by Jackson, Pam
Wood, Fire, & Gold
Pam Jackson
Disclaimer:
This is a work of historical fiction. Names, characters, events, locales and incidents from the 18th century are based on real people that were mentioned in legend handed down through the centuries either verbally or through published works. Their dialogue is based on supposition taken from legend and 18th century influence. This is not a biography nor a history book. Apart from documented events and well known actual people, the story and the incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously. While the history that propels this work is true, the thoughts and dialogue of the characters, unless otherwise noted, is the author’s imaginative offering to the reader, simply a way of getting the reader to intimately know these fascinating legendary characters from their point of view, thoughts and feelings.
Any resemblance to events, situations, locales or actual persons (living or dead), unless otherwise noted within, are purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 Pam Jackson
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Roma Publishing, Austin, TX.
Dedication:
For my mother and Aunt Theresa...the original ladies of Romance.
Acknowledgement
It is with loving gratitude to my amazing husband Dan and our sweetest daughter Kellsey that I owe the biggest thank you. Your patience, love and limitless belief in me has transformed a dream into reality.
I’m forever in debt to my brilliant publishers, Norman Comparini and Karisa Prestera, their unfaltering belief and guidance took my vision to a new level of awesome! Thank you for your enthusiasm and talent.
A special thank you to two of my very best friends, Jane Weyant and Eric Strodthoff. Without the both of you, the legend of Claudius Smith would’ve perished into ash. Your support and inspiration will forever be in my heart. I could not have done this without you!
And it is with great appreciation to Denise O’Donnell - Walsh. Your constant advice and help throughout this entire project was priceless. Thank you for always answering your phone!
And lastly, with deep appreciation to all the amazing people who shared their hidden talents and passion:
Linda Seed, from Linda Seed Editorial Services, your passion and superior eye for detail is paramount.
Jack McEwan, your tough guy skills made my action scenes come to life.
Daniela Morena, a best friend with amazing linguistic talents and eye for great romance.
Lisa “ChaCha” Gennarelli, your incredible talent and perfection for content editing to keep a logical flow and order to my chicken scratch!
Jett Garner, from Jett Garner Martial Arts of Austin, I’m grateful for all your guidance with action scene development and self-defense, thank you.
And to Rosanna Young, Kathleen Freeburn, Anne Herrera, Jeanmarie Paulo, and Susan McHugh, you were all tremendous assets for critique and brainstorming...and of course, just tolerating me when I decided to take on this endeavor.
Love you all!
Prologue
January, 1779
The sneers and taunts from the simple folk assembling in the town square were deafening to one’s ears. They cursed and shrieked at the lifeless body as it swayed to and fro from the hangman’s noose—the undertaker placed the limp remains in a cart, sending the deceased off to the next world with no fond words of remembrance. This was how Claudius envisioned his death, and within a few moments, his vision would become reality.
Above, a strong bird of prey cried out. The ruddy glow of a red-tailed hawk’s fanned feathers shined in the winter sun, long brown wings tilting left then right to ride the steady current of a cold January gale. Was this bird here to carry his soul to the next world? Often, he heard the stories told by his Mohawk Indian friends of great winged birds escorting the souls of fearless men to their final hunting ground. Aye, this is best.
And soon it would be over; no more lurking in the shadows or weighing the character of wicked men wishing to establish a position in his band of notorious brothers who stole from the wealthy and—on occasion—assisted the poor and miserable. This horrid conflict between colonists and the British Crown placed sons against fathers and had neighbors spying on neighbors. Claudius sat in between, making a handsome profit.
He paid his men generously for their sworn loyalty to him and hoarded the remaining gold and silver in his secret underground cave. Only a few—the most trusted of his highwaymen—gained the knowledge of Claudius’s secret vault and the stolen treasures that were hidden inside it. Bitter to think now that the contents within those chiseled stone walls couldn’t buy him out of his position at this moment.
No, it was his time to depart this world; he would die like a man and not “perish like a trooper’s horse.” His mother’s words badgered him as he remembered her warning; it would be a “meaningless way to die,” she had once said to him. “Claudius, this will be your fate if you keep up your evil ways ... You shall die with your boots on, son.” None of that mattered now; death was imminent.
A satisfied grin fixed on his face as he thought of sleep, deep and undisturbed sleep—he would succumb and welcome his fate to finally feel the comfort of eternal slumber.
Then the contentment of his personal defeat was replaced with anguish as he thought of Katherine, the only woman he’d ever truly loved.
But what of her? My sweet love. Such pain this will bring to her.
The beautiful image of Katherine was erased by the touch of the hangman’s icy fingers as the hemp knot was tightened against his freshly shaven neck. Claudius looked on in disgust at the terrible scar that stretched across the executioner’s face, forming a permanent, maniacal sneer, well suited to this demon who had been instructed to take his life.
A hollow voice rang out from behind, calling the charges of theft, ambush, and suspected murder. “Claudius Smith, you have been tried and convicted of these heinous crimes against your brethren. You have convinced the court that your loyalties lie with King George, and you are sentenced to be hanged by the neck until you are dead on this day, the twenty-second of January, in the year of our Lord, Jesus Christ, one thousand seven hundred and seventy-nine.”
Claudius stood with dignity as his death sentence was being read. He was dressed in a new suit of fine broadcloth with silver buttons gleaming from his blue waistcoat. The white stockings and silver buckle shoes he now wore upon the gallows were well-suited to this fierce man, making him look as proper as an aristocrat on a Sunday stroll. His usual attire of buckskin breeches and scuffed leather boots granted him the capability to get the job done. His tall stature and devilish good looks were accentuated by his formal attire, and he could hear the flattering murmurs amongst the ladies in the crowd. His dark locks of hair fluttered in the winter wind, falling against his forehead, and he wished he had his lucky red ribbon to tie back the long strands in a fashionable queue.
“Pardon, pardon me please ... Let me through, you indecent, foul beings!” a raspy voice shouted through the crowd, and a portly man with great jowls pushed forward to address Claudius upon the gallows. “Claudius, ‘tis I, Abimal Young. Remember me?” Abimal lowered his voice to a croaking whisper. “I wish to have my papers returned ... the tome that you stole from my home.” Abimal covered his head with the mantle of his black, gentleman’s cloak to conceal his face; the last thing he needed now were nosy neighbors poking around and asking questions about his connection to Claudius Smith, a notorious thief and accused murderer.
&
nbsp; Claudius looked down on this swine of a man and smirked. “Aye, Abimal, I certainly do remember ye, ol’ fella. What can I possibly do for you at this momentous occasion in my life?”
“Claudius.” The beefy Mr. Young feigned a smile. “I firmly beseech you to tell me where my valuable property is.” Abimal lowered his voice again. “My good man, that tome will have no use to you in that dark place where your soul will be interred for all of eternity.”
Claudius let out a great howl of a laugh, frightening most of the bloodthirsty spectators below. His eyes flashed, igniting an amber hue set deep inside his chocolate-brown irises. With aristocratic grace, he threw back his shoulders and straightened his towering form of well over six feet. He tried to move his arms for more theatrics, but his hands were bound behind him.
Claudius’s cavalier expression turned hard as he replied to Abimal Young with a booming voice that stretched across the crowd so that all could hear his decree. “Abimal, my man, ‘tis not the time to speak of such papers. We will meet in the next world, and only then will I tell you where to find your precious property.”
A wry grin appeared on Claudius’s face as he stepped back and nodded for the hangman to proceed with the matter at hand. Quizzical muttering was heard amongst the crowd, as all were astonished by his scornful performance with the well-fed Mr. Young. Giving the crowd further bewilderment, he kicked off his silver buckle shoes and stood ready for death to take him in his white stockings—he would make his mother a liar for saying he would die with his boots on.
Now, with death seconds away, he scanned the horizon for any last-minute rescue attempt from his band of larcenous brothers, but he saw not a single flash of brown or tan from their signature buckskin breeches, no brown mares galloping steadily over the barren hills into the town square to disperse the crowd and cut the hemp rope from around Claudius’s neck. It was over, and his heart didn’t ache with remorse over his own life; it only clenched with deep sorrow for Katherine. He swore to himself that he would return to her somehow, some way—even in death, he would touch her angelic form again.
The hangman readied the lever, and Claudius eyed his strangely tattooed hand. The hangman bore a figure eight between his thumb and forefinger, a mark that Claudius instantly recognized. But his thoughts were abruptly cut off as a petite figure in a pale, hooded cloak moved urgently across the square, charging into the crowd toward him. The angry mob pulled and pushed her away as she tried desperately to reach the gallows stand. She removed her mantle from her fair head so he could set his sorrowful eyes on her one last time. She cried out his name, but the crowd was enraged for the kill, and he barely heard the sound of her lovely voice. Her arms reached out as she tried to touch him one last time, but the wicked Mr. Young pulled her back.
“Nay, wait!” Claudius’s mind raced with a quick plan of escape, but none came. He stared with deep remorse at her glistening, emerald eyes and porcelain skin. Oh God, she shall see me die. My darling Kat.
He heard the awful thud of the trap door beneath his feet, followed by the eerie cry of the red-tailed hawk circling above. Then—darkness.
Chapter 1
Present Day: Hudson Valley, New York
This was not the way Andie had expected to die.
She could hear rushing water below her in the ravine, the current moving swiftly from the recent spring rains and melting mountain snow. She knew it would be certain death if she lost her grip on the jagged rocks extruding from the cliff face, and she cringed as bright red blood oozed down her wrists from the lacerations on her hands. The blue and white nylon rope that she had anchored to a wide oak tree on the ridge above her was now dangling from her climbing harness and swaying in the cool breeze. Andie’s situation had gone from oh shit to totally screwed in about a second. Now, her only way off this cliff was to free climb to the top. What good was a climbing harness attached to your ass if your anchor rope had a shitty knot in it?
It was only a short distance to safety, but the fall she had just taken felt like it was more vertical than it had looked from the top of the plateau.
“Damn it, I’m not gonna die now! Not yet, not yet!” she shouted, expelling most of the air in her lungs. Screaming for help was pointless, since she hadn’t noticed anyone else hiking up the old mining road. Conserving her lung capacity for more breathing and less screaming was probably the right move.
She pulled at a rock jutting from the cliff face, and sudden pain shot through her arms. She was hurt and helpless, trying to pull herself up without an anchor rope. In fact, in her hurried, reckless state, she had forgotten most of the climbing gear she would’ve needed to manage safely down the slope and into the opening of the cave.
She pulled and pushed with her legs as loose gravel slid below her boots, and all she could manage was a miniscule toehold against the rocky overhang. This was going to end badly for Andie if she couldn’t collect herself and fight her way to the top.
Think, girl, think. What would the colonel do? Helpless, she looked for an answer from the memory of her deceased father, an Army Ranger who had raised his three girls to be respectful, responsible and resourceful. Lately, she’d been lacking in the responsible department, but at least, at this moment, she was working on resourceful.
Col. Edward Brown was strong as steel, and he found a way out of every dire situation he encountered. “Never lose your head, Andie. Fear is just a feeling, like hunger or thirst. Recognize it and overcome it!” She remembered his words and found the strength to reach for a sturdy oak root that was protruding from the dirt and rock.
As she pulled herself up, pain surged through her hands and down her arms. Her legs were cramping, and her stomach churned with nausea as a cold sweat flooded her skin. Adding insult to injury, a sudden and intense cold wind blew from the south, cutting through her down jacket like a razor slicing through paper.
The high April sun was losing its luster behind wisps of gray clouds, and the sweet smells of pine and birch were rapidly being replaced by the musty stench of damp dirt. Andie felt a drop in temperature, but she couldn’t tell if it was the weather or her body reacting to the vision of her painful death if she lost her grip.
Now or never she needed to climb. She knew that the slightest release of her grasp on the root might send her tumbling down into the river below. Her personal fight with the mountain was on.
“Andie, c’mon girl. Move up this damn cliff!” she growled through clenched teeth. “You don’t have far to go, NOW MOVE YOUR ASS!” Talking to herself was usually her catalyst for personal encouragement, but mostly she talked herself out of a sinful thousand-calorie cupcake or a bad blind date. Lately, her sharp tongue and stubbornness had definitely affected the latter.
She was grateful for a swift-moving veil of clouds that momentarily covered the sun. She’d been forced to stare at the bright fireball from her climbing position, and her eyes were burning, making it hard to focus on the steep ground she was desperately attempting to climb.
She could hear more crumbling rocks falling to the floor of the canyon below as she managed to move a few feet up the rocky angle toward the plateau. She found another oak root to grasp, but this time it was not as sturdy as the first, and she could feel her body weight tearing the spindly root from the craggy earth.
Then, with a sudden jolt, she felt warm, masculine hands grabbing tightly around her aching wrists. A large silhouette suddenly appeared from thin air like an angelic vision hovering above her on the ridge.
“Stay still, I got you!” The deep, stern voice was sweet music to Andie’s ears. “Place your feet against the overhang, and on three, you need to push yourself up with everything you got. Okay?”
“I’ll try,” she whimpered. Her chest ached as she spoke. Her lungs felt raw and exhausted, and her tough girl attitude was rapidly being replaced by pathetic whining.
Her rescuer gave her right wrist a gentle squeeze and rubbed the top of her hand with his thumb to reassure her that his grip was strong. Realizi
ng she might have a good chance of living and she might not end up mangled and torn at the bottom of the gorge, she began moving her legs, kicking more of the loose rock free from the face.
“You can do it. Try to place one leg up at a time. I’m right here, and I’m not letting you go,” he said slowly and deliberately, a full octave lower than his initial command. “Take a deep, slow breath. I promise you that you will not fall. Trust me.”
Damn, he sounded wonderful. His orders were smooth and confident, giving her much-needed courage to save her ass and start moving instead of accepting defeat. Andie obeyed, digging her boots in against the surface. She squinted to see his face, but the threatening storm clouds had begun to diminish the afternoon sun, casting a dull shadow along his form. She could only see shaggy brown locks covering most of his forehead and full lips emerging from the dark scruff that surrounded his chin and upper lip.
“You need to trust me. There’s no other way off this sonofabitch but up, so come on. Ready? On three.”
He wasn’t going to take no for an answer, so she needed to find some kind of inner strength to save herself and somehow finish this unbelievable and extremely foolish task she had decided to take on. She had chosen to be here, all alone on this mountain and putting her life at risk. It had to be done—she was the only one who could prevent the astronomical chaos that would take place if she didn’t get into that cave below. She needed to see this through to the end—to make things right, she’d told herself last night.
“One ... two ... three,” he counted, his voice resounding across the ravine.
Pain surged down Andie’s body as he jerked hard on her wrists, and she pushed her lean legs against the rock face and climbed. Her body was limp and awkward as he yanked her up. She landed hard on his chest, and he released a low grunt from the back of his throat. Her gem-green eyes met his brown ones, and she could feel the warmth of his breath against her dry and trembling lips.
