The River Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  “Afternoon, gentlemen. As you see, we’re offloading cargo and passengers now, so we’ll be ready for tomorrow’s run. Do you have any plans for tonight, Mr. Lennox?”

  “Yes, I have friends to meet in town.” Good God, was Hatcher still trying to finagle his way into Nick’s confidence? He’d been told from the beginning that Nick expected to spend the entire night in Omaha. Nick controlled his irritation with an effort.

  Hatcher seemed to realize he’d irritated his golden goose and rushed into overly cordial speech. “There’s a great deal you and your friends can do here, sir. Omaha’s quite a sporting town. Prizefighting, cockfighting, dogfighting, whatever you like. And there’s some bagnios where the women fight too. Afterward, you can buy one, even if they do frequently have the French pox. Perhaps you and your friend would like to—”

  “Enough,” Nick snapped. The women had started to interest him until the mention of syphilis, or the French pox. He’d never knowingly touched such a female and never would.

  Red rose in Hatcher’s face as he clamped his lips shut. Jenkins’s honeyed tones broke the hostile silence. “Your suggestions are very interesting, but I suspect Mr. Lennox and his friend already have plans.”

  “Of course,” Hatcher said stiffly. “I hope you’ll have an excellent time ashore.” He nodded to them both and mercifully removed himself quickly.

  Damn, he’d be glad when he left this boat and its captain. Nick raised an eyebrow at Jenkins. “Your plans?”

  “Keep an eye on Donovan and move as soon as a chance presents itself. Should he dine ashore alone, say at the Cozzens Hotel, we’ll have him in a trice.”

  “Splendid. I’ll cross the river at sundown when it’s quieter and I’ll stay until dawn.” Nick considered his options for filling the time between meeting Ripley and his predawn rendezvous. Find a likely woman to bed down with? Interesting thought but not if he had to pay; he had little enough cash, as it was. Perhaps he could rebuild his purse by playing cards. “Any suggestions for where I can find a good game of poker?”

  “Allen’s gambling house, if you want a square game. Or Clapper Bill’s for a more raucous one.”

  “Thank you. And good luck.”

  Jenkins grinned, this time showing his stained teeth. “Same to you, sir.”

  Squinting slightly against the sunset, Rosalind kept her eyes firmly fixed on Omaha rather than the Missouri River. The Cherokee Belle was the only first-class packet docked here, since the Spartan was tied up across the river at Council Bluffs. After a long day of watching the Belle fight its way upstream, she’d much rather consider Omaha’s notorious sights than the raging brown waters pummeling their way south behind her.

  She’d last visited it two years ago—in high summer, when all the talk was of dust and dust storms. She’d also stayed on the high bluffs as much as possible and avoided the riverfront, as was appropriate for an unmarried young lady traveling with her father. From today’s vantage point, she could see the low ridge of mud that marked the levee, then the town’s warehouses and saloons. Beyond them, trees marked the more respectable streets, providing some shade against the end of a surprisingly warm spring day.

  Horses and mules pulled wagons along the streets, sometimes visibly struggling to shift heavily laden drays. Pedestrians were easily spotted, especially when they crossed intersections as warily as a gambler picking his way through a rigged game. A few open carriages trotted past the saloons, while their gaily clad female occupants waved at male passersby or stopped to greet them warmly.

  All in all a prosperous city, but a rougher one than she’d visited on her own. Even with her pair of Colts snug against her waist, she was very glad she’d be going ashore with Hal. Besides, in his company, she rarely remembered water’s dangers.

  A soberly dressed Viola Donovan was also studying the town, while William Donovan observed from his wife’s side. Morgan Evans was considering Omaha with a hunter’s dispassionate—and merciless—eye, while Bellecourt and McKenzie discussed the recent local floods over a sheaf of telegrams.

  Hal’s voice cut across their conversation, and Rosalind’s heart leaped. A leashed Cicero paced beside him, dark eyes alert and ears pricked as if he, too, was desperate to find a villain. “Ready to go ashore, my dear? Gentlemen?”

  “Of course,” Viola answered.

  “Everyone know where they’re searching?” Morgan asked.

  William nodded. “Certainly. Viola and I will take the better hotels, starting with the Cozzens. Hal and Carstairs will search the business district, while you and McKenzie will take the waterfront. Bellecourt will sieve through the local gossip.”

  “As we agreed,” Morgan added briskly, “if you locate him, don’t confront him; just send a message to the Donovan & Sons warehouse. Gillespie, the local manager, will find William and then the others. If Lennox isn’t here, we meet in two hours at the Wyoming.”

  “Afterward, William and I will have dinner with Gillespie, at his home,” Viola added. “He has a new baby and wishes William to be godfather.”

  “A most important engagement,” Hal commented. He’d never allowed himself to take on a godparent’s duties; they seemed too painfully close to a parent’s.

  There was a general murmur of agreement before they made their way down the stairs and across the stage to Omaha. A few minutes later, the Donovans had departed in a hack, while Bellecourt had been greeted enthusiastically and borne off by a pair of older gentlemen. Evans and McKenzie had disappeared into the closest warehouse.

  Cicero growled at a pair of mongrels sniffing under a nearby boardwalk. They answered him loudly, and he promptly loosed his own slanderous challenge.

  “Quiet, Cicero.” The dog glanced up at his master’s order, sounded one more warning, then sat down beside Hal with the air of having won a tough battle. The two curs barked repeatedly before reluctantly returning to their explorations.

  “Ready?” Rosalind asked.

  “Of course.” Hal silently led the way up Farnam Street, his blackthorn walking stick tapping out each step, and paid little heed to Cicero’s frequent libels of the local canines. Rosalind raised an eyebrow and decided to try her hand at recalling his attention.

  “Prosperous town.”

  “Indeed.”

  Best try another topic. “What on earth is that smell?”

  “Probably a dead hog.”

  “It’s coming from under the boardwalk, Lindsay.”

  Hal shrugged. “Hogs take shelter there from winter storms, Carstairs, then die of the cold. Spring’s warmer temperatures bring putrefaction.”

  Rosalind repressed an involuntary shudder. But at least he was talking to her, and she wasn’t looking at the river. “And Omaha isn’t one of the ablest towns at removing such garbage.”

  “No. On the other hand, they’re talking about a big celebration in June to honor trees.”

  Her jaw dropped. “Trees?”

  “They think more people should plant and cherish them.”

  Rosalind closed her mouth. A party for trees? Still, orchards and groves would certainly reduce the amount of mud and dust found here.

  Hal stopped on the boardwalk’s edge, in front of a large saloon, to look back down the street. Standing beside him, Rosalind could see the levee, the Cherokee Belle, and the Missouri’s angry waters rushing past. Four miles away, Council Bluffs’ steeples rose on the Missouri’s eastern shore.

  Four miles. She’d nearly drowned in the Long Island Sound, less than two miles from land. Her skin went cold at the memory.

  Hal turned around and started walking again, shouldering past two drunks without a second glance. “Hurry up,” he called back over his shoulder. “We need to reach the church before sundown.”

  Church? Why would he want to go to church? Her heart leaped into her throat. Could he possibly mean a permanent union? Impossible. He had to be hunting for Lennox.

  Cicero growled at two dogs standing in a doorway, both twice his size and scarred from past ba
ttles.

  Rosalind swallowed hard before she spoke, as she hastened to catch up with Hal. “I thought we were going to the business section,” she questioned carefully, scarcely daring to hope.

  “After we’re done at the church. We must arrive there before the minister leaves for dinner.”

  Rosalind stopped cold, forcing Hal to turn toward her. She wanted her marriage proposal to be delivered properly, not from a man walking so fast she could barely hear him.

  The piano inside the saloon struck up a sentimental ditty about lost love. An open carriage carrying a pair of gaudily dressed and painted soiled doves swept past, pulled by a team of high-stepping horses and scattering dirt clods right and left. Neither Hal nor Rosalind spared it or the mud a single glance.

  “Why are we going to the church?” she demanded.

  Hal’s mouth tightened. His blue eyes, usually so brilliant, looked haunted.

  The two dogs snarled at Cicero, but Rosalind paid them no heed.

  Hal glanced around, but they were momentarily isolated on the boardwalk. He looked back at her and spoke with obvious reluctance. “Marriage.”

  No words of love? It was a public street, and she was dressed as a man. Still, some declaration of affection could, and should, be provided. “Why?”

  “It’s the only way to protect Viola and William. Your money can permanently buy Belknap’s benevolence and stop Lennox.”

  Cicero launched into a torrent of canine calumnies, which were quickly returned by the other dogs.

  Money? All he wants is my money? Rosalind flinched as if she’d been struck in the stomach. That was all Lennox had wanted from her, too. She forced herself to look for another explanation. “Is that the only reason?”

  Color rose in his face. “What else? We’re good friends and deal well together.”

  Just friends? Cold pierced her veins as if she were trying to walk through a Montana blizzard. She wrapped her arms around herself and tried to think. This wasn’t Lennox, who’d ordered her to marry him, then killed her best friend for objecting.

  This was Hal, talking about marriage to her. Gallant, gentlemanly Hal. The epitome of what any woman would want for a husband, if he just had a sentimental attachment to her. She desperately looked for a reason to accept. If she couldn’t have his love, perhaps she could be happy adoring his children. “What about children?”

  “I will do my best never to sire any.” His eyes were as implacable as a stone statue.

  Something inside her broke at his denial of her dream. Lord have mercy, this was worse than Nicholas Lennox’s offer. “No,” she croaked.

  Yapping fiercely, Cicero lunged at his canine tormentors, but Hal yanked him back.

  “What the hell do you mean by that?” he demanded.

  “No marriage.”

  He grabbed her by the shoulders, his strong fingers biting into her. Lennox had gripped her like this, just before Bridget died. Hal’s blackthorn walking stick clattered to the boardwalk, like the pieces of her heart.

  “You have to do it,” he insisted, staring down at her as if he could compel her with just a look. “It’s the only way to keep Viola and William safe.”

  Cicero strained against the leash, barking so loudly that Rosalind could barely hear Hal.

  “Never.” She wouldn’t agree. She couldn’t accept a loveless marriage with him, without even the hope of children. She tried to twist free of him. “Let me go!”

  “Dammit, Carstairs, you’ll marry me if I have to drag you to the church!” He shook her fiercely. Her knee came up instinctively to counterattack. Unlike Lennox’s proposal, this time she was dressed to fight.

  Cicero charged at his tormentors, jerking the leash through Hal’s fingers and pulling one hand away from Rosalind.

  “Cicero!” Hal snapped and tried to grab the strip of leather.

  The two local dogs sprang on Cicero. Suddenly, a whirling mass of barking, biting dogs erupted in the middle of the boardwalk.

  Rosalind ground her boot heel into Hal’s foot. Caught off balance, he briefly loosened his grip on her. Not for long, but long enough. She wrenched herself away and took to her heels.

  Hal lunged for her. The dogfight crashed into him and sent him staggering.

  She ran hard, shrugging her coat back onto her shoulder. She couldn’t be trapped, yet again, by a man who only wanted her money.

  “Carstairs!” he bellowed.

  Heaven help her, if he’d said “Rosalind” just once, she might have returned to him. Just one sign that he saw her as a woman, instead of a walking bank account.

  Instead, she turned the corner and ran as if the devil were at her heels. Ran as she had run once before, after Nicholas Lennox’s proposal. Ran as she’d wanted to when the yacht sank, destroying her mother and brothers, sending an ocean of saltwater pouring over her.

  She dodged mudholes, carriages, and gaps in the boardwalk. She raced down alleys and behind warehouses. And all the while, her brain screamed, “No, not him too!”

  Eventually, Rosalind came to a stop in a dark alley. She leaned against the wall, gasping for breath. Slowly, the voice inside her head faded until all she could hear was her heart pounding in her chest and her agonized breathing.

  Hal, her aching heart moaned. Hal.

  Rosalind gradually became aware of other things, like a patch of icy ground in the deepest shade next to the building. The sunlight was almost gone, lighting clearly only the rooftop above and sending a few faint gleams into the alley below. Crates and barrels were stacked behind one building, with rancid cheese spilling from a splintered box. Loud, drunken voices reached her from inside.

  A large brown rat studied her curiously, whiskers rippling, as if considering how best to bite her. A pocket Navy Colt appeared in her hand. Rosalind blinked, trying to remember why she held it.

  The answer came slowly to her shaken reasoning. She’d been on the Cherokee Belle long enough—slept with Hal Lindsay often enough—that she’d forgotten the need to defend herself against the predators found in poorer lodgings. A Colt would kill rats, which was how she’d perfected her shooting in the past few months. It wouldn’t stop lice or cockroaches or mosquitoes or…

  She shuddered. She’d need to hide for almost twelve months more, among vermin like these, if she was to evade Nicholas Lennox without Hal’s aid.

  Twelve months. That rat had to be at least a foot long. How many more like him would she meet? Nausea rose in her throat, but she forced it back. She would survive this, too, and build her own life. And one day, please God, she’d cherish a loving husband and children.

  She cocked the revolver and aimed it at the rat. It was time to start fighting.

  The big brown varmint, which had been only a few feet away from her feet, froze. It blinked at her, its nose twitching furiously.

  She glared back. Her finger tightened on the trigger. She’d bet a thousand dollars that no one nearby would find a gunshot disturbing.

  Abruptly, the rat turned and ran for the safety of the jumbled barrels. Before she could so much as blink, even its tail had disappeared. Rosalind slowly relaxed. What next? The answer to that seemed simple: Take passage to Montana.

  The voices came clearer from inside the saloon, now that she paid them more heed. While most were obnoxiously discordant, two were reasonably polite—although probably followers of Demon Rum—with one man definitely from New York.

  “The deal was for two hundred dollars, not five,” the New Yorker snapped. He sounded furious, an unusual note for someone negotiating a deal.

  Rosalind stiffened at the all-too-familiar voice. Could it be? She slid along the wall, trying to move closer to the speakers.

  “That was before I read the ledger book, mister. But I know what’s in it now. You’ll pay me five hundred right smartly or I’ll shop this l’il beauty round to the highest bidder,” a westerner retorted.

  Ledger book? Rosalind looked cautiously around the corner. A muddy street, an uncovered boardwalk running bet
ween it and the saloon—and a slightly ajar window, next to a narrow door. Gaslight’s harsh glare spilled onto the boardwalk, and a scrap of curtain fluttered, as if agitated by the argument within.

  She gulped, but she had to hear more. Slowly, she crept onto the boardwalk and into the doorway’s shelter. From here, she could even hear one man drumming his fingers on the table.

  “Very well. Five hundred, it is,” the New Yorker conceded reluctantly.

  Dear God in heaven, it was Lennox. Rosalind’s breath caught in her throat and her heart seemed to stop beating. She lifted her revolver, ready to fight.

  Paper rustled and coins clanked. One man—probably Ripley as the successful purveyor of Etheridge’s ledger book—grunted approval. A muffled thud, then he spoke again. “Pleased with what you see, mister?”

  “Quite.” Lennox’s voice purred like a gambler collecting a fat pot. “In fact, it’s better than I hoped for.”

  Rosalind bit her lip against the urge to shoot the smirk off his face. Just once, she’d like to see that nasty man flattened by defeat. Just once.

  “Good.” Ripley sounded just as satisfied as Lennox.

  There was a pause, during which she heard glasses being drained. Lennox was less than a yard away. If she stepped around the barrels and shot him through the window, she could probably escape afterward. But that would be cold-blooded murder. No. What else could she do to him?

  “Any good gambling houses in town?” Lennox asked. “I’d like to celebrate our acquaintance with a game of poker.”

  Rosalind almost snickered. Lennox must want to win back his five hundred dollars. Could he be pinching pennies or just greedy? How much had it cost him to bribe Belknap? Lennox’s salary as a junior partner at Dunleavy & Livingston probably barely provided for his clothes. His family had been in straitened circumstances for years, with his brother’s slum housing as the only sizable source of income. Donovan had said Lennox had inherited little money from his brother’s silver mine. Could money be his weakness?