The thought of that made him blush because he enjoyed it as much as she did. More than once, he had sneaked into her room and gone through the elaborate ritual of demanding her jewels, then forcing her to disrobe slowly to prove she had not hidden anything on her body. Both of them got too excited to ever carry on with the charade for more than a few minutes. He went to the bed now and pressed down on it with his fingers, remembering the times they had made love here.
Mac swung around and sat, wondering how long he should wait before he went hunting for her.
For all he knew, her ma and pa were out for the night. Their social life mingled with Holdstock’s banking business and caused them to attend parties and meetings throughout the week to maintain their standing in the community. Mac got antsy after less than a minute and went to the bedroom door. Carefully opening it, he looked down the hallway. Evie’s room was at the back of the house, while her parents had the room at the front, at the far end of the hallway lined with fancy paintings and marble sculptures. The Persian rug muffled his footfalls as he made his way to the head of the stairs.
The broad fan of steps swept down to the foyer. He ducked back when he heard Holdstock speaking with someone at the door. From the guest’s accent, he was French. That meant little in a town filled with Frenchmen and Acadians. French Creole was almost as widely spoken as English or Spanish.
“I am glad we could meet, Monsieur Leclerc. Come into the study. I have a fine cigar from Cuba that you will find delightful.”
“Bon, good, Mr. Holdstock. And brandy?”
“Only the finest French brandy.”
The two laughed and disappeared from sight. Mac cursed his bad luck. It would have been better if Holdstock were out of the house rather than entertaining—or conducting business, judging by the formality the two showed one another. Some high-powered deal was being struck not fifty feet away. That deal would undoubtedly make the banker rich. Or richer than he already was.
But Mac didn’t care about that. His riches were wrapped in crinoline and lace, with flowing blond hair and eyes as green as jade. He stepped back and wondered where she might be.
Then he heard her soft voice below as she greeted Monsieur Leclerc and exchanged a few mumbled pleasantries. The sound of her slippers moving against the foyer floor set his heart racing. He hastily retreated to her bedroom and closed the door behind him. From past times here, he knew the exact spot to stand.
Beside her wardrobe, hidden in shadow when she lit the oil lamp, he could cherish her for a few seconds before she realized she was not alone. Mac pressed into the niche just as the door opened. He closed his eyes and took a deep whiff. Jasmine perfume made his nostrils flare. This was her favorite perfume, but he told her often she did not need it, not with him. Just being around her intoxicated his senses more than enough.
He opened his eyes and squinted as he stared directly into the burning wick of Evie’s bedside lamp. She bent over slightly, hands on the bed, her bustle wiggling delightfully.
“I have never seen any woman so lovely,” he said. “If I live to be a thousand, I never will forget this moment, this sight, this beautiful—”
She straightened and spun. Her eyes went wide. His heart almost skipped a beat when he realized it wasn’t surprise that caused her face to contort. It was fear.
“What’s wrong, my dear?” He went to her, but she pushed him back.
“Go, Mac. Get out of here now. Please. Don’t slow down. He knows we’ve been seeing each other.”
“I don’t care. I love you. Do you love me?”
“Yes, yes,” she said, flustered. She brushed back a wayward strand of lustrous, honey blond hair and looked up at him. True fear twisted her face. “I love you with all my heart and soul, Mac. That’s why you have to leave.”
“Then let’s go together. Let’s elope. We can find a justice of the peace. We don’t have to get married in the St. Louis Basilica.”
“Mac, you don’t understand. I—”
“I can’t give you a fancy house or fine clothing or jewelry like this.” He touched the pearl necklace around her slender throat, then moved to caress her cheek. “Not now. Someday I will. Together we can—”
“You have to go before he catches you!”
“I’ll go down and beard the old lion in his den. We’ll have it out, man to man. I won’t let him chase me off from the love of my life.” He moved her around so he could go to the door.
Before he could get there, the door slammed open, reverberating as it smashed into the wall. Silhouetted against the light from downstairs, Micah Holdstock filled the frame.
“I should have known you would come, especially on a night like this!”
Mac began, “Mr. Holdstock, I—”
“Papa, please, you can’t do this. Don’t hurt him.” Evie tried to interpose herself between the men, but Mac wouldn’t have it. No woman he loved sacrificed herself for him, especially with her father.
“Evie and I love each other, sir. We’re getting married!”
Micah Holdstock let out a roar like a charging bull. The attack took Mac by surprise. Strong arms encircled his body and lifted him off his feet. He tried to get his arms free but couldn’t with them pinned at his sides. Still roaring, Holdstock went directly for the French doors and smashed through them. Shards of glass sprayed in the air and tumbled to the balcony as he used Mac as a battering ram.
The collision robbed Mac of breath. He went limp in the man’s death grip. This saved him from being driven against the iron railing and having his back broken. He dropped to his knees as Holdstock crashed into the wrought-iron railing and fought to keep from tumbling into the street below.
“Papa,” he heard Evie pleading, trying to stop the attack.
Mac got to shaky feet to face her pa.
“This is no way for future in-laws to act,” he gasped out. “My intentions are honorable.”
“She’s betrothed. As of this very evening!” Again Holdstock charged.
Mac saw the expression of resignation on Evie’s face an instant before her father’s hard fist caught him on the side of the head and sent him reeling. He grabbed the iron railing and went over, dangled a moment, then fell heavily to the cobblestone street and sprawled onto his back. He stared up to see Evie sobbing bitterly as her father grabbed her by the arm and pulled her out of sight.
“You can’t do this. I won’t let you!” He got to his feet in time to see the two guards round the corner. From the way they were hurrying, he knew what they had been ordered to do.
Shameful though it might be, he turned and ran.
The guards’ bulk meant they were slower on their feet than Mac was. Three blocks later, he finally evaded them by ducking into a saloon in Pirate’s Alley. He leaned against the wall for a moment, catching his breath. The smoke in the dive formed a fog so thick it wasn’t possible to see more than a few feet. He coughed, then went to the bar and collapsed against it. “I say this to damned near ever’body what comes into this place,” the barkeep said, “but in your case I mean it. You look like you could use a drink.”
CHAPTER 2
The bartender poured a shot of whiskey.
Mac knocked it back, and it almost knocked him down. He wasn’t much of a drinker, but this had to be the most potent popskull he had ever encountered. He choked, swallowed, then said, “Another.”
“The first was on the house. The next one you pay for.”
“I just had a run-in with my lady friend’s pa.” He sucked in a breath and endured the pain in his ribs. Micah Holdstock had a grip like a bear. The powerful liquor went a ways toward easing the pain. He fumbled out a greenback for another drink. He needed all the deadening he could pour down his gullet.
The bartender picked up the bill, examined it, and tucked it away. “Don’t usually take Yankee bills, but seeing as how you’re in pain, I will this time.” He splashed more whiskey into Mac’s empty glass.
Mac started to protest at not getting change. As the se
cond shot hit his gut and set his head spinning, he forgot about it. What difference did it make anyway? He had to find a way to sneak Evie out of the house and get her to a judge for a proper marrying.
“Do tell.”
Mac blinked and frowned. He hadn’t realized he had been talking out loud, but obviously the bartender knew what he’d been thinking. He ran a shaky finger around the rim of his empty shot glass and captured the last amber drop. He licked it off his fingertip. The astringent burn on his tongue warned him that another drink might make him pass out.
“I’ll find a way,” he said, with more assurance than he felt. He needed both hands on the bar to support himself.
As he considered a third drink, he noticed how the sound in the saloon went away. All he heard was the pounding of his pulse in his ears. Thinking the drink had turned him deaf, he started to shout out for another, then saw the frightened expression on the barkeep’s face. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the reason.
The two guards who had been stationed outside Micah Holdstock’s front door now stood just inside the saloon, arms crossed over their chests. Those arms bulged with muscles. The men fixed steely gazes on him. Out of habit—or maybe desperation—Mac patted his right hip but found no revolver hanging there. He had dressed up for the occasion of asking Evie to marry him. There hadn’t been any call for him to go armed.
He knew now that was a big mistake. He turned and had to brace himself against the bar with both elbows. He blinked hard, as much from the smoke as the tarantula juice he had swilled. Hoping he saw double and only one guard faced him, he quickly realized how wrong that was. There were two of them, and they had blood in their eyes.
“You gonna stand there all night or you gonna come for me?” He tried to hold back the taunt but failed. The liquor had loosened his tongue and done away with his common sense. Somewhere deep down in his brain, he knew he was inviting them to kill him, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Well? Come on!” He balanced precariously, one foot in front of the other, fists balled and raised.
The one who looked like a boxer stirred, but the other held him back.
“Waiting for the bell to ring? Come on. Let’s mix it up.” He took a couple of tentative punches at thin air.
“Mister, that’s Hiram Higgins,” the bartender said, reaching across the bar to tug at his sleeve. “He lost to Gypsy Jem Mace over in Kenner ville.”
“So that just means he can lose to me just east of Jackson Square.”
“Mister, Gypsy Jem whupped Tom Allen the next day for the heavyweight championship.”
“So? You said this man Higgins lost.”
“He lost after eighteen rounds. Ain’t nobody stayed with the Gypsy longer ’n that. The man’s a killer with those fists.”
Mac wasn’t drunk enough to tangle with Holdstock’s guard, not after hearing that. But the boxer stepped away deferentially when a nattily dressed man stepped into the saloon. The newcomer carefully pulled off gloves and clutched them in his right hand. He took off a tall top hat and disdainfully tossed it to the boxer. Walking slowly, the man advanced on Mac.
“You are the one? You?” He stopped two paces away from Mac, slapping the gloves he held in his right hand across his left palm.
“I’m your worst nightmare, mister.” Still emboldened by the booze, Mac flipped the frilled front of the man’s bleached white shirt. A diamond stud popped free. The man made no effort to retrieve it from the sawdust on the floor. He stared hard at Mac.
“You are drunk. But of course you are. Do you know who I am?”
“Not a clue. Some rich snake in the grass from the cut of your clothes.” Mac tried to flip his finger against the man’s prominent nose this time. A small turn of the man’s head prevented him from delivering the insulting gesture.
“I am Pierre Leclerc, the son of Antoine Leclerc.”
“I’ve heard the name. Somewhere.” Mac tried to work out why the name was familiar. His head buzzed with a million bees inside it, and he was definitely seeing double now. Two of the annoying men filled his field of vision. He tried to decide which one to punch.
“He owns the largest shipping company in New Orleans. It is one of the largest in North America.”
“So? You’re rich. What of it?”
“You will leave Miss Evangeline Holdstock alone. You will never try to see her again. She wants nothing to do with you.”
“Why’s that, Mister Fancy Pants?”
“Because she and I are to be married. This very night my father arranged for her hand in marriage to unite her father’s bank and our shipping company.”
“Your pa’s gonna marry her?”
“You fool!” Leclerc exploded. “You imbecile. I am to marry Miss Holdstock. You have given me the last insult that will ever cross your lips.” He reared back and slapped Mac with the gloves. A gunshot would have been quieter as cloth struck flesh.
Mac stumbled and caught himself against the bar. He rubbed his burning cheek.
“Why you—”
“You may choose your weapons. At the Dueling Oaks, tomorrow at sunrise. Be there promptly or show the world—and Miss Holdstock—the true depth of your cowardice.” Leclerc slapped his gloves across his left palm for emphasis, spun and walked from the saloon. The two guards followed him.
“What happened?” Mac said into the hollow silence that hung in the air when Leclerc was gone. He was stunned into sobriety.
“You’re going to duel for this hussy’s favor at sunrise,” the bartender said.
“With guns?”
“You’d be wise to choose pistols. Leclerc is a champion fencer. He can cut a man to ribbons with a saber and walk away untouched.”
“Heard tell he’s a crack shot, too,” piped up someone across the saloon.
“Eight men he’s kilt in duels,” another man said. “The fella’s a fightin’ machine—a killin’ machine. I don’t envy you, boy. Not at all.”
Mac found himself pushed away from the bar by men rooting around in the sawdust looking for the diamond stud that had popped off Leclerc’s shirt. He watched numbly, wondering if he ought to join the hunt. That tiny gemstone could pay for passage up the river.
Then he worked through what that meant. Evie would call him a coward for the rest of her life. And running would show how little her love meant to him. He loved her with all his heart and soul.
If it meant he laid down his life for her, so be it. He would be north of town at the Dueling Oaks at dawn.
After another drink.
Or two.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over 300 books, including the series Preacher, the First Mountain Man, MacCallister, Luke Jensen, Bounty Hunter, Flintlock, Those Jensen Boys!, Savage Texas, Matt Jensen, the Last Mountain Man, and The Family Jensen. His thrillers include Tyranny, Stand Your Ground, Suicide Mission, and the upcoming Black Friday.
Visit his website at www.williamjohnstone.net.
Being the all-around assistant, typist, researcher, and fact-checker to one of the most popular western authors of all time, J. A. JOHNSTONE learned from the master, Uncle William W. Johnstone.
The elder Johnstone began tutoring J.A. at an early age. After-school hours were often spent retyping manuscripts or researching his massive American Western History library as well as the more modern wars and conflicts. J.A. worked hard—and learned.
“Every day with Bill was an adventure story in itself. Bill taught me all he could about the art of storytelling. ‘Keep the historical facts accurate,’ he would say. ‘Remember the readers—and as your grandfather once told me, I am telling you now: Be the best J. A. Johnstone you can be.’”
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Evil Never Sleeps Page 28
