Love's Revenge (Entangled Scandalous) (6 page)

He ran an elegant hand through his black hair and shook his head as if the memory was causing him physical pain. The muscles in his jaw tensed.

She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. She waited.

“My mother lay in a pool of blood. Her skin, drained of life, was so pale she looked like a ghost asleep on the bloodstained bed. Only the bruises he had inflicted marred her beauty and her serenity—the bruises and the gashes on her wrists that had allowed her to finally escape him.

“I was stunned, sickened, outraged. I could think of nothing else but killing him. He had fled to the city to his club. And I found him there. I didn’t care who else was there. I pulled him out of his chair. He was drunk, and I started to beat him. I couldn’t stop myself. I would have beaten him to death if my older brother, Hugh, hadn’t arrived to stop me. I had done the unthinkable, the unforgivable. There was little doubt my father would report me to the authorities. He would even find a sick delight in seeing me imprisoned. Hugh dragged me to the docks. He handed me what money he had on him and found me passage on a ship leaving for America within the hour. Her funeral was several days later, I heard. Thankfully, my father was still too beaten to attend. At least I had prevented him from that farce. I had saved her that. But I never said goodbye. Never told her how much guilt I felt at not being able to prevent his brutality.”

They remained in silence, the click of the ties singing out in the night, repeating his agony over and over in Kate’s head.

She had been right—he had left his family and homeland in disgrace—but she couldn’t gloat. She found only pain in his story, pain and a new understanding of the man.

He never looked at her. He simply stared at the rails. Finally he spoke into the darkness. “I am going to look in on Andy.”

Tonight, she couldn’t begrudge him that intimacy.

Chapter Seven

The mind-numbing screech of metal against metal pierced Kate’s eardrums. Cutlery, glasswear—anything not fastened securely in the dining car—flew precariously past the remaining passengers with the wrenching jolt of the brakes. The women in the car screamed in terror as the men shouted and tried to rise from their tables.

Kate was thrown forward against her table so hard that the air was driven from her lungs. She was forced to gasp for breath. A wave of nausea swept over her. The iron shriek jarred her senses. The massive train continued to slide forward. After an eternity, the iron monolith finally came to a grinding halt. They were still in the high plains of Kansas, miles from Denver.

“Are you all right?” Stephen’s voice showed genuine concern.

She still could not speak. Her nod would have to suffice.

“Stay here. I’ll check on what’s happened.”

She did not question Stephen’s orders. How could she? Her ignorance of what was happening had raised gooseflesh on her arms and left her panting in fear.

After the initial screams and shouts, an eerie silence had momentarily ensued. Now the noise in the car had risen until it was hard to be heard above the frightened yells. Many of the women were crying. The men cursed and comforted.

Stephen made his way through the chaos of the once elegant dining car and out the door. Wine escaping from broken bottles sought out the fine wool designs of the beautiful Oriental runner that carpeted the center aisle, penetrating them and leaving them the color of fresh blood.

Her thoughts flew to Andy and Fiona. A crystallizing fear forced her to move and she fought against the table. She pushed her way out into the crowded aisle, forcing her way toward the door. It was a struggle to move the twenty or so feet to the end of the car. She opened the rear door and stood for a moment on the platform between the cars, drawing in a deep breath. An unfamiliar noise rose above the sounds of the engine. It was the sound of a faint cry, almost a wail. The unearthly sound culminated in a series of quickly repeated whoops. She had never heard anything like it before. Her grasp tightened on the iron railing. “Andy? Fiona?” She could hear the fright in her own voice. Reason fought with her rampaging fears. It might be nothing.

Andy’s cries penetrated the thin door of the compartment when she reached it.

She opened the door and rushed in.

“Oh, miss. What is it? Do you think it’s heathens?” Fiona was so pale that Kate thought she might faint. The newspaper report of the massacre by Utes of an Indian agent named Meeker a week prior had been in all the headlines of late.

“I’m sure it’s nothing, Fiona. Here, give me Andy.”

Andy was struggling in Fiona’s lap, trying to reach her. His eyes were teary and large with fright.

“You’re letting your imagination get the better of you. It will only serve to frighten Andy more. I’ll help you take him back to the private car. Then I’m going to find Mr. Worth. He was checking to see what the problem is. It’s probably just the tracks. Come now. I’ll carry Andy and you bring a few of his toys.

“Andy, it’s nothing, my love. Come with Mama. We’ll find the toy train Uncle George gave you. The big train has had to stop, that’s all. Everything is all right.”

“Train.”

“Yes, the train has had to stop to be fixed.” The boy had quieted in her arms. Now, as she moved between cars, she listened intently for any unnatural sounds. There was only the huffing of the engine. Surely she had imagined the other sound.

“Ah, here’s your train.” Kate sat down on the floor with the boy. Andy’s momentary distress had fled. He was content enough now as he drove the wooden train across the fine wool carpeting.

“Fiona, I want you to stay here with Andy. Do not leave this car. Do you understand?”

“Yes, miss.”

“I want you to lock both doors. You are not to let anyone in until Mr. Worth or I return. Is that clear?”

Fiona’s eyes had grown wide with fear once again. “You said it was probably the tracks, miss.”

“Yes, and no doubt it is. But you will do as I say just the same.”

“Yes, miss. I will lock the doors and not let anyone in until you or Mr. Worth return.”

Kate rose off the floor. “I don’t want Andy frightened any more.”

Fiona nodded even as her fingers worked the fabric of her dress nervously.

“Andy, you stay and play with Fiona. Be good. I’ll be back shortly.”

…

Kate approached the group of men in front of the engine. Stephen’s broad shoulders and dark hair were prominent among them.

“Damn them. I thought the days when we faced these kinds of disruptions were behind us.”

“Do you think that’s the extent of the damage?”

“Yes, it appears so.”

“Gentlemen, we’ve got extra track in the baggage car, but I’ll need your help to replace them.”

She recognized the last man to speak. It was the train’s engineer.

“Well, we’d best be about it. The sooner it’s done, the sooner we can be on our way.”

The men turned and headed back along the train. Seeing her, they nodded in acknowledgment.

Stephen had his back to her, staring along the track. He walked forward several feet and she saw the problem. A length of track had been removed from the roadway.

She closed the distance between them. “What is it? What’s happened?”

His eyes widened at her sudden appearance. “There’s track missing.”

“I’m not blind. I can see that. Why is it missing? It didn’t simply walk away.”

The start of a smile lifted the edge of his lips. But something stopped it. He looked as if he were weighing the suitability of telling her more. “No, it didn’t just walk away. See here?” He pointed to the spikes left beside the rail bed. “What do you see, Katherine?”

She studied the ground. The spikes were twisted as if they had been wrenched out crudely. The high grass was trampled and hoof prints were obvious. A trail of beaten grass and the wide swath suggested the rails had been dragged away from the tracks by horses.

“Was it to be a train robbery?”

“No, they would have been on us by now.”

“What is it then?”

“Look here.” He crouched down to examine a hoof print. “The horses were unshod.”

“I don’t understand?”

The words had barely escaped her lips when the memory of the strange cry she had heard made her palms suddenly damp.

He must have read the change in her. “I think you do.”

“But we are at peace with the Indians. They are all under treaty. This would be insane of them.”

“Frustration at times tries men’s sanity.”

“You don’t think they would attack a train. Not in this day and age.”

The engine behind her belched. Rising from the guttural sound was another. It was the wail. She was not imagining it. The hills around them rose and fell in majestic waves, hiding everything more than a few hundred feet away.

“What is it?”

“It’s a war cry.”

Her heart stopped. Panic threatened to unravel her good sense. “A war cry?” she finally whispered.

“It is a warning,” he added.

“Then they don’t mean to attack?” She felt moist with perspiration

“Nothing is for certain. They have the luxury of taking their time. The telegraph line has been cut as well, and it will take us a good hour to replace the missing rails.” He studied her a moment before he spoke again. “I want you to go to my sleeping compartment. There’s a Winchester rifle under the berth. Bring it to me.”

“Of course.”

“Where’s Andy?”

“He’s with Fiona in the private car.”

“Tell them to lock the doors and stay there.”

“I already have.”

This time a small smile did soften his face. “Good.”

…

Kate moved along the darkened corridor. In contrast to the chaos earlier, the train now appeared almost deserted. Everyone had retreated to their own compartments to wait for whatever might come. The silence was as disturbing as the earlier screaming. It was as if there were a collective holding of breath.

She found his room without trouble, but at the door she hesitated. She forced her hand to turn the cool brass of the knob and stepped into the darkened space.

Her senses were bombarded. She could smell him here—leather and cologne, fine soap and sweat. The intimacy of it quickened her pulse.

He had left a book open on the small table in the room. The cordovan leather had darkened with handling, and the spine had softened with use. Elizabeth Browning’s
Sonnets from the Portuguese
. Love poems from a wife to her husband.

She picked up the well-worn volume. In the process she disturbed the gold pocket-watch that lay opened beside it. Her heart skipped a beat as she saw the miniature of Lizzie that lay opposite the watch face.

Lizzie’s peaceful countenance reflected none of the turmoil within Kate. She felt her sister’s presence so strongly, it was eerie. It was as if Lizzie were trying to tell her something—but what?

Kate turned over the slender volume of love poems. The corners of each page were stained from repeated readings. She felt as if she were violating their lives, his and Lizzie’s. She went to close the book, but her sister’s handwriting inside the front cover caught her eye. She smiled at the elaborately elegant script.

For my beloved husband, Stephen.

Whose love keeps me warm, whose courage keeps me safe, whose son keeps me happy. May we never be parted.

Your adoring wife, Lizzie.

Kate stared at the words, aware of his aura again. He was present not just in the book, but in the clothing, in the watch, in every item that the room contained.

She forced herself to stop thinking. The Winchester rifle was where he had said it was, under the berth. She grabbed it and rushed out of the compartment—as frightened by what had just happened as by any threat outside.

…

Several of the men had returned to help with the rails. It was surprisingly warm for so late in the year, and a few of the men had removed the celluloid collars from their shirts and changed from suits to canvas duck pants. Finally, she saw Stephen, his black-clad form several yards in front of the train. He crouched to check the rail bed, no doubt searching for any damage that might have occurred when the rails were pried up and hauled away.

Seeing Kate, he rose and, after directing several of the men, left the group and walked the length of the train engine and baggage car toward her. “You found it.”

“Yes.” She offered the rifle to him.

“Good.” He unfastened his Colt pistol and holster and handed them to her. “Keep this with you. It will take us a good hour to secure the new rails. Go back to the car with Andy and Fiona and wait for me.”

She did not answer, but he must have taken this as acquiescence for he walked away. She hesitated for a moment, trying to make sense of the man.

Several of the other men struggled to remove the first of the new rails out of the baggage car. Stephen joined the men as they worked to move the heavy rail. The rail bed was raised, giving them little room to maneuver. When they ran in to difficulties, they set the weight down momentarily.

Stephen unfastened his shirt, his long fingers quickly dispatching the buttons. Grabbing the long tails of the shirt, he pulled the black cotton up. The firm planes of his stomach gleamed with sweat. The moisture beaded and ran down the trail of soft dark hair that led beneath the waist of his canvas pants.

She had never given thought to men’s bodies before, never wondered about the mysteries they might hold. It wasn’t until she had felt this man’s fingers wrapped around her arm, felt his body pressed against hers, that desire had arisen—and with it, interest. Now she couldn’t take her eyes off him.

She fought the sudden urge to trace the fine lines of his chest softly with her fingertips, to follow them to the expanse of his shoulders and then let her hands glide down the slick skin of his arms.

She felt peculiar urges—a fullness, an aching, in uncharted places of her own body. It grew in her as if it had a life all its own.

All the feelings of the first night she had seen him had come back more powerfully than before. She knew now what they were. Lust. They washed over her and left her weak and defenseless, oblivious to everything but him.

She fought against the power he had over her. Fought to regain a sense of time and place. It was useless. Stephen turned to begin the work.

She gasped.

Nothing could have rid her of her desire more powerfully than the horrific sight before her. What was left of his back was no longer recognizable as human flesh. She reached out for support as nausea swept over her. The hot iron of the train beneath her fingers did not distract her from the mutilation before her. It was as if the skin of his back had been ripped off a thin strip at a time. In its place there was a hideous landscape of raised welts and shiny valleys. Purple and black, they crisscrossed his back from top to bottom and side to side.

Who or what had done this inhuman thing? She started to shake, from rage or horror—she wasn’t sure which.

How had he survived? It must have been unbearable. It had to have taken a determination and will beyond her imagination. This was what the past had done to his body, but what had it done to his spirit, to his mind?

The agony had to have been inflicted with great thought over a long period of time. Anything less would have killed him immediately. How long had he suffered? How many times had the act been repeated? What kind of sadistic savages could inflict such horror?

Stephen raised a heavy sledgehammer to drive a spike into the first rail. The contours of his back changed. Purples faded to white with the pull. Scars became stretched to their limits. It had to have caused pain, but there was no reflection of it on his face. There was a certain detachment. Was this how he coped?

The conductor’s voice startled her. “You should be inside, miss, this is no place for a woman. There’s no tellin’ what them injuns might do.”