General William Tecumseh ‘March to the Sea’ Sherman.
“Mrs. MacKlenna, may I introduce Captain Sherman,” Cullen said.
The captain bowed. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”
Her mouth turned dry, and all she could do was return a faint smile. She’d grown up going to galas and fundraisers and sitting on Millionaires’ Row at the Kentucky Derby with movie stars and politicians. Famous people had never rendered her nervous or speechless—until now.
Sherman straightened. “If you’ll excuse me, my dinner guests are waiting.” He nodded to Kit, and then turned to Cullen said, “I’ll see you in San Francisco in a few months.”
“I’ll look forward to it. If you need legal advice before I arrive, I hope you’ll call on Mr. Phillips. He’ll introduce you to our partner, Braham McCabe.”
“I’ll certainly do that.” The men shook hands, and the captain left.
Cullen sat and pulled his chair to the table. “The captain resigned his commission and is moving to San Francisco to open a branch of a large St. Louis banking house. I hope to get his legal business.”
Kit raised an eyebrow then spoke in a calm voice not wanting her surprise to appear overly dramatic. “You’re a lawyer?”
“I earned a degree in law from Harvard.”
“But you said you were leading the wagon train with Mr. Peters.”
Cullen leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin. After a moment, he answered. “I met John Barrett several weeks ago. He told me he’d joined up with a large extended family from Indiana. Issues developed among the group and the organizing member quit, leaving them without a leader. They had guidebooks but no one had enough confidence to govern a wagon train. I brought Henry and John’s group together. Henry had one condition that nearly brought the negotiations to a standstill. He wanted me to sign on as guide. After a sidebar conversation that was actually more arm-twisting than discussion, I agreed.”
She discerned nothing in his voice that indicated he regretted his decision, but still it seemed like interlocking pieces from two different puzzles. “Lawyer. Guide. I don’t get it.”
A laugh came from deep in his throat. “I’ve made this trip before. That’s why I agreed.”
Kit sank into a panic. A lawyer was going to lead her to South Pass. Not that being a lawyer and having a good sense of direction were mutually exclusive, but… “One trip? Don’t you need more experience than that?”
“Road’s well marked.”
I’m relieved.
“Wagons will be ahead and behind us.”
Help won’t be far away.
“We won’t get lost, if that’s got you worried.”
Damn right, I’m worried.
The long, thin fingers she’d noticed earlier caressed his glass and swirled the wine in tiny circles. He stopped and studied the streaks rolling down the wine-coated sides. “Why are you going to Oregon?”
She sat very still and stared into the fire. “I’m not…I mean, I didn’t plan this until—”
Crash!
Along with the sounds of shattering crystal and silverware clanging against metal, came the terrorizing memory of colliding cars. Shards of stemware scattered across the floor. A small piece flew up and scraped her check. She touched her face then rubbed the scar on the right side of her neck. Numbing sensations rushed to her arms and face. Afraid she’d faint, she whispered, “Please, get me out of here.”
Chapter Five
FROM THE CORNER of Cullen’s eye, he spotted the waiter’s unbalanced tray and watched as the young man fumbled with the teetering stemware. There would be no rescue for him a second time. Glasses and plates crashed to the floor and shattered into dozens of pieces. A few shards landed on their table, pinging against Mrs. MacKlenna’s glass.
“Ah,” a collective gasp erupted from the diners in the crowded room.
Cullen shook his head, feeling pity for the waiter who would lose his job. When he returned his gaze to the widow, he stiffened at the sight of fear-glazed eyes. Then he noticed a tiny scrape on her cheek, and he reached out to touch her.
“Please, get me out of here.”
Her whisper stayed his hand. He stood, knocking his chair against the wall.
“I can’t breathe.” She grabbed the table’s edge, stood, and then leaned her trembling body against him.
“We’ll get some air.” He took hold of her arm and threaded a path between the tables, escorting her toward the front of the hotel. The cooler air in the lobby seemed to revive her. The rise and fall of her breasts returned to their hypnotic rhythm, and a pink flush colored her face.
“Thank you. I’m not sure I could have walked out on my own.” Her small hand with trimmed nails fiddled with her diamond-encrusted gold wedding band.
Was she reliving her husband’s death? Regardless, she needed something to settle her. “Could I offer you a glass of sherry?”
“No, thank you.” Her tight voice held remnants of the fear he’d seen in her eyes. “I think I’ll visit Stormy before it gets dark.” She walked away from him with a slight wobble in her step.
He grabbed his hat from the rack before hurrying after her. “Allow me to escort you. You’re not steady on your feet.” He shoved open the door, and as they crossed the threshold, he took her arm once again.
“You keep coming to my rescue.” The evening air relaxed her face, allowing a semblance of a smile.
He settled the hat on his head. “Stormy must be the Thoroughbred, or else you’ve given a stowaway a new name.”
“He’s my mighty steed, oh lad o’ Callander.”
Cullen chuckled, delighting in her sense of humor and recall. “Your steed must have belonged to your husband. He’s more horse than you need. If you’re interested in selling him, I’d be happy to assist in finding a buyer.”
“I—” she said, puffing her small frame, “—raised Stormy. And if you’d like to race, I’m up for the challenge.”
“My Morgan would give your Thoroughbred a good run. But I wouldn’t want to be responsible for your death if you came off your horse.”
“Ha.” She poked his arm with her finger. “It would probably be you coming off your horse, not me. And I wouldn’t want to be responsible for your death either.”
The imprint of her finger lasted in his mind much longer than on his arm. He studied the widow closely, puzzled by her forwardness and unconventional beauty. She appeared to be quite different from the lovely Abigail Phillips of San Francisco who would never ride a spirited mount.
The racing challenge died on the balmy breeze blowing in from the river as they strolled down the rickety sidewalk in silence. By the time they reached the end, the western sky had turned lavender with approaching dusk.
“In Scotland they call the meeting of the day with the night—”
“The gloaming,” Kit said. “Do you believe the time of two-lights is mystical?”
He lifted his eyebrow. “According to Scottish folklore encounters between the visible and invisible worlds occur then.”
“That must be why ghosts sometimes appear at twilight?” Her eyes were as dark and full of mystery as they had been when he first met her.
“And dawn,” he added. “That’s the time of day I saw the lady riding her mighty steed—”
“Excuse me, Mr. Montgomery,” Mr. Nieland, an older member of the wagon train stepped to the sidewalk and motioned Cullen to join him at the railing.
“Give me a moment.” He released Kit’s arm and joined Nieland at the edge of the walk.
“I wanted to let you and Mr. Peters know that Mrs. Nieland and I decided this trip’s too risky. We’re going back home. We‘re much obliged for what you’ve done and wish you well.” Mr. Nieland batted away tears in his eyes.
Cullen patted the man’s shoulder. “Maybe next year.” Traveling to Oregon stood as a risky proposition for the young and healthy. For older folks, age added additional burdens as they crossed the trail hemmed by disease and bad water. Cullen didn’t want to pressure the man. Instead, he watched him walk away, noticing the downward slope of his shoulders. Nieland loved his wife more than he loved his dream.
Cullen shook his head and reclaimed Kit’s arm. “My apologies.”
“I hope you were able to help him. He looked defeated.”
“Nieland was leaving with us in the morning, but he can’t accept the risk.” Cullen shot a quick glance over his shoulder at the man trudging down the sidewalk. “You might discover this is too great a risk for you, too.”
She put her thumbnail to her mouth and tapped the tip against her teeth. “I know the road won’t be easy, but neither is waking up every day without my husband. I appreciate your concern. Really, I do. But you don’t know how capable I am.” She dropped her hand and lifted her chin. “I can take care of myself.”
He doubted she could. The only evidence he’d seen were manicured nails, with the exception of her thumb, and a flawless complexion. Those spoke of elegance and privilege, not ability. If she made it as far as Fort Laramie, he’d be surprised. “For your sake, I hope you’re as capable as you claim to be.”
Her green eyes narrowed. “I need to go, Mr. Montgomery. Good night.”
“I’ll walk you—”
“That’s not necessary.” She hurried away, dodging freight wagons careening through the street.
“Mrs. MacKlenna.” She either didn’t hear him or chose to ignore him, most likely the latter. Did the widow not have a lick of sense? Couldn’t she see the streets were dangerous and no place for a woman alone? He shuddered. If her behavior was indicative of how she’d act on the trail, he’d have his hands full keeping her safe from the elements and from herself.
The back of his neck prickled as if often did when the jury entered the courtroom to deliver his clients’ verdicts; especially the clients he knew were lying. He began to whistle Bach’s
Toccato and Fugue.
The dark, eerie melody seemed appropriate for following the mule-headed female.
THE SUN HAD had just crested the horizon when Kit crossed the hotel’s threshold and stepped out onto the sidewalk, carpetbag in hand. Her head hurt and greasy eggs weren’t sitting well in her stomach. Either her equilibrium was messed up from zapping backwards a hundred-sixty-plus years or the half bottle of champagne she’d consumed had made her sick. Did her drinking partner feel as bad? Probably not. Almost twice her size, he could handle a full bottle of wine.
Cullen’s questions had lulled her into his confidence. She couldn’t allow that to happen again. She cringed at the thought of the ramifications if he discovered where she was from.
He had followed her to the Barrett’s campsite and back to the hotel. His covert pursuit had irritated her, but on reflection, she knew concern had motivated him. In hindsight, she should have said something. But what? That she had a brown belt in karate and could beat the crap out of anyone who threatened her? That wouldn’t be smart. She needed him, but didn’t need him to hover. He was an intelligent man and could easily become suspicious.
“Mrs. MacKlenna.” Adam took the hotel steps two at a time. He slid to a winded stop in front of her, his broad hat hanging about his ears. “Pa sent me to fetch you. He feared you might not find your way back. I didn’t tell him you checked on your horse last night ‘cause he’d be madder than a bobcat with his tail tied in a knot. You don’t argue with Pa.”
“Thanks for the warning, but I don’t think we’ll argue. Do you?”
“No ma’am. Like I said, you don’t argue with Pa.” He smoothed down his unrepentant cowlick and then grabbed her carpetbag’s handle. “I’ll carry this for you. If I hadn’t been late, we wouldn’t have to rush. But once I start reading Mr. Montgomery’s books time goes by faster than potatoes at suppertime.”
Her eyes gazed up and down the street, taking in the stevedores and soldiers from Fort Leavenworth and whooping riders galloping their ponies through the mud. “What were you reading?”
“The Merchant of Venice
by William Shakespeare.”
A dress shop window at the end of the sidewalk drew Kit’s attention, and she only half-heartedly listened to Adam’s response. The similarities between the shop and her father’s drawing were unmistakable. How could she have missed the building the night before? She dropped Adam’s arm and made her way through a group of cigar-smoking men arguing over the fastest, safest trail to Oregon. She felt tempted to tell them what they wanted to know, but kept walking. Life had to happen without her interference.
She reached the dress shop, placed her palms on the cool glass, and peered inside. Had her mother worked in this store? How far away would her father have been to see her inside the shop? She turned, searching for his vantage point. Independence Square was diagonally across the street with benches nestled among the trees. He could have watched from there. Her father wasn’t sitting there now, but Cullen was. Hat tipped back, one leg crossed over the other, and a newspaper spread open in his lap. His eyes weren’t on the paper. They were on her, gazing this way and that as if she were a painting on display.
Adam tugged on her arm. “Ma’am, we need to hurry.”
“What? I’m sorry. What’d you say?”
“We need to hurry. Pa’s waitin’ on us.” He hooked her elbow, and they headed toward the Barretts’ camp, but her gaze remained fixed on Cullen. He was visible now only in profile as he talked with a man who had approached him.
Does he ever have a moment’s peace?
With her eyes still on Cullen, she said, “Tell me again what you were reading.”
“
The Merchant of Venice
by William Shakespeare.” Adam must have sensed a receptive audience of one. He proceeded to recite the part of Bassanio extolling Portia’s virtues to Antonio. Kit pushed thoughts of Cullen and her parents to the back of her mind and gave the young thespian her attention, enjoying his enthusiasm.
By the time they reached camp, her stomach had settled, and her headache had subsided to only a mild throb. Then she saw John glaring at his pocket watch. She apologized for being late, told him it wouldn’t happen again. Then she followed Adam’s lead and ducked out of the way.
Frances found Kit while she was grooming Stormy. The child stepped under the horse’s nose. “Be careful, Frances.”