Stolen (A Prairie Heritage, Book 5)

by Vikki Kestell

  Morgan shivered. What does it matter? I am a dead man!

  He paced the room again, his excellent mind running through the data, organizing facts and options. Then he stopped.

  I have seen those eyes? Whose eyes indeed?

  Mei-Xing swept into the hospital with her guard on her heels. She spotted Tabitha and ran to her.

  “Where is Shan-Rose?” Mei-Xing was nearly frantic.

  “She is fine—there. She is there.” Tabitha pointed at Mason Carpenter. She glared at the man who still refused to give up the child to anyone but her mother.

  Carpenter smiled. He had grown used to being on the receiving end of the redhead’s accusing looks and barbs. In fact, as his appraising gaze swept over the woman again, he admitted that he was beginning to enjoy her attention!

  Shan-Rose also spied Mei-Xing and bounced up and down on Carpenter’s lap, babbling happy syllables. As Mei-Xing approached, Shan-Rose strained against Carpenter’s arms.

  “Are you the mother?” he asked. It was obvious from how Shan-Rose was reaching for the woman that she was.

  “Yes.” She took Shan-Rose from Carpenter and buried her face in the baby’s neck, nuzzling her. Her relief was palpable.

  “She is a lovely child,” Carpenter remarked. “I am ill-suited to care for a baby, but she has been delightful.”

  He paused and drew a breath. “I’m sorry for this terrible occasion, but I assure you that your child is fine—although I believe she does require a dry nappie.”

  Mei-Xing, who was still unclear as to all that had occurred, studied him. “Thank you for your assistance to our family, sir.”

  “Mason Carpenter, at your service. I happened to be driving by shortly after . . . and found Mrs. Thoresen and your child.”

  Mei-Xing turned to Tabitha. “Miss Rose? Is she all right? What happened?”

  Tabitha, keeping one suspicious eye on Carpenter, briefly explained.

  “Edmund is gone?” Mei-Xing’s voice rose in horror.

  ~~**~~

  Chapter 21

  You have seen those eyes before.

  Morgan frowned and chewed on the thought. He reached back into his memories. Just then the baby fussed and stretched again, at last pulling free of the blanket’s swaddle. Now exposed to the cool air in the house’s kitchen, the infant began to wail. Within seconds he was red-faced, screaming, and trembling in every limb. The four thugs shifted uncomfortably and backed away.

  “Cowards!” Morgan muttered. Irritated, he strode to the table and stared at the baby once more. Tears leaked down the babe’s face. Morgan awkwardly pulled the thick outer blanket over the infant.

  The baby shuddered and ceased crying. He stared up at Morgan, blinked his cornflower-blue eyes, and sucked his mouth into a tiny pout.

  Morgan swallowed as the realization unfolded. Joy Thoresen Michaels. He could see her in the infant’s face. As clear as day.

  He stepped back. Joy Michaels has a baby? His mind raced to register the new fact and determine its benefits to his present crisis.

  None! his panic screamed. We have the wrong baby and Fang-Hua’s grandchild is female, not male. No possible scenario will satisfy her—and she will not rest until she has watched me die—as painfully as possible.

  His survival instincts kicked in. If you want to live, you will run, they dictated. Morgan accepted his only option and paced again, knowing from experience the magnitude of Fang-Hua’s reach. It would not be easy to escape her grasp—or foolproof—but he had planned for such an event.

  As he mentally listed his next steps, he sneered. Joy Thoresen Michaels! All my bad luck began with her! I had a perfectly regulated, perfectly satisfying life until she—

  He seethed and turned a merciless eye toward the child.

  So. Before I run I will kill the child. I will leave its body where the police will be sure to find it. I might even write a note with Joy Michaels’ name on it and leave it for them.

  He imagined Joy receiving the news; he visualized her mourning over her baby’s body. He pictured her grief and he laughed aloud. He knew he sounded crazed; the men in the kitchen shuffled their feet and looked at each other, concerned.

  No. Too easy. She deserves something better!

  He sucked in a breath as another idea swirled and formed. He stopped his pacing, astounded with the audacity of his new thoughts.

  Joy Thoresen Michaels.

  Edmund O’Dell.

  Su-Chong Chen.

  And now Fang-Hua Chen.

  His enemies. The very ones who had interfered in his life and destroyed his livelihood. He had spent months in Denver’s jail scheming and plotting suitable revenge on them—only to be handed the most imaginative and fitting payback conceivable—and all when he had least expected it!

  Of course, Su-Chong was already dead, but how appropriate would it be for Fang-Hua to suffer in her son’s place?

  As he formulated his plan, he smirked. The strategy was brilliant. Even, perhaps, inspired. Not only would he have his retribution, but this plan would ease his escape and safeguard his future.

  This will be my greatest coup ever, he gloated.

  Within a few seconds he had resolved on his course. He called for the wet nurse.

  “Yes, sir?” The woman, although nervous, slanted her eyes toward the bundle on the table.

  “Take the baby into the other room and get ready to leave.” The woman hurried to obey him. She smiled as she picked up the baby and carried him into the room she had been sleeping in.

  Morgan turned to the four men, calm and in control. “Obviously we have a problem,” he announced, “but all is not lost. I will devise our next move and call Madam Chen this evening. In the meantime, we should dispose of the guns you used in the abduction. We cannot risk them being found on any of us if we are stopped. Let me have them.”

  Barnes and another man reached into their pockets and produced revolvers. As they handed them over, Morgan inquired, “How many shots did you fire?”

  “Four,” the short one answered. He seemed distracted and would not meet Morgan’s eyes.

  “Only one,” Barnes smiled.

  You are a touch proud of killing your assigned guard with just one shot, Morgan observed to himself.

  “Excellent work,” he grinned. He nodded his approval for good measure and Barnes winked at his men as though to applaud his marksmanship.

  Two bullets left in this gun and five in this one, Morgan told himself. He set both revolvers on the counter, the one with five bullets closest to him.

  He opened a drawer, retrieved a folded map, and placed it in the center of the table. He unfolded the map and used the small book that had been under the blanket to anchor a corner of the map. “Sit down, all of you. We need to devise a route for the next phase of the plan.”

  As Fang-Hua’s thugs pulled out chairs and seated themselves at the table, Morgan picked up the revolver closest to him with his right hand and the other with his left.

  He shot each man in turn, pausing only to thumb the hammer back between shots. His last target, Barnes, had scrambled to his feet and Morgan had to fire twice before winging him. He dropped the first gun and switched to the second, finishing him.

  Blue smoke clouded the kitchen. One bullet left. Morgan laughed aloud.

  He walked toward the wet nurse’s room holding the gun before him. She was cowering behind the bed, the baby cradled in her arms.

  “Get up,” Morgan ordered. “Do you want to die or live?”

  The woman shook uncontrollably but she stuttered, “Live. Please!”

  Morgan nodded. “Then listen carefully. This child—” he waved the gun at the baby “—is not Fang-Hua’s grandchild. Those idiots stole the wrong baby. Tell me, my dear, how do you think Fang-Hua will respond to that news?”

  The woman did not answer, but she shook more.

  “Well? What do you suppose she will do to those of us who fail her?”

  “Sh-sh-she will kill us?”

  �
�Very good, Agnes. It is Agnes, isn’t it? I’m glad you have no illusions with regard to Fang-Hua’s forgiving nature! So here is my proposition to you. We will leave here. Today. Just the three of us—a happy little family, eh?”

  “Yes, sir,” Agnes managed to choke out.

  “We will go far away. You will take care of the child and I will manage all the details. Sound good?”

  “Y-yes, sir.”

  Morgan stepped closer to the woman and she cringed. “I should give you fair warning: Just in case you are entertaining ideas of, say, going to the police? Remember this: From this moment on, you are as guilty of kidnapping as I am. You can either live a long, happy life with this little one as your own or you can live out your miserable life in a nasty, stinking prison. It’s your choice.”

  He gestured for her to go into the kitchen. As she passed him he added, “Oh, and Agnes. If I ever suspect that you intend to leave me, I will save the citizens a lot of expense and just kill you myself.”

  Sobbing and clutching Edmund to her breast, the woman stumbled down the hall to the kitchen.

  “Sit down.” Morgan drew one of the kitchen chairs toward her with the toe of his shoe. A bloody body propped against the chair’s legs slid to the floor. Morgan gestured with his chin and the shaking woman sank onto the chair.

  Morgan shoved another of the thugs’ bodies, freeing one more chair. He pulled plain paper and a fountain pen from a drawer and seated himself at the table.

  Before he could write, the baby began fussing. Agnes discreetly bared a breast and began feeding the child. She drew the baby’s swaddling blanket up to cover herself, but Morgan could hear the suckling sounds as the infant tried to eat. The baby fussed, pulled away, and latched on again.

  Agnes, her head bowed, whispered, “I don’t have much milk for him today, but in a few days it will come in again. He will be all right; I will give him a little in a bottle when he is done trying to nurse.”

  Morgan frowned as he processed what she was saying. “How is it, exactly, Agnes, that you came to be wet nurse to this child at just the right time? Wouldn’t you have needed to have a baby in order to nurse another’s?”

  She blanched. “I did . . . have a baby.”

  “Oh? And what happened?”

  I cannot wait to see how Fang-Hua managed this, he snarled inside.

  The woman swallowed. “M-my husband worked for the Chens. About four months ago there was a terrible accident and he . . . died. The Chens were very good to me, especially Madam Chen.”

  I’ll bet, Morgan snickered to himself. He could tell Agnes was struggling to place credence in Fang-Hua’s generosity.

  “Since I was expecting and had nowhere to go, they . . . they took care of me. They even gave me a little house to live in. I had my baby a month later. He was a healthy baby . . .”

  “Was?” Morgan had a good idea where her tale was going.

  “He died in his sleep just two weeks ago.” Tears trickled down her face. “Madam Chen was so . . . kind. She told me that her grandson would need a wet nurse, that I could stay with him and raise him as if he were my own! She sent me here . . .”

  “How very convenient,” Morgan sneered.

  “Wha-what do you mean?”

  “Oh, the timing, my dear, the timing! You see, we’ve been planning to snatch her grandson for how long? Longer than four months. And I told Madam Chen we were ready for the wet nurse three weeks ago. See if you can figure it out.”

  Morgan’s sneer had turned to a snarl, and Agnes shrank before him. Shrank and stared stupidly at him as she began comprehend his meaning.

  “You . . . you cannot mean . . . that would mean . . .” her words trailed off and her eyes widened in horror.

  Morgan leaned toward her. “It is exactly what I mean. You are mistaken if you think that viper knows the meaning of kindness,” he scoffed.

  “She looked for a woman who would be producing milk and found you. What happened to your husband? Your baby? She planned those.”

  He turned toward the table to write the message. “And if you think she would have allowed a white woman to raise her grandson for long . . .” He took up his pen, “Let’s just say that your employment would have been terminated in similar fashion not long after you returned to Seattle with the baby.”

  Morgan knew Agnes was in a state of shock. All the better, he decided. She has no one left to turn to and no alternative other than to go with me.

  He turned his mind to the message he was about to write. The wording was so important. It needed just the right touch. He sighed with delight and began.

  To the police:

  The men whose bodies you find here were recently in the employ of one Fang-Hua Chen of Seattle, Washington.

  Morgan added her full address for clarity and snickered.

  Madam Chen ordered that her men perform the following crimes: a) Abduct the infant child of one Mei-Xing Li from the address below, b) Dispatch (kill) Miss Li and her bodyguards, and c) Bring the child to her.

  Morgan wrote out the address of Palmer House.

  The father of Miss Li’s child is Su-Chong Chen, the late son of Fang-Hua Chen, making Madam Chen the child’s paternal grandmother.

  He added a short list of details that would point decisively to Fang-Hua, including Clemmins’ and Mrs. Gooding’s telephone numbers. He hesitated and then wrote the last line.

  Sorry about taking the wrong child, O’Dell.

  He stared at the words and smiled, his satisfaction full. Should I sign my name? What I would give to see Joy Michaels and that blasted Pinkerton man when they see my name! Oh, it is rich!

  Morgan was certain his own part on the plot would come out—Fang-Hua would not hesitate to implicate him as soon as the police confronted her with incontrovertible evidence of her guilt. And, after all, Morgan wanted to be sure that Joy Thoresen knew who it was who had mistakenly taken her child. Most of all, he wanted to be positively certain that she knew exactly why he was keeping the child.

  O’Dell will spend the rest of his miserable life trying to find the child, Morgan speculated. Everlasting payback for all the trouble he has caused me.

  Oh, revenge was sweet! Morgan laughed aloud. It was perfect: Three priceless repayments with a single blow.

  He decided to compromise on the name—it would not confuse O’Dell long, but the code would add another degree to Morgan’s pleasure. With a flourish he signed the letter with his initials. His real initials.

  Sorry about taking the wrong child, O’Dell.

  R.S.

  Compliments of Regis St. John! Morgan chuckled. Of course the initials should have read R.St.J. but Morgan didn’t want to make it too easy for O’Dell.

  He left the message on the table and composed a second but much shorter note containing only the address of the house they were sitting in and the words, You really should visit!. He placed that note in an envelope and addressed it to Edmund O’Dell, care of the Denver Pinkerton office, the word Urgent scrawled on the back.

  “Come, my dear.” He pulled Agnes to her feet. “Let us pack all the baby’s necessities and be gone from here.”

  He glanced at the counter where he had laid the small book that had fallen from the baby’s blanket. He picked it up and opened it.

  A journal? He frowned and searched for a name on the flyleaf.

  Rose Thoresen. Joy Michaels’ mother? So his men had killed Joy Michaels’ mother? Could this day get any better? He gloated over the pain her mother’s death would cause Joy Michaels.

  He skimmed two or three of the journal entries. Total religious hogwash! He sneered and tossed the book back onto the counter. Then he thought differently. He picked it up again. Perhaps it is something to peruse later. I might find some useful information—between the ridiculous prayers and absurd hallelujahs.

  He laughed and turned to the back and read the last entry, written just today, paging one at a time to earlier entries. He stopped and read, his mouth agape.

  Janua
ry 26, 1911. Grant and Joy have named their son Edmund, after our dear Mr. O’Dell. This honor speaks of the great friendship between Grant and Mr. O’Dell—and, truthfully, of Mr. O’Dell’s friendship to us all.

  This is proof that the child belongs to Joy Michaels, Morgan marveled, and is named for the Pinkerton man. What a priceless memento!

  His wiser instincts warned him to destroy the book: If this journal is found in your possession, it will prove categorically that you were involved in the shootings and baby snatching.

  But the irony of the moment was too delicious, too satisfying for him to abandon the book just yet. He thought for a moment before going out to the motorcar. He unscrewed a panel in the car’s trunk, slid the book inside, and replaced the panel.

  Then Morgan filled his wallet from the bag of money Barnes kept in the hall closet—courtesy of Fang-Hua, Morgan guffawed—before stuffing the bag into the car’s trunk with his and Agnes’ cases. Morgan had made other financial preparations for such an opportunity as this, but the extra cash he had just acquired would not be wasted. After all, he had to buy himself a new start, a new life. In a year or so, if all went well, he would reach out to reclaim the other monies and investments stashed here and there.

  Agnes brought a great many things for the child to the car and placed them on the rear seat where she could reach them. Twenty minutes later he, Agnes, and the child—the portrait of a common, law-abiding family—were driving sedately south, out of Denver.

  Morgan stopped the car only once on the way out of town—to drop the letter in a mail receptacle. He whistled a lively tune as they pulled away from the letter box.

  “Agnes, I’ve been thinking. I think that instead of us being married, you should be my brother’s widowed wife,” he informed her. “Yes! A much better fit.”

  Over the next miles he rehearsed her on their new identities. “And what would you like to name the baby?”

  She was startled. “I can name him?”