here to help, you ungrateful lout. You deserve whatever you get, although”—she put a beseeching hand on Briggs’s arm—“although I think it would be decent Christian charity to set Etienne’s broken arm.”

  Briggs muttered something about it not making sense when he was going to die anyway, but Harriet moved closer, brushing against his chest with her breasts, now almost totally exposed by the shawl, which she let fall to the floor.

  “Please,” she coaxed.

  There was a sharp inhale of breath in the room. She wasn’t sure if it came from Briggs or Etienne.

  A short time later, the guard w
ent into the cell with Harriet. Briggs stayed outside the locked cell door, coward that he was. The guard allowed her to pull on Etienne’s arm until the bone popped back into place. It must have been extremely painful for Etienne but he just glared angrily at her through his unforgiving blue eyes. As she was wrapping the arm with a splint and some clean linen cloths that Briggs had reluctantly sent for, Etienne rasped out, “I don’t want your help.”

  “Big deal!” She gave him back an equal glare.

  “So you ran away from home, did you?” he asked, trying a different approach. “You always were a selfish little bitch. Just how far are you willing to go to attain your ends this time?”

  Harriet knew he was asking in his convoluted way just what she was willing to do to save him.

  “As far as I have to,” she said, giving him a level stare.

  His eyes did a quick survey of her harlot gown. “Don’t do it,” he whispered.

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” she snapped. “You have no rights over me.”

  “I don’t deserve it.”

  “That’s for damn sure.”

  “You know what he wants from you,” Etienne said in a rushed undertone when the guard stood and turned for a moment.

  “Yes.”

  “And you’d do that?”

  “Etienne, I would do tricks for the devil to save you.”

  “Don’t,” he repeated. “I’ll hate you for it. I’ll hate myself.”

  She shrugged, but her heart was breaking. He was telling the truth. In doing whatever she had to in order to save him, even if she succeeded, she would lose him. A lose-lose situation all around, for her.

  “What’re you two whisperin’ about in there?” Briggs snarled.

  “Oh, he was just asking me if I had a knife,” Harriet said flippantly. “As if I would do anything to save him!”

  After the cell was locked behind her, Harriet proceeded to leave with Briggs who looped an arm over her shoulder, becoming increasingly bold. She spun around suddenly. Addressing Etienne, who stood with his white-knuckled fists encircling the bars, watching her, she said, “Oh, Etienne, I just thought of something. Do you remember that book you gave me once, a long time ago…something about body language?”