The Captive Within (A Prairie Heritage, Book 4) (29 page)

He didn’t know how Fang-Hua’s thugs had found him. Morgan
had established himself with a new identity in faraway Sacramento, and yet it
had not been far enough! Fang-Hua’s men had found and delivered him to her in
one piece. More or less.

And now Dean Morgan,
Regis St. John
, lately known as
Paul Westford, calculated his odds and did not find them to his liking. He
really had but one card left up his sleeve, and to reveal it here, now, was to
leave him with nothing in reserve.

On the other hand, the information would certainly do him no
good if he were
dead
.

“Madam Chen,” he opened, bowing low before the woman’s
chair. “I have important news for you.”

She eyed him as a snake eyes a doomed mouse before it
strikes.

“You can have no news that will be of significance to me,”
she hissed. With a flick of her hand, the four men in the room were on him. Two
of them pushed him to his knees; another moved behind him and pulled his head
back. He heard the ‘snick’ of a knife leaving its scabbard.

“What of your son?” he choked the words out. “What of your
lineage?”

She leapt to her feet, shrieking, “
I have no son
!
Because of you
he is
dead
! Because of you, my husband’s line will
die with him!”

Fear vied with rage on Fang-Hua’s face. She feared what Wei
Lin Chen would do if he ever discovered her connection with Su-Chong’s dishonor
and death. Her husband might still be able to father children, but
she
was
too old to bear him another son! Would he divorce her and take a young wife,
one who could give him many children?

She snarled at Morgan, “My husband’s line may die with him,
but I say that
you
will die first. And I will pleasure myself with the
sounds of your agony!”

She began to curse him in Mandarin and did not hear what he
yelled back, but Morgan was certain the men holding him down did. They shifted
nervously. He continued to talk, knowing that if he kept repeating himself the
old witch would eventually stop ranting long enough to hear him.

She did finally stop, swaying unsteadily on her feet, wiping
spittle from her mouth. Morgan kept repeating himself, waiting for his words to
sink in.

He saw the very moment when what he’d said penetrated the
fog of her rage.

“Wha . . . what did you say?”

Morgan was silent, watching for the crazed light to leave
her eyes. She strode over and squatted in front of him.

“What did you say?” she insisted, her words ragged, harsh.

The man behind him released his hold and Morgan took a
careful, cleansing breath, cautiously watching her. “I said, there is a child.
You have a grandson.”

Morgan had no idea whether the child was a male or a female.
His informants had only told him that the
Little Plum Blossom
had been
five or six months gone when she had been returned to the bosom of her friends
in Denver. Surely she would have had the child by now.

He watched Fang-Hua’s eyes dilate and saw a light spark in
them. She slowly stood up.

“So. The little whore gave him a child . . .”
she walked back to her chair and sank into it. He swallowed as she fixed him
with her cold, mad eyes.

“You will tell me where to find my grandson.”

~~**~~

The
End

Sample
the next book in this series,
Stolen

Chapter 1

O Father, Mei-Xing is safe! How I thank you! Through
great struggles, Mr. O’Dell found where Su-Chong Chen had kept her a prisoner
since November and brought her home to us at Palmer House. We are so grateful,
Lord, for you guiding him.

I shudder when I think of Mei-Xing locked inside an
airless, windowless room for six months. I grieve to think of the hardships and
fear she experienced—and yet you sustained her, Lord. Thank you.

With all that has happened these past four days, I have
had scarce time or energy to chronicle in my journal, so I must begin now or I
shall soon be too far behind. We are still celebrating Mei-Xing’s return and
making adjustments—chief of which is preparing for a new baby in the house.

Doctor Murphy has been to see Mei-Xing. Her dry, cracked
lips, so painful to her, are healing, and he declares her to be in relatively good
health. This is remarkable given the great ordeal she suffered.

After speaking to her and examining her, the doctor
believes her baby will arrive in the fall, likely late September or early
October. Mei-Xing is such a tiny thing; I would have judged her pregnancy to be
near term if the doctor had not said differently!

Mei-Xing requires clothing for her pregnancy. Her only
dress at present is the great, oversized thing she arrived in—stolen, she says,
by Su-Chong. She tells us that he often burgled homes and stores in the night,
stealing food and whatever else they needed.

Of course, her clothing and other possessions from before
her disappearance are in her room here at Palmer House, but none of those
clothes fit her—she must have maternity garments until the baby is born. Mrs.
Palmer pressed a more-than-generous gift on us to address this need.

Because Mei-Xing was confined indoors for so many months,
the doctor has advised a regimen of regular exercise: careful walking
out-of-doors in the fresh air and sunshine and plenty of wholesome food. He
speaks of her bodily well-being, but I must also consider her emotional well-being.

Mei-Xing declined to attend church Sunday. She is,
understandably, still weak from her ordeal, but it is likely that she fears
censure. Perhaps Pastor Carmichael can encourage her on that point.

Breona confides to me a related matter: Mei-Xing is often
terrified. Breona stays close by her, for although Mei-Xing knows that Su-Chong
is dead and can no longer harm her, she suffers from nervousness during the day
and bad dreams and wakefulness at night.

Breona believes Mei-Xing worries that Su-Chong’s mother,
if she were to ever have knowledge of her son’s baby, would come for him. It is
of grave concern to Mei-Xing and, I confess, to me also.

Lord, please give us your wisdom.

Four days after Mei-Xing’s return, Palmer House—a most
extraordinary refuge for young women rescued from prostitution—remained in a
happy uproar.

I cannot stop smiling,
Rose mused.
Thank you
forever, Lord, for bringing Mei-Xing, the daughter of my heart, safely home!
She
looked around the breakfast table.
And thank you for our girls, who are
content and growing in you, Lord.

Tabitha and Breona, once at sharp odds with each other, had
their heads together, discussing household duties and plans. Sara and Mei-Xing
were speaking in low voices with Corrine listening and nodding.

Jenny, who was relatively new to the house, sat between
Flora and Maria, spellbound as Mr. Wheatley regaled them with yet another tall
tale. Across from Mr. Wheatley, Alice and Marion—who had only arrived at Palmer
House that week—scarcely touched their food as the old gent spun his tale.

Marit and Nancy shuttled between the kitchen and dining
room, bringing out platters and pitchers and depositing them on the table.
Marit and Billy’s young son, Will, bounced on Billy’s knee. Spying his mother
and the steaming platters of food, Will shrieked his joyous readiness for the
morning meal.

When all were seated, they thanked God for his bounty. Will
hollered an unabashed “Amen” and the meal began. Rose glanced around the table,
a bit disappointed that Joy and Grant, her daughter and son-in-law, were
absent. They now took their breakfasts in their cottage behind Palmer House.

Since the day Grant had been diagnosed with a heart
condition, Joy had been safeguarding Grant’s energy, sparing him from
situations or tasks that overtaxed his body. Grant had reduced his work
schedule at their fine furnishings store to two days a week—and for a mere two hours
those days. It was the walk to and from the trolley that was most fatiguing for
him.

But there was something else . . .
something
about Joy
. Rose’s brow puckered as she tried to put her finger on it.

“I thank ye for coming to see me, Mr. O’Dell.” Martha Palmer
was ensconced in a chair set upon a low dais in the corner of her parlor. The
elderly woman’s frail body was bent over, nearly in half. Even seated, she leaned
forward upon a cane for support.

Mrs. Palmer could not lift her head to look up; she was
forced to turn her head to the side to see visitors. The inches added by the
dais meant that she did not have to twist her neck quite so far.

Edmund O’Dell, Pinkerton agent, was seated in a chair to the
side of the dais, placing him eye-to-eye with his hostess. He, too, used a cane
these days. It rested against the arm of his overstuffed chair, near his
stylish derby.

“I came as soon as I received your message.”

The old woman nodded, her shock of white hair waving a
little as she did. “Quite so. Quite so. And I thank ye. Can you guess why I
have asked to speak with you?”

O’Dell cast his mind over the events of the last week. They
had not been far from his thoughts. “It must concern Mei-Xing.”

“Yes. The girl has come to mean a great deal to me. A great
deal.”

She nodded again and her thin hands trembled upon the head
of her cane. “You saved her, Mr. O’Dell,” she whispered. “You saved her and
brought her home. For that you have my undying gratitude.”

O’Dell did not respond immediately and the room dropped into
quiet. The ticking of the mantel clock and the intermittent drone of a fly in
the parlor window were the only sounds for long moments.

He sighed. “Thank you, but I must give credit where it is
due.”

O’Dell shifted in his seat. His hip was troubling him. The
fact was, he was worn, physically. A few months back he’d taken a beating he
hoped never to repeat in his lifetime. He had nearly died and still felt the
damage deep in his body.

But inside? In his soul? That was a different story.

It is well with my soul,
O’Dell rejoiced.

“I would never have found Mei-Xing if God had not
intervened,” he admitted. “If he had not directed . . . so many
things.”

“Oh?” Martha leaned toward him a bit. “Would you indulge an
old woman and tell me about it?”

O’Dell shrugged and smiled. “It would take . . .
time.”

“I have nothing else more important, Mr. O’Dell. And I love
to hear what God has done.”

His smile broadened a little. “Perhaps a pot of tea to carry
us through?”

“An excellent idea, Mr. O’Dell!” Mrs. Palmer rang the little
bell on the side table. “Sadie will be here with it directly. Why don’t you
begin?”

He did, but his thoughts wandered as he recited the events
of the last six months.

So much evil—and so much more of God’s grace!
O’Dell
mused.
Dean Morgan and Su-Chong Chen’s escape from the justice they were
due. Mei-Xing taken and missing for half a year. Both events set in motion by
Su-Chong’s vindictive mother, Fang-Hua.

Long nights in a Seattle hospital and longer nights recovering in a secret house on the outskirts of the
city. Minister Liáng . . . telling me of the God of Grace. Bao
Shin Xang, Su-Chong’s treacherous cousin—repentant and forgiven. Misdirection
from Morgan’s shifty uncle, Freddy Fetch. And ministering angels dressed in
black habits and white wimples.

When O’Dell finished, his recounting had taken two hours and
two pots of tea, with Mrs. Palmer only interrupting to ask clarifying
questions. The room was quiet again as Mrs. Palmer mulled over what she had
heard.

“Extraordinary, Mr. O’Dell. Almost unbelievable.” She
thought a minute more. “So now we know who Mei-Xing’s parents are—and who is
responsible for sending her to
that place
 . . . up the
mountain.”

O’Dell nodded. “I will be leaving for Chicago shortly”—he
cracked a wry smile—“to prove to my boss and his superiors that I’m still
alive. Then I must return to Seattle and meet with Minister Liáng. He and Bao
are anxious to hear the details of Mei-Xing’s rescue.”

“Will you also meet with Mei-Xing’s parents, Mr. and Mrs.
Li, now that she has been found? Will you be the one bearing the news to them
that she is alive?”

O’Dell rubbed his chin. “Sadly, no. It is Mei-Xing’s
decision. I have stayed in Denver these last few days, hoping I could persuade
her to go home or at least allow Minister Liáng to speak to her father and
mother but . . .”

“But?”

“Her parents have believed their daughter to be dead for
more than two years. As much as I have tried to convince Mei-Xing otherwise,
she has chosen to let them continue in that belief.”

“Why ever so?” Mrs. Palmer demanded, growing agitated.

O’Dell’s laugh was sardonic. “While I was recovering in Seattle,
I learned something of the politics of these two powerful clans, the Li and
Chen families, Mrs. Palmer. Mei-Xing would rather let sleeping dogs lie—or,
perhaps more aptly,
let sleeping dragons lie
—than to arouse them.”

He bent a resigned look on the old woman. “Mei-Xing has a
child on the way. She will do nothing to jeopardize his safety and future—particularly
where it concerns
Fang-Hua Chen
.”

Martha Palmer frowned and her wrinkled face folded into
deeper lines. “I don’t agree with allowing sleeping dogs to lie, Mr. O’Dell,
proverbial or otherwise. In my experience sleeping dogs tend to wake up and
bite when least expected.”

O’Dell stared back at her with perfect understanding. “I
couldn’t agree more.”

“Well? What are we to do, then?”

O’Dell shifted and rose to his feet, wincing as his hip complained.
He leaned the weight of the throbbing leg on his cane.

“As I mentioned, I will be leaving for Chicago soon,
possibly tomorrow.” He nodded, as though confirming the departure date to
himself. “When I finish there and return to Seattle, Minister Liáng and I will
talk further on this. More importantly, we will pray. God will guide us.”

He reached for the derby that was perched on the arm of his
chair. “I know you care for Mei-Xing. I know you care about the women of Palmer
House and the important work they do. In them we share a common bond and a
common concern.”

Martha Palmer nodded.

O’Dell’s eyes were serious. “I also know you have the
resources to protect them, whereas I . . .”

She nodded again, once. “I take your point. I will make
arrangements immediately. However, the few men the Pinkerton Agency provided
last fall proved insufficient. Will you advise me?”

“Thank you,” O’Dell answered quietly. “I would be happy to
recommend a reliable party, someone whose experience and character I trust. He
will employ a number of men sufficient for the job.”

“That would be most welcome. Please keep in touch, Mr.
O’Dell.”

Martha Palmer did not stand but she offered him her hand. As
he took it, she grasped hold and would not let go until he leaned close to her.

“That girl’s well-being is of utmost importance to me, Mr.
O’Dell.” Her voice caught. “If, when you return to Seattle, you hear anything concerning
her safety, I would be much obliged if you would act in her interests. I
promise you,
I will spare no expense
.”

O’Dell squeezed her hand. “Then I will count on you to watch
over her and Palmer House here, and you may depend on me to act when needed.”

As O’Dell maneuvered his painful hip down Mrs. Palmer’s
front steps, he thought on the other reason he needed to leave Denver soon:
Cal Judd
. Judd had served half of his meager one-year sentence and
O’Dell was already hearing rumors of an early release from Groves, Denver’s police chief.

I must plan to be far from Denver when Judd walks out of
prison,
O’Dell warned himself, not for the first time. As he limped to the
car Mrs. Palmer had called for him, he added,
Judd has had months to plan
how he will make me pay for interfering with his business—and worse, for
helping Esther to escape from him.

He scowled.
If my body weren’t so deucedly weak I would
stay and settle with the scoundrel once and for all.

O’Dell wasn’t accustomed to running for cover—and he didn’t
much like it. It smacked of cowardice and, just as Martha Palmer had said,
sleeping dogs left to their own devices usually did awake and bite when least
expected.

He reached into his breast pocket for a cigar, but his
pocket was empty. O’Dell chuckled at the power of habit. For some reason, he
hadn’t felt right about replenishing his cigar supply; the need for them had
started to fall away, even if his old habits still occasionally surprised him.

O’Dell frowned as his thoughts again turned to Cal Judd.
I
would rather finish this business with Judd and never again worry about leading
him to those living at Palmer House
, he fretted
.

Then his thoughts turned toward the little house on the
outskirts of Seattle where
Bao Shin Xang
still hid from Fang-Hua Chen. O’Dell didn’t blame Bao for hiding—Fang-Hua,
rich, powerful, and without conscience, was actively seeking to destroy him. Bao
had once been Fang-Hua’s trusted instrument but, since his defection, he was a
hunted man.