The Northern Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  Their little party had been the only ones on the road for the past two miles, proving the good sense of the rest of society.

  Lowell’s hand went up and Lucas slowed, stopping alongside him. “What is it?”

  Lowell pulled down his muffler. “We can check our gear here before we begin the descent.”

  His usually daredevil countenance was entirely serious.

  Lucas nodded. “Good idea. Rest your horses for a few minutes, too.” Once they reached Virginia City at the mountain’s foot, speed would be the best guarantee of surprise.

  He swung down and thoroughly checked his gelding, paying particular attention to every strap and buckle. Even though every bit of tack had come out of Donovan’s personal stable, this had already proven itself to be a ride for not taking chances. He gave his horse a little water, safely stored in an insulated canteen.

  And he worked very hard not to think about how empty the Empress had seemed without Rachel in it. Facing the private Pullman where he and Rachel had been so happy, whose every inch offered up happy memories, had been agony. Such as when she’d neatly trounced him at chess and blushed so deliciously when he’d flirted with her, or moan passionately when he savored her sweet breasts. Or the delightful shock on her face the first time he’d brought her to rapture five times in one night.

  But the same small box of wood, padded with velvets and silks, ornamented with carved woods and the finest crystals, also hurled bitter memories of her coldness over the past two days. Of how she’d look at him every time he opened his mouth as though she was waiting to hear how he’d lock her up again. Or how she’d draw back so not an inch of her skin or her skirts touched him. Or how her conversation was a model for deportment at a royal banquet, but nothing like the camaraderie they’d shared for so many years.

  How could he return to it?

  He had betrayed her trust.

  If he’d done his duty, instead of flinching from how much she hated him, he’d have guarded her better today—and she wouldn’t have been kidnapped.

  He’d failed her, as he’d failed Ambrosia. If she died, as Ambrosia had died…

  It was all he could do not to shout at the uncaring wind.

  He glanced up gratefully when Little joined him.

  “When I was a young man,” Little said quietly, “I loved my wife very, very much.”

  Little was looking straight ahead, the lines in his face as deep as the ones carved in the Sierras. “We were very, very passionate and we fought sometimes.”

  Lucas held his breath, instinctively knowing that Little had never told this story before.

  “After one such fight, I went hunting in the mountains. While I was gone, another tribe attacked and kidnapped my wife, as well as others. I followed as soon as I returned, but I was too late. She had been injured in the attack and slipped off a cliff during the trip back to their camp. She was killed instantly, but I still blame myself.”

  He turned his head to look at Lucas, tears glinting on his cheeks. “I never returned to my people or the life my wife and I had shared. Instead I joined my mother’s people and became one of their warriors, occasionally taking refuge from those memories in firewater. Now I ask you not to make the same mistake I did. Even the oak bends a little before the wind.”

  He inclined his head and strode off, his back straight as an arrow.

  Lucas exhaled slowly, rocking back and forth on his heels, accepting the lesson.

  He was in love with Rachel. He’d sworn never to fall in love again, but clear-eyed, golden Rachel had stolen his heart before he’d noticed. Quite possibly before he’d arrived in Omaha.

  He knew he’d endure anything to have her come back to him. He didn’t give a damn if she’d been outraged—although his revenge on the bastards who’d done it to her would be vicious. He simply wanted her alive and in his life.

  Given that, what more could he offer? His pride that wouldn’t let him admit mistakes—or discuss a crisis with her in advance? After all, she might have stayed in Ogden, if he’d asked her in advance. Maybe.

  Most of all, he’d have to give her the freedom to live her life the way she wanted to, to go where she wanted and take the risks she wanted to. Even with the children.

  He’d have to risk their lives in order to have a marriage with Rachel. Or he could do as other men did and trust them to Divine Providence, while he devoted himself to cherishing their mother in every possible way.

  But he loved her and that was the only possible way to prove it to her.

  He blew out a breath. The wind immediately whipped it away, tossing a few, fat snowflakes in its place.

  Snow already? While the toll road had been cleared, it was still icy in places. If it snowed, they wouldn’t be able to see the treacherous ground underfoot.

  Little rode up, his dappled gray Appaloosa almost disappearing against the ice-shrouded rocks. “Ready?”

  Lucas nodded and swung himself into the saddle. He gathered up the reins and rode forward, the others falling in behind.

  They reached the lip of the road and a chance gust of wind threw itself against them. They paused instinctively and the clouds briefly opened, allowing Lucas a glimpse of the Geiger Grade. Brutally steep even with enough switchbacks to make a wagon master curse continuously, the mountain bordered it on one side but the other was a sheer plunge, which ended on rocks hundreds of feet below.

  Hell and damnation, it was worse than any tale he’d ever heard, especially in this weather. If he lived through this, he’d damn well spend every day of his life doing his utmost to convince Rachel of how much he adored her, no matter how difficult.

  Because this ride would be the best possible preparation.

  A dry chuckle bubbled up at his own stupidity. He’d allowed his own fears to box him into a corner and lose the woman he loved.

  Life was short and worth any risk, as his first sergeant had told him time and again. Sometimes the only way forward was straight ahead, if standing still would buy him nothing.

  Lucas kneed his big black forward, trusting to his mountain-loving Morgan blood, with the old joy of combat singing through his veins.

  The gelding’s ears went back and he tucked his tail in tight, making very clear his low opinion of his rider’s taste in routes.

  Lucas simply slouched down in the saddle, as he’d done so many times on so many long cavalry patrols, pulled down his cap, and prayed.

  The black shook his head, sending his tack ringing. He stepped out onto the Geiger Grade and began to warily pick his way down through the compacted, rutted ice.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The great headlight flashed across the Bluebird’s stamp mill, eerily bright through the lightly falling snow, and disappeared, cut off by a fold of the mountain. They were on the mill’s fourth floor, high enough that the brutal noise of crushing rock didn’t ruin all conversation. It was a superbly built wooden structure, strong enough to withstand years of shaking from the dozen great stamps crushing rock below.

  Looking at the office’s lavish furnishings and Humphreys’s diamond jewelry, Collins strongly suspected that the Bluebird’s books had been cooked even more than he’d suspected. A Brussels carpet he could excuse, but just how much had it cost to buy and deliver that massive, seven-foot-tall, pier glass window? But that discussion could wait for another day, after they’d dealt with Donovan and Grainger.

  Collins leaned forward to catch the last possible glimpse of the train. “Donovan is exactly on time.”

  “He probably had somebody watching the clock for him, to make certain.” Maitland snickered.

  “He is one of the most cunning businessmen of his generation. Don’t make the mistake of underestimating him.” Humphreys, surprisingly dapper for such a burly man, spun away from his window and faced the others. “He’ll have at least one trick up his sleeve.”

  “But we have the greatest card of all—Rachel Davis,” Collins pointed out.

  “True. We just have to kill Grainger
quickly so his family won’t kick up a fuss. After we’re done here, we’ll leave from the Gold Drop mine before Donovan’s friends seek vengeance.”

  “When I will have the opportunity to teach that bitch some manners?” Maitland purred.

  Collins lifted an eyebrow at his son, wary of his blatant anticipation. “Remember—we need every man for the coming fight with Donovan. There’ll be time enough for her later.”

  Maitland smiled charmingly and spread his hands, his wound’s red seam splitting his face into an appalling demon’s mask. “Of course, Father. Revenge is a dish best served cold. Very, very cold.”

  Rachel cautiously lifted her head. Good—both eyes were open and her spine was vertical, yet the dizziness was receding. Even better, the terrifying migraine that had made her heart stutter was now merely pain, an intense agony that lived behind her eyes. She could tolerate that for a very long time, since her blood beat strongly and steadily through her veins.

  Her face was numb with cold, echoing the room’s temperature, and she slowly rocked, tucking her mittened hands into her armpits for warmth. She’d long since pulled her scarf up over her mouth. Neither Collins had visited her since she’d arrived, so they’d never tied her up—not even in the beginning. They had to be wagering on that heavy dose of chloroform they’d given her.

  Thankfully, he’d let her keep her buffalo coat and everything else she was wearing. Dear Braden had made her carry her mittens in an interior pocket. She’d almost certainly need them outside.

  Satisfied the movement wouldn’t cause any additional discomfort, she braced herself against the wall and slowly shoved herself onto her feet. Another wave of dizziness touched her when her knees locked under her. She tensed, terrified—then forced herself to relax and breathe slowly, steadily, as Elias had taught her. He’d survived far longer than anyone had thought possible, thanks to controlling his pain far better than any of his doctors with their drugs. The multiple doors refocused into a single one and her pulse settled into its old, sober beat.

  Rachel swallowed hard, setting aside that hurdle, and looked around for an escape route.

  Nobody had checked on her since her arrival, at least not that she’d noticed. The locomotive crew was now loudly speculating about overtime pay, given the winter’s heavy workload.

  Even so, she didn’t intend to walk out the single door, if she had any other choice.

  The room itself held no furniture, only a few crates and some heavy tools, one of which looked like a complicated wrench. She needed two hands to hoist it experimentally; good heavens, it must have been designed to open recalcitrant valves on mining equipment.

  She swung it—and had to brace herself to control it. But she could do it, enough to break a window and climb onto the roof. After, of course, cutting an “X” in the glass with her diamond-studded mourning brooch to reduce the noise.

  Two very dusty, dormer windows showed a developing storm, with strong winds tossing pine needles and pine cones past. Occasionally, a gust would veil the windows in white but, so far, it hadn’t started snowing. At least, not here. She had no guarantees on what the weather was like higher in the mountains.

  From that side, she could faintly hear the thundering beat of great machines constantly pounding. A stamp mill, perhaps?

  She leaned closer to a window and looked for her own opportunities. Here she was three stories up, with no roof until the first floor. However, the snow had drifted close to the big, wooden structure. The snow drift’s edge had been sharply cut, almost turned into a wall, next to a door in the mill. Just beyond that gaped the dark mouth of a snow tunnel, its destination invisible against the white landscape.

  If she stepped into it, she didn’t know if she’d find herself with friends or enemies. But wasn’t that the truth no matter where she went? At least she’d be somewhat safe from the elements.

  Or she could try to escape through the door and find another way out. Smash through it with the wrench? She put her hand on the wood, testing its strength. It was far too heavy.

  Perhaps she could unscrew the hinges, as Anglesey Hall’s carpenter always did when he wanted to repair doors. But with what?

  Nothing offered itself.

  No, her only hope was the window. She’d have to jump out, slide down that roof, make it through that tunnel—and pray.

  It was a moment’s work to unpin her brooch and mark the glass, echoing one of Elias’s childhood escapades. She hefted the great wrench again and smashed it against the glass, heaving it more than swinging it. The glass immediately broke into a great star and silently fell into the gale, spinning like lost spirits. She rolled the wrench over the wood, grinding it down until the edges were as smooth as possible.

  The winds clawed at her face, spitting snow at her, reminding her of what was to come. Childishly, she stuck her tongue out before she dragged over a crate. She’d do whatever was necessary to escape and rejoin Lucas. One day, she’d see her mother and Mercy again, too.

  Shifting the crate revealed an elegant firearms case of a distinctive size and shape, with a crate of ammunition hidden behind them. Long guns—rifles or maybe shotguns.

  Maitland must have left her in the storeroom without bothering to see what else was here.

  Shocked, she sank back onto her heels and began to think, harder and faster than ever before in her life.

  She’d learned how to handle a shotgun years before, mainly to keep varmints away from the chickens when Old Man Davis visited his country home. He traveled light at those times and every servant had to do double—or triple—duty. It had amused Elias to make sure she retained her grasp of the basics, although she was hardly excellent.

  Could she use one of these against a man?

  Maitland had murdered Peter and Paul Hawkins in cold blood. This was a frontier country and she’d need something to defend herself with.

  She bent her head and prayed for wisdom in using an instrument of death. Then she wrenched the lids off the two boxes, ignoring her overworked muscles’ heated protests.

  The long guns had been stored ready for a moment’s use, not in the layers of grease needed for long storage. Even better, they included a Greener shotgun, the best of the best and the type she was familiar with.

  Shotgun slung over her back, she gathered her skirts and clambered onto the crate, grateful she’d worn such a sturdy, simple promenade dress. Ruffles would not be the best companions on this journey.

  Her skin was cold underneath the buffalo robe, yet her pulse was running as steady as her determination. She didn’t give herself time to reconsider before she pulled herself through the window and stood up, bracing herself in the window frame. The winds battered her, cutting at her face.

  An instant later, she released her grip and jumped. She thudded onto the roof, snow and woolen skirts lifting up around her, and slid down again faster. She dropped again, face first, into the drift and scrambled out as quickly as possible, gasping for breath and her heart pounding.

  She crashed through the snow into the tunnel and pressed herself against the side, trying to calm down enough to listen.

  Nobody sounded the alarm from within the mine building she’d just left. A locomotive somewhere close by was peacefully turning over, as if ready to leave on a moment’s notice. Probably for Maitland and Collins.

  Beyond the tunnel and the area immediately around the mine, the snow lay six feet deep, far too deep for her to walk through without snowshoes.

  The only way to go was straight ahead, through the snow tunnel. A faint light glimmered deep within, probably thanks to the shreds of daylight being filtered through the snow. It was enough to see by, but not enough to remove its resemblance to the cellar on Collins’s Ledge.

  Rachel gulped and brought her Greener to the ready. Gritting her teeth, she turned away from the mine and started walking.

  Lucas shifted forward another inch. Little moved with him, matching every flex of hips and thighs. Not an ounce of snow tumbled down the mounta
inside.

  While exhilarating in a fashion that he’d no desire to experience again, the damn ride down Geiger Grade had taken longer than he would have liked. They’d left the horses a few miles north of here with a friend of Lowell’s, who’d grinned happily upon seeing him. He’d also provided four fine pairs of snowshoes, which had brought them quickly and silently over the last leg.

  They’d arrived here above the Bluebird thirty minutes later than planned. Donovan was due any minute. If Humphreys had sharpshooters, they were already present—and ready to kill Donovan.

  Their position was high on Mount Davidson, naked on a particularly barren slope, and one false move could betray them or start an avalanche. Ten feet away, Lowell was tucked behind a boulder, sighting in landmarks. Twenty feet back, Mitchell had silently killed Humphreys’s only sentry and was now tucking him into someplace invisible until the weather settled down.

  If it ever did, given that the wind was now blowing fast enough to wipe out a man’s tracks within five minutes. Snow trickled insidiously down Lucas’s neck and sought new places to nestle inside his wrists. But he was warm enough to fight—warmer than he’d been in the Army—with his woolen balaclava to protect his face and his double layer of gloves and mittens. He was also grateful he’d been out hunting several times with Little back in Colorado so this wasn’t his first trip of the season on snowshoes. Otherwise, every leg muscle would be aching from lifting the damn things and his hips from keeping them wide apart. But they were absolutely silent, a deadly advantage when hunting men.

  Little mimed a bird’s wings and pointed at a burst of light below, which matched thundering noise.

  Lucas nodded. The Bluebird Mine with Donovan’s train sweeping its headlight across the landscape. It turned suddenly to Lucas’s left—on the north—darkening the great beam, before it reappeared again, pointing at the Bluebird. The private track coming up from the main line to the Bluebird and the Gold Drop was a Y-shape, with a deep gorge at the base of the “Y,” just before it reached the main line. Even for a mountain railway, it was an extraordinarily twisting piece of track. An engineer would have to stay very alert to keep his train on that line.