The American Heiress Brides Collection

by Carter, Lisa; Davis, Mary; Dietze, Susanne

  Faint voices reached her. Men talking louder than strictly necessary, as if trying to show the mountain how big and tough they were, how they weren’t afraid of its vast reaches and immeasurable weight towering above them, as if they were, in fact, terrified. In short, not the voices of miners.

  Good. The bandits were on edge. They wouldn’t be thinking clearly. With the Lord’s help, they’d be easy to confuse.

  Jack led the way, and Mrs. Carver brought up the rear as they moved to enact their plan. Light from numerous lamps washed back toward them down the passage as glaring as if they were stepping into a spotlight, but there was no avoiding it. The best they could do was to edge their way along the wall.

  There was a shout and some angry scuffling. A thud and a yelp of pain. Anne’s fingers tightened on her gun. Her heartbeat thrummed loudly in her ears. They came to the final bend and Jack peered around the corner. Anne couldn’t wait. She crouched and leaned around him until she, too, could see what was going on.

  A mere ten feet away the cavern widened into a sort of room. It looked like all of her workers were there together. There was none of the gossipy chitchat in the singsong cadence of Mandarin that she was used to hearing. They were dead silent.

  One man lay on the ground. A skinny fellow wearing an ill-fitting shirt stood over him. “Unless you want me to cut that pigtail of yours off, then you’ll get back to work and not give us any more trouble.”

  There was a collective gasp at the threat. A man’s queue was a sign of his loyalty to the emperor. To lose it would be a deep humiliation. “Now get up.”

  Jack inched back from the opening, forcing Anne to withdraw as well. For some reason, the three of them crouched low. They put their heads close together.

  Jack spoke in a whisper. “There are five bandits.”

  Anne was glad he had kept his wits about him. She had been too distracted by the drama playing out before them to count.

  “Are you both ready?”

  She nodded. Mrs. Carver held aloft a length of rope.

  Jack stood and stepped into the light. “Jig’s up. Throw down your guns.” His words, loud and authoritative, echoed and bounced around the rock chamber like billiard balls on a break.

  Holt’s men looked around them, trying to figure out where the threat was coming from though there was only one entrance. It took several seconds before they had all turned toward Jack.

  “Don’t move. We’ve got you covered.”

  Anne’s palms were slick with sweat, and she held her gun tight but kept it level, the barrel protruding into the light far enough so that the bandits would have no doubt that Jack had backup, but not far enough that they would realize how limited that backup was.

  “Drop your guns and put your hands in the air.”

  The bandits looked at one another, a question telegraphing between them as plain as words. Fight or surrender?

  They had to act. Anne barked a command in Mandarin.

  Instantly the miners overwhelmed their captors, swarming over them and striking the guns from their hands. Anne waved to her comrades. “C’mon.”

  By the time they reached the melee, the battle was over. Mrs. Carver passed over her rope, and the bandits were very efficiently trussed up.

  Chapter 8

  It was only as he approached the men now tied up on the floor that Jack realized his knees were a little shaky. Anne, of course, moved with her usual confidence. She strode into the middle of the crowd of men, who all seemed to be speaking loudly and gesticulating wildly.

  Jack kept pace, not about to let her go anywhere near the bandits without protection. Mrs. Carver was right behind them as well. The men quieted as Anne slipped among them.

  She stopped before an older Chinese man with glasses whose queue had gone gray. She put her palms together and bowed her head. He responded in kind, and she spoke to him in Chinese for a moment. Jack stood behind her feeling redundant until she turned to him.

  “May I introduce An Wei. He is the mine foreman.”

  She made all the introductions just as Jack had taught her a lifetime ago. No one could fault her memory.

  Polite bows and smiles were exchanged all around, and the men bowed especially deeply to Mrs. Carver.

  “Can he confirm that there were just nine bandits? We didn’t miss any, did we?” Jack asked. He didn’t want to celebrate prematurely.

  “No. Only nine bandits.” An Wei’s English was accented but understandable.

  “Ah, you speak English.”

  An Wei smiled and nodded another bow.

  With a few words from him, the bandits were gathered up, cursing and bucking and carried out of the mine.

  Jack and Anne followed more slowly. “What did you say to them at the end that made them go after the bandits?”

  “I told them this was their chance, to attack. I thought those fellows were leaning towards fighting, and people were going to be hurt if they went down that road.”

  “I think you were right. All I can say is that God was looking out for us.”

  “True enough.”

  The next few hours were a whirlwind as they secured their captives and summoned the nearest law enforcement. It was two days before a sheriff and two deputies appeared. It turned out the Holt gang had a whole list of crimes to answer for, and the sheriff was more than happy to lock them up with promises to throw away the key.

  A week after that found them disembarking wearily at the train station in San Francisco. Bao Chang awaited them with the carriage, and Jack thought he’d never looked forward to anything so much as a hot bath and a good night’s sleep in a soft bed. He rubbed at the stubble on his chin. He understood now why men resorted to wearing beards. When a shave required all the effort of fetching water, warming it, and preparing a razor, it just didn’t happen that often.

  At Anne’s house he dragged himself up the front stairs, using the last of his remaining energy. They were met by Anne’s maid. She embraced her mistress in a wholly inappropriate display of affection from a servant, but rather than remonstrating, Mrs. Carver smiled.

  Jack blinked. Come to think of it, the older woman had been quiet and pleasant on the entire journey back. Including the stop at the Indian village. Not a single word of complaint or criticism. Perhaps the wilderness agreed with her.

  “Oh, Mr. Wilberforce.” The maid pulled away and smoothed her apron. “Your mother arrived about twenty minutes ago. I told her your train was expected, so she decided to wait.” She misinterpreted his stricken response. “Don’t worry, I took her refreshments.”

  A weight settled on his shoulders, nothing like the honest exhaustion he’d felt before. This was different—bone deep and enough to make him sick to his stomach. He nodded numbly to the maid and headed across the marble hallway to the parlor.

  He opened the door to find his mother sitting enthroned inside. Her nose wrinkled at his appearance, and she set aside the teacup she held.

  “Hello, Mother.”

  “My dear, what have you been doing?” She tilted her cheek up for a kiss and he crossed the room to comply.

  “It’s a long story. But this is a surprise. What brings you to San Francisco?”

  “You. I’ve been hearing rumors.”

  “About me…? In Boston?”

  “The world is a much smaller place than it used to be what with the Transcontinental Railroad and the telegraph.” She broke off as Anne and her aunt entered. “Irene Carver, you look a sight. I’m not sure the West agrees with you.”

  “Martha.” Mrs. Carver nodded. “You’ve come a long way.”

  His mother’s smile was thin. “I thought I’d take the opportunity to return to Boston with Perseus. He’s more than fulfilled his duty of delivering you to your niece.”

  “He has done impeccably.” The smile Mrs. Carver turned on him was markedly warmer.

  He smiled back, her praise unexpectedly endearing.

  “And who do we have here?”

  At this, Anne stepped f
rom her position behind her aunt. Jack made the introductions.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am. You’ve raised a fine son. A credit to his name.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Now his mother’s smile was no more than a stretching of her lips. Her eyes were full of sharp appraisal as she took in Anne’s travel-stained garments.

  “Mother, you will never convince me that you simply decided on a jaunt across the country without Father. What have you come to say?”

  His mother looked from him to Mrs. Carver to Anne and back again. “As I said, just silly rumors. I merely wanted to make sure there was nothing to them. My telegrams went unanswered.”

  “We haven’t been here,” Anne said.

  “I see.”

  “What rumors, Mother?” His jaw was tight from the effort of holding back his temper. Anne was never like this. There was no one truer or more straightforward. He adored that about her.

  A flush splotched along his mother’s jawline and up into her cheeks. “It’s—that is … I heard a rumor that you might be interested in … in Miss Shepherd here, in a romantic way. I simply want to know if it is true or not.”

  Anne’s mouth gaped open. “I can assure you there’s no truth—”

  There was a hiss of drawn-in breath from Mrs. Carver. “You came to warn him off and drag him home, didn’t you?”

  “His father does want him to come back to Boston.”

  “Martha Wilberforce, are you implying that my niece isn’t good enough for this washed-up lawyer son of yours?”

  “Well, no, Irene; of course, your family is of good stock. The best. But we don’t know this girl. Don’t have any way to know she’s who she says she is. From what I’ve heard, she certainly doesn’t act like a Shepherd. She could be after money.”

  Jack snorted. “Mother, she could buy and sell us three or four times over.” He moved to stand directly in front of her. “I spoke to Father before I left. I’m not coming back.”

  “You’re throwing away your future.”

  “No, Mother. California is my future.” He turned from her and reached for Anne’s hand. She had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout this whole exchange. “And Anne is my future. It would be my highest achievement to marry her, if she’ll have me.”

  His mother began sputtering, but he had eyes and ears only for Anne.

  She looked at him, wondering. “You’re asking me to marry you?”

  He nodded.

  “But you know I’m not cultured, and I made a hash of that dinner party. I’m not a hostess. I’d end up embarrassing you.”

  “I don’t want to marry a society hostess. I want to marry a woman who is loyal and kind, courageous and daring, and wise and so very beautiful.” He raised his hand to cup her cheek, and she leaned into his palm ever so slightly. “Believe me, I’d be getting the better part of the bargain.”

  She searched his gaze, and it dawned upon her that perhaps she had been posing a false choice. Might it be possible to have both refinement and freedom? She could bring culture to the wilderness or independence to the city; the capacity for both lay within her.

  She still had a choice to make, but it was the easiest decision she’d ever confronted. “Yes, oh yes.” She flung her arms around Jack, and he whooped and lifted her up above his head before returning her to the ground and sealing the engagement with a kiss. At first it was exuberant, but as his lips lingered it grew more heated. His fingers cupped the back of her neck and she shivered. Dimly she heard her aunt speaking.

  “Don’t bother to fight it, Martha,” Aunt Carver advised. “Give her some time and she’ll grow on you.”

  Lisa Karon Richardson is an award-winning author and a member of American Christian Fiction Writers. Influenced by books like The Little Princess, Lisa’s early books were heavy on creepy boarding schools. Though she’s mostly all grown-up now, she still loves a healthy dash of adventure in any story she creates, even her real-life story. She’s been a missionary to the Seychelles and Gabon, and now that she and her husband are back in America, they are tackling new adventures—starting a daughter-work church and raising two precocious kids.

  Maggie’s Newfort Caper

  by Lynette Sowell

  Chapter 1

  New York City, 1895

  I always knew that James Blankenship would come to no good. He ought to be fired.” Mother tossed the newspaper onto the tea table, making Maggie Livingston jump and nearly drop her book—or books, rather.

  Maggie glanced up from the latest installment of The Perils of Phoebe, tucked discreetly inside a volume of Great American Poets. Mother’s favorite activity on a rainy afternoon in New York was to read poetry aloud; therefore, such an activity must be Maggie’s favorite, too. Mother would typically fall asleep after approximately twenty to thirty minutes, but today’s slumber hadn’t lasted for long after she began reading the newspaper.

  Maggie tried not to squirm on the cushioned settee, lest she receive another admonishment on the value of proper posture.

  “Why is that, Mother?” Maggie clutched the books against her bodice.

  “Your father likes to tell me that I shouldn’t read the newspaper, and I do wish that I had listened to him.” She shook her head, snapping up the paper in one hand as she did so.

  Maggie risked her book’s discovery by standing then setting the books on the settee’s cushion. Palms sweating, she crossed the parlor and stood before her mother.

  “Here.” Mother held up the newspaper. “You’re bound to hear of it, anyway.”

  Maggie took the newspaper and read the headline. “‘Livingston prospects fading, bank denies loan.’”

  She swallowed hard. “Mother, things aren’t that bad, are they?”

  “No, of course not.” Mother pulled the paper from Maggie’s hand. “Your father’s business is quite solvent, as he puts it. He merely sought a loan to build a new ship, and the bank refused him. He’s inquiring into other possible avenues to secure funding. But this—this James Blankenship makes it sound as if we are headed to the poorhouse.”

  “But we’re not heading to the ‘poorhouse’?” Maggie tried not to smile at her mother’s dramatic flair.

  “No. You needn’t worry of anything like that. You only need worry about what you shall wear to your debut next week. The seamstress—Clothilde Dubois—is meeting us Thursday morning at the cottage, where she shall bring an assortment of gowns for you to try.”

  More gowns.

  “But I already have a gown to wear.”

  “Dear, that was last year’s gown. It simply won’t do. Everyone will know.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” But she’d loved the shade of jade-green silk and how the color made her brown hair seem a touch redder in the proper light.

  Maggie bit her lip. Mother had tried to redirect her attention from Father’s affairs to that of her upcoming official introduction to society.

  She scanned their parlor, with its French furniture, carpet from China, and an Italian fresco on one wall. She had breakfasted this morning, and while a noonday dinner in the city with two of her friends had been canceled due to the rain, she had partaken of a more-than-adequate luncheon here at her family’s city residence. She had comforts many only dreamed of. The thought of losing it made her heart beat a bit faster. Yet others not in her station could live comfortable and contented lives despite their lack of ornate surroundings.

  She stepped over to the front windows overlooking Central Park. Despite the rain, her heart sang because tomorrow morning they were set to travel to Newport for the summer, to Tidewaters, their cottage—all thirty-five rooms of it.

  The front door opened, making them both glance toward the entry.

  “Father—you’re home early.” The fine lines around her father’s eyes seemed a bit deeper this afternoon.

  “Yes, I’m home early for a good supper before I see the two of you to Newport in the morning.”

  Mother rose, laying the newspaper on the tea table besid
e her as she did so. “You didn’t tell me you would be coming as well.”

  Father nodded, removing his hat. “I shall stay the weekend then depart for the city on Sunday afternoon.”

  He paused in the parlor’s doorway and glanced between both of them. “I can see the concern in your expressions. Is it that newspaper article by Mr. Blankenship?”

  “Of course it is.” Mother frowned. “You ought to sue him for libel, or slander, especially if what he says isn’t true.”

  Father waved her words away. “Nonsense. It’s simply a misleading headline, nothing more. His father and I have had discussions over James’s writing before. There is something else, though, you must know.”

  He glanced over his shoulder before continuing. “It might make the news tomorrow, or may not. But I heard from Benjamin Morris that his residence was broken into and all of his wife’s jewelry is missing.”

  “Stolen?” Mother gasped.

  Maggie touched the brooch pinned to her shirtwaist. “Does he know who might have done it?”

  “No,” Father said.

  Webster approached, smiling as he did so. “Mr. Livingston.”

  Father handed Webster his hat. “Thank you, Mr. Webster.”

  The houseman hurried away, giving Maggie a grandfatherly smile. She’d never known either of her grandfathers, and the courtly older man displayed his warm side for her and few others.

  “We must secure our things.” Mother nodded. “I certainly hope they don’t come here. All the lovely pieces you’ve bought for me over the years.”

  “I find it highly unlikely they will. I’ve already instructed Mr. Webster to keep a close eye on our household.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at her, then twinkled mischievously. “And I’m sure you will bring all your baubles to the cottage with you and not leave them here.”