In the Season of the Sun (16 page)

Tom hungrily eyed the leather-bound tomes while Coyote Kilhenny openly admired the back wall that was hidden behind muskets and banners and displayed a handsome British uniform, all derived from the battlefields of the War for Independence. A portrait centered among the memorabilia.

“My grandfather,” Nate Harveson announced. “That uniform belonged to a British officer grandpa captured at Yorktown. Papaw sent him home to England wearing nothing but a smock.” Harveson chuckled as he took his place behind his desk. He noticed what held Tom's attention. “Do you read?”

Tom nodded. “There aren't many books out on the prairie, though.”

“I had not thought of you as a man of education.”

“I'm a lot of things.”

“Indeed. Well then, come here and tell me if you can read this map.” Harveson stood back and gestured toward a scroll he unrolled across his desk. Abigail entered carrying a pot of coffee and enough cups for everyone in the room. She placed the tray on a serving table near the door and took a seat.

Kilhenny noticed her and scowled. “We're fixin' to talk, missy.”

“Good. Then I haven't missed anything.” Abigail smoothed her dress and folded her slim white hands in her lap.

“Where I come from a woman—”

“We are not where you come from,” Abigail retorted. “Thank the good Lord.”

“Mr. Kilhenny … please,” Nate Harveson soothingly interjected. He waved the plainsman over to the desk. The trader weighted down the corner of the map as Kilhenny approached.

Tom stared down at the territory outlined on the weathered paper. He recognized the location of Santa Fe and the various rivers and Indian territories plotted out from New Mexico to the Canadian border. Kilhenny's shadow fell across the map.

Nate Harveson placed the sharpened tip of a dagger on Independence. He then traced a path that followed the Missouri River north and west, through the country of the Dakotas, Cheyenne, Assiniboin. He branched off the Missouri and onto the Marias where he continued to mark his passage through the foothills of the norther Rockies. He stabbed down into the page, burying the tip of the blade into the desk top.

“I intend to take three riverboats loaded with men, materials, and provisions and build an outpost here at the foot of the mountains. I am told the area is teeming with beaver, otter, and a variety of other pelts.”

“Sure,” Kilhenny grinned. “That's 'cause it ain't been trapped yet. The Blackfeet have a habit of lifting the scalp off any dumb fool who rides into the High Lonesome. You'd need a small army to pull that off.”

“I have an army … almost a hundred men, signed on and ready to go at the first thaw,” Harveson said. “But I need someone to lead them. Money talks well enough, but there are times brute toughness is the more efficient method of control.” Nate Harveson hooked his thumbs in his waistcoat pocket. He strutted around the desk to the window, stared out at the cold sky, then turned his rump toward the cast-iron stove that he used to heat the room. “These men are a tough, hard, unruly lot. It will take someone tougher, harder, more unruly to lead them.”

“Like me.” Kilhenny stroked his beard and chuckled aloud. “The market's gone and peaked; there ain't no telling how long she'll hold. Enough men could trap them mountains dry in a season and be out before the snow flies.”

“Finish, yes,” Harveson said. “But be out? No. What I build will remain. I will remain.” Harveson returned to the desk and indicated the established states on the map. “What do you see, gentlemen, what do you see?” Harveson swept his hand from right to left, from the Atlantic to the western boundaries of the Louisiana Purchase. “Just look at it, man. A country, a nation, spreading out and claiming for its own. Wilderness becomes a territory.”

“And a territory becomes a state,” Tom observed, his interest aroused. It was obvious Nate Harveson was after more than pelts in this venture.

“Exactly,” Harveson said, excitement in his voice. “And if a man places himself in the right place at the right time, there is no telling how much he could accomplish.” Harveson's eyes took on a misty quality; his expression grew distant as if he were fixed on some far-off goal and could see it shimmering through a clouded future. “Do you know what a territorial governor is?” Harveson's eyes widened with glee. “He's king of his own personal kingdom. The possibilities are enormous, I assure you, gentlemen.”

Kilhenny stared at the map. He scratched at his beard; his breath rumbled in his throat.

“Your money … my muscle …” Kilhenny said.

“A partnership of sorts. I would be willing to stipend your services and provide you with, say, ten percent of any realized profits.” Harveson rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

“Forty percent,” Kilhenny replied.

“You must be kidding?” Nate Harveson blurted out. Kilhenny raised his shaggy head and glowered at Harveson like a bull about to charge. “Uh … I could see to fifteen … uh, maybe. twenty percent.”

“Thirty percent,” Tom interjected. Kilhenny glanced at him in surprise. He frowned. It didn't sit well that Tom had taken the initiative.

“That's a damn high price.”

“We're worth it,” Tom said. “It doesn't seem that much to pay for a ‘kingdom.'”

Harveson had to laugh. He looked at Abigail. “He has me there, sister.”

Abigail nodded and for the first time entered the conversation. When she spoke, it was with a sense of conviction and authority that belied her nineteen years.

“The initial investment is ours. Mr. Milam. And it is a substantial one. I propose we limit your share to twenty percent of the profits realized from the fur trade.” Abigail stood and crossed to the desk. Tom backed out of her way. “After the Harveson Company is established, we can increase your percentage over a period of time until it reaches thirty percent. By then, we should have a bustling settlement. There is every indication that there are substantial mineral deposits in the mountains west of us. My brother and I are hopeful that the company will be developing them as well.”

“I ain't never heard a woman talk so much,” Kilhenny said. But she made sense. There had always been talk of gold up in the Marias. Trouble was, the Blackfeet killed anyone who went looking. But a hundred well-armed men ought to chase the bastards clean into Canada. “I reckon we have a deal, Harveson,” the half-breed said, holding out a beefy hand to Nate Harveson. “I'll keep the lads in line and personally handpick all the rest that'll be marchin' with us. Everyone'll be part grizz', I guarantee.”

“Just so long as they know who they work for,” Harveson said.

“Oh, they'll know,” Kilhenny said. His windburned features split in a good-natured grin that to the wary held as much warmth as a coiled rattler.

“One thing more,” Abigail said, folding her arms across her bosom. “I'll be going with you.”

Tom felt a rush of excitement. He liked the idea. He'd have Abigail Harveson practically to himself for heaven only knew how long. It was a measure of his ego and his confidence that he completely disregarded the other “hundred” men who would make up the expedition.

Kilhenny glanced disapprovingly at the young woman. She did not wither before his hard stare.

“I have long since given up trying to influence Abigail's decisions,” Harveson said, standing by his sister. He held her hand and patted it. “Half the investment is hers, after all.”

Kilhenny abruptly shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Abigail shifted her gaze to Tom. “I always do,” she said.

Con Vogel watched the plainsmen ride away at mid-morning. He had purposefully remained in the guest bedroom throughout breakfast. He'd had Virginia bring him coffee and a platter of biscuits, which he had wolfed down without tasting. He hit the hall angry but had himself under control by the time he reached the foyer at the bottom of the stairway.

Nate Harveson was still in the study. A cold breeze flowed past the open front door as Abigail stood in the doorway, watching the horsemen vanish down the drive. She turned, closed the door, and read the mood behind her suitor's forced smile.

“There's coffee in the study. Nate's in there too,” she said and started down the hall on her way to the solarium. Vogel hesitated, looked at the study, glanced back toward the hall, and allowed his emotions to guide him.

He reached the solarium and found himself in the streaming sunlight. Through the unshuttered windows he saw Abigail, bundled in a cloak of forest green, emerge from the rear of the house and head down a winding cobblestone path.

“Damn,” Vogel muttered and then, undaunted, went looking for a coat.

Abigail followed the walk past the outdoor kitchen the Harveson servants used in the warm months of spring and summer. The path curved around the stables and the small but tidy-looking houses of the servants set off east of the corral and then continued to the river, where the walkway climbed the bluffs to a gazebo, round and walled on two sides with an intricate latticework that served both as a beautiful embellishment and a windbreak. The conical roof was topped by an iron weather vane, a black metal fish, that turned lazily into the wind.

Inside, a bench seat bordered the two walls and in the center of the space a wood-burning stove insured the warmth and comfort of any occupant. But Abigail didn't need a fire. She liked the cold. It helped her think.

She stared down at the broad brown swath of river flowing past her vantage point a couple of hundred feet above its silty surface.

Father was dead, mother had abandoned her adopted country and returned to the civilities of her ancestral home in Northumberland, England. The Harveson fortune belonged to her and her brother equally. She could simply withdraw her financial support, and his plans and dreams would collapse in a matter of days. Yet Abigail knew she wouldn't. Living in Independence, she had been witness to the trickle of visionaries bound for the unexplored reaches of the west. She had heard the stories of trappers, and mountain men. She had listened to their dreams and felt a longing to see for herself this “howling wilderness.”

What others mistook for willfulness and irreverence was in part the struggle of the pioneer spirit burning in her breast. She envied the likes of Tom Milam. She wanted to see what he had seen and more. Her comfortable, safe existence was proving tiresome. Nate was right, why not risk it all when greater wealth and more awaited them both, the stuff that dreams were made of if only they had the courage to dare.

The notion of traveling in the company of handsome young Tom Milam intrigued her as well, she honestly admitted. It was easy to be honest in this private place. She looked out across the river and sighed, enjoying her privacy. The crunch of boots on the path alerted her. She turned and with sinking spirits realized her solitude was at an end.

Con Vogel stood in the doorway of the gazebo. A fur cap and the turned-up collar of his knee-length wool coat partly obscured his square-jawed features.

The musician cleared his throat as if to announce himself. Then he entered and crowded her on the bench and stretched out his legs. “What is the matter with you, dear one?”

“Why should there be anything the matter with me?”

“Because you answer me with another question.” The musician inhaled, enjoying the rosewater scent, the clean, healthy perfume of her own sweet self. “Remember Boston … last year … ah, what a grand time we had. How fortunate I was to meet you. I treasure those two weeks. You were gay, so full of laughter. Not like now, so deep in thought. What use, all this thinking? A pretty girl has no need for it.”

“You mean I should be content to find a man to take care of me.”

“A man like your brother or, perhaps, a man like—”

“You,” Abigail finished.

“I can think of no one better,” Vogel said. “After all, I am a gentleman. I am not without prestige in my country.” He patted her hand. “Come, why do you insist on accompanying your brother? We could be very happy here together. And safe.”

“Safe,” Abigail repeated, watching the river below eddy and swirl. A log drifted by, half submerged. It bobbed past the bluff on its way toward town and the stern-wheelers moored at the docks. One of its battered branches caught on something beneath the surface of the river and the log twisted in toward shore. It ground into the mud, caught, and held, made a prisoner of the riverbank. The river flowed around and over as the silt began to build up, burying the stubbled branches.

“Abigail, what are you thinking?” Vogel asked.

“I think I shall follow this river. Upriver. I would like to see the wild country men talk of.”

Her gaze never left the log, trapped in the mud, safe from the river flowing past. In a matter of weeks it would be buried.

“You cannot be serious.”

“I have already informed my brother as to my decision. I assure you, I am most serious,” Abigail replied. “I've been dwelling on the matter for days.”

“What about me … us …?”

“Maybe you should stay here.” Abigail stood and crossed to the gazebo's entrance. “You are a big, strong boy with hard muscles and nary a vice. You'll do well, Con, wherever it is safe.”

Con Vogel watched Abigail leave, his dark thoughts in stark contrast to the brilliance that bathed the departing young woman in its cold glare. There was anger in him. His dreams dashed, now someone was going to pay. Not Abigail. After all, his relationship with her might still be salvaged. Yes, she had become increasingly distant toward him throughout his visit, but it had taken Tom Milam's arrival to bring things to a head.

Tom Milam …

Vogel smiled, at last an outlet for his anger revealed. Tom Milam's very presence had been an effrontery; the situation demanded satisfaction. Con Vogel would have his day, after all.

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