The Treasure Hunter's Lady (32 page)

“Let's go.” Abel shoved the older man in front of him. “They just want the Diamond and hell, it's theirs anyway.”

An arrow sailed past them, bouncing harmlessly off a rock. Behind them, Christensen screamed. The hair on Abel’s neck rose, but he didn't slow down. Then he heard a sound he never should've been able to hear over the thunder of hoof beats and war cries—the whine of a laser pistol. A glance over his shoulder proved that Yellow Knife had retrieved Christensen's weapon.

He put his hand on Maggard's shoulder, trying to keep the other man in front of him. He felt the heat of the blast slide past his arm and was momentarily blinded by the red jet. Missed, he thought with relief.

But Maggard stumbled and a red stain appeared on his back. Abel slipped his shoulder under the other man's arm. “Come on, old man. No stopping now. We're too close.”

The balloon came into sight through the big colorful rocks. Romy stood beside the rope ladder hanging from the basket. She smiled when she saw them. The smile died in fractions as Abel staggered under her father's weight. Maggard gave out feet from the balloon, sprawling in the gravel before Abel could catch him.

“Papa!” Romy dropped in front of him. She tore at the ragged, singed cloth around the wound. “What happened? Did Christensen do this?”

“Yellow Knife and his boys.” Abel fought to catch his breath. “You didn't see them?”

She shook her head. “I haven’t seen anyone. Get the medical kit out of the balloon.”

Abel started to follow her order, but stopped as he took in the sky beyond the balloon. It was grayish-green, the way it turned when bad spring storms rolled across Texas. Thick fog curled through the canyon, obscuring the walls. At his feet, a carpet of bright green shoots sprang from the ground.

Behind him, Romy gasped. “Is that a gypsy?”

The same old woman who'd haunted him in Bismarck hobbled out of the fog. Scarves and beads hung around her neck and head. Rheumy eyes found Abel's. A crooked smile crossed her lined face.

“We meet yet again.”

Her voice sounded strange. It reminded him more of Hummingbird in the Indian camp.

“What do you want?” Wariness made his neck and shoulders tense. He heard Maggard gasp in pain.

“Your hand, young man.” She came forward and took it before he could offer. The lines around her mouth deepened. Like before, she traced his life line, but she nodded and let go of him. “Yes. As I told you, cleanse your soul or all will be lost.”

“Abel?” Romy whispered.

He ignored her to stare down at the fortuneteller. “And?”

“A beautiful woman changed your life. As I told you,” she repeated.

Dazed, he shook his head. “Who the hell are you?”

The woman's skin darkened into a shade of glowing bronze. Her hair turned black with shots of silver and her features became those of the apple-faced Hummingbird, bearing a broad smile. “You asked me that once before, He Who Seeks.” She waved her hand in front of his face and a shimmering image of a warrior goddess and the Horned Serpent locked in battle wavered in the space between them. Another pass of her hand and it faded. “All has returned to its rightful place. This land is becoming what it was meant to be. My children can rest at last because you were able to defeat the Serpent.”

And he knew that was why Little Hawk had made no promises to guide them back. Freed from its brand of purgatory, the Indian village would vanish. They hadn't just saved three lives—they'd allowed a lost tribe to join the Spirit World.

“Fire-hair Woman.” Hummingbird—or Mother Sun, or the fortuneteller, he couldn't be sure which she was—knelt beside Romy.

Romy cradled Maggard's head in her lap. Blood, thick and dark, welled from his chest and glistened on her hands. She looked at the old woman with tears in her eyes. “Can you save him?”

“Romancia. Did you see the Indians? They were so fearsome. Andrew never stood a chance.” The words were strained. Abel heard the gurgle from Maggard's lungs. He stood over them, at a loss for words.

Hummingbird put her hand on Romy's shoulder. “I cannot, daughter. There is a time for all beings to pass on to the Spirit Road. His is now.”

Romy shook her head, anger flaring in her eyes. “It isn't. Abel, we need the medical kit. We can help him.”

“Romy, my darling daughter.” A wet cough issued from the doctor's throat.

“Shh, Papa. Don't fuss.” She stroked his forehead as tears streaked her face. Her hand left a bloody trail over his brow.

Dark realization hit Abel. If they had the Diamond, they could save Maggard. If they'd gotten it away from Christensen before the warriors showed up, they wouldn't be in this situation.

“But the Diamond,” he said, wondering how someone as wise as this old woman could forget it.

“Is gone.” Hummingbird's voice was firm. Unyielding.

A dribble of blood ran from Maggard's mouth. “Romancia, I'm so proud of you. Of everything you've accomplished.”

Romy bent lower. “I know.”

Hummingbird’s face was gentle and sad, but somehow peaceful all at once. “I will be his guide. He has no reason to fear death.”

“Romy, I love you. I wanted to protect you. He made me come. All I wanted was for you to be happy, to . . . .” Maggard's words trailed off. He smiled as Romy's tears splashed on his face. “So much like your mother.”

“Papa, please don't die. Please.”

Maggard seemed to see the fortuneteller for the first time. His face relaxed as their eyes met. Hummingbird gave him a luminous smile and took his hand. He drew a rattling breath and his eyes slid closed.

A heart-crushing sob tore from Romy’s throat.

Chapter Twenty-six

September 18, 1884

Dear Patience,

I hope this message finds you well. I upheld my part of the bargain, now I'm holding Caden to his. I regret to inform you of Dr. Farrington's passing. He died an adventurer's death.

I have some business in Boston to see to and no idea when I’ll make it home. I wish you all the best. Give my regards to Roger and Rowena. Kiss them and let them know Cousin Abel is very well.

All my love,

Abel
 

P.S. Send for me if needed. I'm always at your service.

****

September 19, 1884

Abel-

A letter cannot convey how proud I am of you, nor your aunt’s love. We never doubted your ability to save the day. So sorry to hear of Maggard's passing. If you see his daughter about in Boston, please give her my condolences. Her father was a good man and what transpired was through no fault of his own.

I understand you were also in the company of Mr. Andrew Christensen at the time of his passing. The rumor mill is very productive these days. Your aunt speculates you stayed back East to win the hand of a woman. She must be some lady if that's true. Stay safe in your travels. Come home when you can. No rush, we're all quite well.

Your uncle,

Caden

Chapter Twenty-seven

October

Snow covered the ground between the street and Romy's house. A carriage fitted with runners disrupted the fresh white blanket. So Romy had visitors today. Abel wasn't sure if that was a help or hindrance to him.

Down the road a few children were bundled against the wind, tossing snowballs at each other and laughing in a carefree way. The snow didn't hold such good feelings for Abel. He'd never missed Texas more. Only one thing kept him tied to Massachusetts in this godawful weather: the hope that today or tomorrow or even the next day, Romy might relent on his exile and speak to him.

He shuffled across the drive, sliding his feet along the paving stones. After landing square on his ass several times thanks to icy patches in the roads, he'd given up attempting to walk like a self-respecting gentleman. Not that he gave a tinker's damn if he looked like one or not.

The big wooden door loomed in front of him, a portal to a world he didn't have access to. No matter how he cajoled or how he bribed the staff, he never gained entrance to Miss Farrington's home. Three sets of dainty footprints indicated where her guests had waited to be admitted. Determined to be another guest, he rapped the knocker against the plate and waited. At this rate, he'd be an old man before he reached San Antonio again.

The door opened a crack. A blast of warm air stirred Abel's scarf. He leaned into it, jealous of the house's occupants. Between the door and the frame, a tall, thin-haired butler stared at Abel. His countenance was stiff, but sympathy shone from his eyes. Nevertheless, the act was getting tiresome.

“Miss Farrington, please.”

Abel tried to keep his tone level, to hide his irritation. Almost a month had passed since she'd come back to Boston. She hadn't permitted any visitors for a couple of weeks after the memorial and she hadn't ventured forth. Abel was hatching a plan to break into the house if she didn't come out soon.

The butler made a small, disgruntled noise. “I'm afraid Miss Farrington isn't receiving visitors today.”

“Bullshit. I know she has company right now.”

The butler didn't blink at the language, merely looked down at the tracks. “Full house, sir.”

“You can tell her I'll be back this afternoon. When she's alone.” He resisted the urge to threaten his way into the house.

“Certainly, sir.”

The heavy door closed in Abel's face with a solid thump. “Dammit, Romy.”

She hadn't spoken to him since they'd arrived back in Bismarck. The little minx had slipped away from him the night they got back. He only caught wind of the memorial because of an article in the paper.

Maybe she hated him for not saving her father, for not begging Hummingbird to lend them the Diamond. The letter he'd received from Caden both pleased him and reminded him that he'd asked Romy to trust him and he'd let her down.

Every day he dressed up in stiff clothes and made his way from the room he rented to the house she'd purchased after selling the cottage she shared with Maggard. He asked for her twice a day, but she never allowed him in. The butler, on the other hand, was a hell of a lot warmer than he'd been the first few days. Abel suspected he'd be drinking with the man in the pubs before the year was out. At least he was making progress somewhere in his life.

At the head of the walk, he turned and looked up at the house to see if she was peeking out one of the windows. The curtains were in place and unmoving.

His greatest worry was that she'd left Boston and gone back to England, where she'd sent Maggard's remains to be buried in the family plot. Or that free from the pressure of showing off in society, she might be roaming the wilderness the way she'd always longed to do. Maybe he'd been wrong about her caring for him.

That didn't make sense. Romy loved him and he knew it. She’d told him so. She was surely missing her daddy and confused about things. But any day now she'd come to realize that she was missing something else—him.

****

One dainty teacup sat untouched on the tray in the middle of the table. Imogen, Sara and Wincie clutched theirs like they were afraid the china would escape.

“You really must get out of this house, Romancia. It's terribly stuffy. There's a talented young pianist playing at the theater and we have a wonderful box. We would be delighted to have you.”

Romy tried to focus on Imogen's face. She could see the other woman's mouth moving, hear the suggestion in her voice, but the words didn't make any sense.

Arthur, the resident butler, appeared in the doorway. “Miss, you had a visitor a moment ago. I told him you weren't receiving.”

Awareness shot through Romy. Abel had come again. She managed a small nod and cleared her throat to get rid of the knot growing there. “Very good.” Weeks of practice at stomping down her feelings for Abel allowed her to keep her voice steady. She lifted the cup and took a sip of the cold tea inside. “Was it Mr. Courte again?” She didn't need to see Arthur’s nod of affirmation to know who it was, but she looked for it anyway.

Arthur brushed invisible wrinkles from his sleeve. “He promised to stop by this afternoon.”

Stubborn Yank.
Her heart longed to tell Arthur to chase Abel down and bring him into the house immediately, but the promise she’d made over her father’s ashes—the promise she’d be a gentle lady like her mother—held her back. It wasn’t proper to entertain men while one was grieving. Maybe, she thought sadly, not even for years. It wouldn’t be fair to ask Abel to wait.

If he had any sense—though she knew he didn't—he'd stop coming altogether. She wasn't mad at him. It wasn't his fault Papa had died, but she didn't think she could bear to see him because thinking about him made her forget to grieve.

“That cowboy again?” Imogen's distaste was obvious from the way she wrinkled her nose. “You should inform the police that he's loitering in the neighborhood. They'll take care of him.”

Sara hid her smile behind her teacup. As though a cowboy loitering around respectable houses was something to be amused about. Romy bit her tongue. It wasn’t Sara’s fault she was in such a terrible mood.

Arthur hesitated in the doorway, waiting for instruction. She ignored Imogen's advice. “Next time he comes, tell him the house is under quarantine.”

The butler's eyebrows rose. She was reminded of Captain van Buren's thick brows. A bittersweet memory. She wanted to tear off her mourning clothes, don her trousers and fill a pack, throw herself into Abel’s arms and leave Boston behind. She gazed out the window at the snow-covered lawn and suppressed a sigh. Surely even Texans understood the rules of grieving.

“Very well, miss. Will there be anything else?”

“That's all. Thank you, Arthur.”

“We could use a fresh pot of water for tea,” Imogen pointed out.

Romy didn't even have the energy to think about rolling her eyes. “Except for water, Arthur.”

“Of course, miss.”

Her hand shook as she set the fragile cup back on the tray. Unshed tears burned her eyes, but it was best for both of them if Abel went away.