Elusive Hope

by Marylu Tyndall

  Thiago stuffed hands in his pockets.“I cannot go, senhor. The emperor pays me to stay with colonists. I cannot abandon my work or there will be huge punishment. I will instruct someone else which way to go.”

  Blake faced the Scotts. “Will you compensate her rescuer? Offer some incentive?”

  Mr. Scott’s gaze skittered over the men in the room before he grabbed the lapels of his coat. “Whoever goes will have my undying gratitude, sir, as well as the satisfaction of saving my daughter’s life.”

  James shook his head. Had Mr. Scott’s grief, his desperation, of only a moment ago been merely an act? When the Scotts often bragged of their wealth, were they not willing to part with anything to see their daughter safely home?

  Later that morning, James stood before the assembled colonists, open Bible in hand, ready to give the Sunday message—a sermon on love and self-sacrifice, a last-minute change in light of the Scotts’ behavior toward their daughter. While the old carpenter, Mr. Lewis, played his fiddle and led them in the hymn, James tried to shake off the feeling of foreboding that had cloaked him since early that morning—since the middle of the night, in truth. Ever since he’d woken in a chilled sweat from a nightmare he couldn’t remember. He only recalled that it was terrifying and grotesque, and that it had draped a heaviness on him that had been accentuated by Magnolia’s foolish escapades. It was a heaviness he’d felt building ever since they’d arrived in this new land. Like an ominous cloud in the distance drifting ever nearer, blotting out the sun ray by ray by ray.

  Gazing across the faces, he caught a glimpse of russet hair glowing like polished mahogany in the morning sun. Angeline. He shifted his stance for a better view of the petite woman who always seemed dwarfed by the other colonists. Of course, it didn’t help that she’d sat all the way in the back, though he should be happy she’d accepted his invitation at all. If anything could improve his mood, it would be that charming lady. In fact, all the ladies of New Hope were present, Bibles in hand and faces alight with eager expectation of hearing God’s Word. What a welcome change from the women he’d been accustomed to dealing with back in Knoxville, both in church and out. As a jewel of gold in a swine’s snout, so is a fair woman which is without discretion. The verse from Proverbs rose in his mind, reminding him of women he’d known who had lured men to destruction. Who had lured him to destruction. He’d made it his life’s goal not only to avoid such women but to clean the streets of them. Difficult to do in Knoxville, but much easier to accomplish in a new town, in a new utopia based on the Word of God.

  Opening his Bible, James began reading from 1 Corinthians 13. He’d been officiating the services ever since Parson Bailey had run off with their money on Dominica. Yet he still felt unequal to the task. Worse, he felt like a hypocrite. He wondered if God looked down on him, shaking His head in disgust that James dared to preach after his many failings on both the battle and mission field.

  His voice broke. Clearing his throat, he looked across the crowd. A shadow to the right caught his gaze. Dark mist rose on an empty stump like steam from a cauldron, spinning and curling and thickening until it took the form and shape of a soldier. A corporal, he could tell, from the two stripes on the arm of his coat. He looked familiar. That innocent face. That tawny mop of hair. Yes, James remembered him from a battle—the Seven Days Battle, if he wasn’t mistaken. But the boy had been killed, hadn’t he? Confusion twisted James’s thoughts as he scanned the faces staring at him, waiting for him to continue. He shifted his gaze back to the corporal, who was really just a boy dressed like a soldier. So many of them had been.

  A few colonists turned to see what he was looking at. Their brows furrowed and they shook their heads. Clearly they didn’t see the young man.

  The boy smiled at James, but his smile slowly faded as his eyes took on a vacant stare. Blood stains pooled on his gray coat, expanding in a circular death march. His uniform tore as if by an invisible blade. The boy’s chest ripped open, riddled with bullets. Sunlight winked off specks of metal embedded in bloody flesh. Still he stared at James, not a shred of emotion on his pale, placid face.

  “Why did you let me die, Doctor? Why?”

  CHAPTER 8

  Hayden poked the fire, urging the flames to rise, then threw another log on the embers. If he kept the coals hot enough and sat close enough, the mosquitoes kept their distance. There was a price, however—the sensation of roasting like a pig on a spit. Being eaten alive or roasted alive. Great choice. Something pricked the back of his neck. Swatting the offending insect, he eased up the collar of his coat, which only enhanced his discomfort. But at least his arms and chest were covered. More importantly, at least he suffered alone.

  Retrieving a long strip of carne secca from his pocket, he shoved it into his mouth and tore off a bite as his thoughts drifted to Magnolia. He grinned. The audacity of that woman following him into the jungle! A bold move for the primped lady. She must have been desperate, indeed, to venture into such dangerous terrain without being assured of protection and proper escort. Desperate or stupid. Or brave. No matter. She could be whatever she wished as long as she did it somewhere else.

  As tempting a morsel as she was, Hayden didn’t need the extra trouble of forging through the jungle with a prima donna in tow, nor the trouble he would have facing her parents if he ever returned to camp. No doubt they would place the blame on him for their daughter’s disappearance. Though he did feel a slight twinge of guilt for leaving her alone. He probably should have escorted her back to New Hope, but she’d been so close to town, and he’d wasted enough time in his life on empty-headed harridans.

  He bit off another chunk of dried pork, savoring the spicy flavor. He’d only brought enough for two days. After that, he hoped fruit and small critters would suffice to keep him going until he arrived in Rio, where he was sure he could convince someone to offer him a meal or two and a change of clothes. Then he would proceed with his business—questioning the immigration officer about his father’s whereabouts. If the man had changed locations, he would have to report his whereabouts to the proper authorities. Though the land was cheap at only twenty-two cents an acre, the Emperor certainly couldn’t have immigrants swarming around, settling wherever they wished and on whatever sized plots they wished.

  Reaching into his waistcoat pocket, Hayden pulled out a small leather-bound tintype. Flipping the latch with his thumb, he opened it and held it to the firelight, studying the photograph he’d stared at a thousand times. He’d memorized every feature of the man: his black hair, slicked back and curled at his collar; the cultured whiskers that covered his angular jaw; his gray satin waistcoat; the sparkling gem pinned to his tight cravat; the chain dangling from his pocket; the round-brimmed hat in one hand while the other rested arrogantly on his waist. But it was the man’s eyes that drew Hayden. Always his eyes. Even in the fading picture, Hayden detected the smug gleam of a swindler.

  Like father, like son.

  The fire crackled and spit. Sparks danced like fireflies into the darkness. Around him, the jungle played a nightly orchestra that was so different from its daytime melody. More peaceful, secretive, almost sinister. Not a breeze stirred the leaves. Sweat dotted his forehead. A distant growl set his hairs on end. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t come near the fire. He was safe for now. A twig snapped. Leaves rustled. Closing the tintype, he dropped it back into his pocket, grabbed his pistol, cocked it, and scanned the darkness as memories of his vision of Katherine Henley knotted his nerves.

  Crackles that didn’t come from the fire sizzled in the air, or was it merely the sound of crickets? Movement caught Hayden’s eye. He slowly rose. Sweat slid down his back. A man formed out of the darkness, tall with stylish dark hair and cultured sideburns. Green eyes flashed at Hayden, followed by the hint of a sardonic smile.

  Hayden’s breath fled his lungs.

  Father?

  A woman shrieked, drawing his gaze. When he looked back, the man was gone.

  Another scream.

>   Plucking a burning stick from the fire, Hayden darted into the brush, sweeping the torch before him, pistol at the ready. Something moved in the shrubbery. He leveled his weapon and thrust the flame forward to keep the creature at bay. A piece of torn lace flashed in his view. A glimmer of blond hair. His heart stopped. Please, not another vision. Another vision would only mean one thing—that he’d gone completely and utterly mad.

  The lady whimpered. One hand emerged from the bush and flattened onto the dirt, followed by another. Then a face pushed through the leaves as terrified eyes glanced upward. Hayden swept the torch aside but before he took another step, the woman leapt to her feet and barreled into his chest.

  “Oh, thank God, it’s you, Hayden.” Her breathless words escaped with a groan. “There were bats! Bats everywhere! Diving at me, attacking me! Trying to bite me and drain my blood.”

  Hayden couldn’t help but chuckle as he braced one arm around the trembling lady.

  “It was horrible! Just horrible! I thought they were…”—her grip on him loosened—“I thought I was…”—her voice faded—“done for.” She went limp in his arms.

  “Dash it!” Tossing the torch into a puddle, Hayden grabbed her before she fell. “Magnolia!” Her name shot from his lips with the hissing of the flame. Yes, it was her. He knew by the soft feel of her skin, the embellished hysterics in her voice. But not by her smell. The scent that filled his nose was most definitely not sweet citrus and cedar.

  Releasing the hammer on his gun, he shoved it into his belt and hoisted her into his arms. Anger simmered the food in his gut. Anger followed by concern, for she felt as light as cotton and just as weak. A dozen thoughts peppered his conscience. Was she injured? Had an animal bitten her? Had she encountered a poisonous snake or frog? He laid her down by the fire, tore off his coat, bunched it up, and placed it beneath her head. Whatever contraption women wore beneath their gowns made her skirts flare up like a balloon. Even so, with all her petticoats, he couldn’t find her legs to inspect them for injuries. Not that he should be looking at her legs. Still, she bore no marks or bruises on her face, neck, and arms except scrapes from traversing the jungle and bites from insects. He poured water on his handkerchief and dabbed her face. She moaned. Ebony lashes fluttered over pearly cheeks.

  “I thought I’d lost you,” she whispered, her voice scratchy like wool.

  “Are you injured?” Helping her to sit, Hayden dipped the canteen to her lips.

  She gulped down the liquid as if she hadn’t had a sip all day.

  “Easy now.” He withdrew while she caught her breath.

  She pushed him away, her eyes regaining their clarity. “Injured? Of course I am.” Her shrill voice returned, and he instantly regretted giving her the water. “My feet are covered in blisters, my arms with scratches”—she brushed fingers over her cheeks, horror claiming her features—“My face. Oh, my face. There are bites all over it. And my hair.” Fingering errant strands, she attempted to tuck them into the rat’s nest that used to be her coiffeur. “Everything aches and I’m dreadfully hungry. And frightened. And I was attacked by a flock of bats!” Her blue eyes became a misty sea.

  And Hayden’s anger returned. “A colony.”

  “What?” She sniffed.

  “A colony of bats. Not a flock.”

  “Oh. Who cares?”

  “I told you not to follow me.” Hayden growled and rose to his feet, chastising himself for not hearing her behind him all day. For believing she’d obeyed him and relaxing his vigilance.

  “I stayed farther behind this time.” She gave him a satisfied smirk. “It’s not easy to track a man from such a distance, you know. I did quite well. Well, except for this horrendous state I find myself in.” Her gaze swept over her torn, stained gown, and misery shoved her pride aside once again.

  Zooks, the woman’s fickle moods! Hayden’s jaw tightened to near bursting. “Too bad you wasted all that suffering. You are still not coming with me.”

  “You wouldn’t leave me out here alone!” A look of innocent incredulity appeared on her face. “I’ll never find my way back from this distance.”

  Hayden ran a hand through his hair and marched away from her lest he do something he regretted.

  “I can pay you.”

  The words turned him around.

  “My parents are wealthy.”

  “How wealthy?”

  “We owned the largest cotton plantation in Roswell.” Planting her hands on the ground, she struggled to rise, her skirts ballooning in her face. “Grr,” she squealed in exasperation and flopped back down.

  Despite his anger, Hayden took pity on her and extended his hand, helping her to her feet. “Owned does me no good. Especially since the North confiscated your land, did they not?”

  She took a few tentative steps, her delicate features knotting in pain. Hayden kept his grip on her hand firm until she settled. “What pains you?”

  “My feet. I can hardly walk.”

  “Yet you managed to follow me all day.” He released her with a huff, refusing to fall for her charade. This coddled woman knew exactly how to get others to fawn over her every need.

  Pressing down her skirts, she attempted to wipe dirt from the once pristine fabric, her brow and lips twisting into odd shapes in the process. Finally she gave up and turned her back to him in a swish of creamy cotton. “We sold everything as soon as those infuriating Yankees marched into town. That was long before the war ended, as you know.” She affected a nearly believable sob. “We lived under occupation for months and months. It was simply”—she threw a hand to her chest and cast a despairing look at him over her shoulder—“well, it was simply unbearable.”

  Hayden snorted. Though he’d heard the news about Roswell, and it was quite possible her parents had cashed out what they could of their holdings in time, she was playing him. But for what? Sympathy?

  Her chest rose and fell. “I believe I’m growing faint.”

  An owl hooted as if laughing at her declaration. Hayden folded his arms over his chest. “Then you’d better sit down.”

  Frowning, she fiddled with her skirts and lowered herself onto a tree stump. “Turn your face, I must remove my shoes.”

  For some reason he didn’t feel safe turning his back on this vixen. Nor did he like being ordered about like some servant. “You may remove your shoes, Princess, but I’m not removing my eyes from you.”

  She scowled and began fumbling beneath her skirts. “How could I forget? You are no gentleman.”

  “Indeed. And now you have all but handed yourself to me on a platter.” He’d intended his tone to be threatening, even sultry, but it came out laced with anger and disgust. Finally a breeze fluttered the leaves and cooled the sweat on Hayden’s neck and arms. But it did nothing to cool his irritation.

  She froze, her face paling. A growl in the distance drew her gaze and a visible tremble ran across her shoulders. Perhaps not everything was an act. Hayden took a step toward her. “You are safe by the fire.”

  She looked at him as if he’d been the one to just emit a feral growl.

  “And with me.” No sense in toying with the woman any further. As much as he hated to accept it, he was stuck with her.

  She bit her lip and began fumbling for her shoes again but said nothing. A definite first for her. The fire crackled and spit. Turning, Hayden added another log and tried to shake off his anger. The prospect of being paid would certainly make the trouble of bringing her along worthwhile. “Do tell me of this vast estate.” He snapped a branch with his boot and tossed it into the flames. Smoked curled into the darkness, biting his nose.

  “It was to be my dowry,” she said, her voice strained. “My parents sent it to my aunt and uncle in Ohio for safekeeping with the provision that upon my parents’ death or my return to America, the money would be handed over to me at my wedding.”

  “And why didn’t your parents simply bring the money along with them to Brazil?”

  “As insurance. Provision
for me in case something happened to them.”

  Hayden scratched his jaw. It sounded believable enough but something wasn’t right. “Being the astute businessman your father claims to be, surely he would have preferred to invest that money here in Brazil and see a hearty return, rather than leave it so far out of reach languishing in a jar somewhere.”

  “There was no guarantee of any return here.” Firelight etched lightning across her eyes. “We knew nothing about Brazil and saw no need to bring additional monies besides the amount required. As it turns out, it was a wise choice since the parson would be in possession of our fortune now.” She gave him a smug look as her hands continued to grope beneath her skirts.

  One muddy red shoe emerged from the flurry of soiled lace like a dragon from a cloud.

  Plucking the pistol from his belt, Hayden laid it on the log and sat down. “So, you have a dowry. What is that to me? We are here and it is there.” Zooks, he could have used that money. He needed supplies. Badly. And a tracker to find his father.

  “You aren’t going back to the States?”

  “What I seek is in Brazil.”

  Another shoe emerged. Along with a wince and a frown. “Then, why are you going to Rio?”

  He shuffled his boot in the dirt. “If you have no means to pay me, we have no deal.” A final test to see if she had any money at all.

  Cultured brows folded over eyes brimming with fear.“A gentleman requires no compensation to help a lady.”

  “Yet, we have already established I am no gentleman.” He grinned, though his insides broiled at the predicament she placed him in. Of course he wouldn’t leave her in the jungle.

  A frog—no, more like a toad—hopped along the edge of the small clearing. Magnolia gasped and drew her knees up to her chest, scouring the ground around her.

  Hayden rose.“Why would I want to endure your feminine theatrics for four more days? Especially without payment.”

  “Feminine theatrics, mercy me!” She huffed. “Of course there are feminine theatrics. I’m a woman, after all.”