The Northern Devil Read online

  He rested his hand over her belly, where their child could be growing even now.

  I swear to you, little one, that I will protect your mother with my life. I have learned my lesson. I will not fail you either, no matter what it costs me.

  He swallowed hard and forced himself to relax, muscle by muscle.

  Fog hung heavy and dank through the railroad yard, barely lightened by the dawn. A locomotive’s engine chugged patiently, while metal clanked and rattled, marking a train being made up. Another locomotive’s whistle blew from far away, echoing over the river.

  Collins waited beside the tracks, refusing to pace. Maitland climbed slowly down from their hired private railroad car, jerking his collar up as high as possible to cover his bandages.

  Seeing that, Collins growled deep in his throat and ran his thumb over his old dirk inside his pocket. Death was too good for the bitch who’d nearly taken his son’s eye, who’d definitely destroyed his only child’s good looks. The long, jagged wound ran from the corner of his left eye across his cheek almost to his mouth and had ripped open some of the skin around his eye.

  The military surgeon had done his best to stitch Maitland up but had flatly stated that the scar would likely never become inconspicuous. Any infection would certainly cost Maitland’s vision in that eye and could quickly take his life.

  Within minutes after he’d thanked the surgeon and shown him the door, Collins had started sharpening his father’s—and grandfather’s—dirk. Rachel Davis needed to be taught a lesson. As soon as she was back under his control, he’d use his dirk to draw a matching line in her flesh so she’d know who was master.

  “I thought the t–train didn’t leave until eleven,” Maitland commented, taking up position beside his father.

  Collins’s lips tightened. Maitland was mumbling, due to having stitches so close to his mouth and the laudanum the surgeon had used to incapacitate him. Damn, damn, damn that bitch!

  He forced back his anger and displayed only a father’s strength. “The main body doesn’t. But we’re leaving with this freight so we’ll catch the work train. That’s the snowplow, which precedes the passenger train to clear the tracks. We should be at least an hour ahead.”

  Maitland’s one good eye gleamed. “Enough to cause mischief.”

  “Or worse,” Collins agreed. “I’m sure Humphreys will arrange everything at the Bluebird exactly as we’d like. We’re lucky that Donovan irked him from the outset with his insistence on accurate bookkeeping.

  Maitland nodded. “C–cable instructions to him from the train about what to do.”

  They shared a look of vicious anticipation over those possibilities.

  He had to deal with the upstart Irishman first, not Rachel Davis—more’s the pity. It was a damnable shame that the attack on her bower in the Grainger family’s private Pullman had failed and cost him too many of his best men, especially since he’d learned she was actually at the great private hotel. Now he no longer had the resources to challenge Grainger openly for possession of the bitch, dammit.

  But Donovan had the ability to haul him into court for fraud or bring down the wrath of the California banking crowd and their very powerful allies on his head. No matter what, he had to destroy him first, then the bitch.

  “Are you sure Donovan won’t know anything’s untoward?”

  Ah, Maitland must be starting to feel a little better, if his brain was beginning to consider implications such as those.

  “His ship shouldn’t dock in San Francisco for several more days. Even after that, I’ve bribed his telegrapher not to pass on anything that says much about us. So Donovan should go directly from the ship to the train, and on to that mine in Nevada without suspecting any foul play.”

  “You bribed a rich man’s personal telegrapher on the opposite side of the country? Well done, Father, very well done!”

  Collins allowed himself a brief smirk.

  Their locomotive’s steam engine steadied and began to beat more strongly.

  “I believe our transport is ready. Breakfast should be ready, as well. Shall we board and depart this sorry excuse for a city, my son?”

  Maitland nodded. “When we go home, let’s t–travel by sea, as befits Collinses, and avoid this cesspool,” he suggested, his tone striving for idleness.

  Collins’s heart twisted. Dammit, his son should sound just as sure of himself as he had a week ago, before Rachel Davis had turned on him! He had to swallow hard before he could answer. “Of course, we can travel by sea,” he agreed. “A family’s triumph should always be celebrated in the manner most suited to its traditions.”

  The early morning sun had just brightened the lobby when Rachel sailed down the stairs on Lucas’s arm and encountered a dozen, quickly veiled stares. They were undoubtedly curious about the Easterners who’d arrived separately in town and married quickly.

  Lucas growled softly under his breath and glared around the room, visibly daring any male present to embarrass her in any fashion. Startled blinks and coughs were his answer, plus some quickly concealed smiles from the few ladies present. But everyone returned to their prior occupations, ostensibly paying no heed to Rachel and Lucas.

  She flicked a sideways glance at him, silently pondering his motives. Was he on edge this morning, to have warned off men whose only crime was a little curiosity about strangers? Was there more danger than he’d warned her of? Or could he have a more personal reason?

  At least he’d given her a long, hot bath and massage so she could walk without hobbling like an old crone. It had been a year since she’d slept with Elias and, even then, her flesh had never been left so completely sated afterward. If Lucas hadn’t tended her so tenderly, thoroughly—and skillfully—she would have limped through the hotel, displaying her crippled state in a most embarrassing fashion.

  A dark-haired man opened the front door for them, his buffalo coat as good as a sign proclaiming his identity.

  “Good morning, ma’am, Grainger,” Mitchell greeted them in his deep Virginia drawl, as helpful now as when he’d rescued them from Collins’s thugs. “There’s a cab waiting at this end of the porch.”

  The cold air outside almost snatched Rachel’s breath away, so very much drier than Boston’s sea-laden winds. Lucas promptly tucked her closer to him and covered her hands with his, lending her some of his warmth. She was absurdly grateful for his assistance, however courteous its roots. It was more difficult to accept close proximity to his guns, though.

  It was so early that few people were to be seen, most delivering supplies on the frozen roads. A handful of shopkeepers, well bundled against the cold, were sweeping the boardwalks in front of their stores and setting out a few samples of their wares. A single pedestrian, clearly the worse for wear, was making a very slow and wavering progress up the hill toward the hotel.

  Lucas surveyed them all efficiently and warily, while moving her briskly down the porch. Rachel went with him, perplexed by his unorthodox reaction to an ordinary street scene.

  When he cocked his head back to study the skyline, she opened her mouth to question him, but Mitchell spoke first. “Our men have the high ground, but there’s little need to worry about snipers. Collins departed earlier this morning.”

  Lucas stared at him, somehow managing to hold his tongue until they were all seated inside the cab and headed toward the railroad depot. “How? The passenger train doesn’t leave until almost noon.”

  “He hitched his private railroad car onto a freight train.”

  Disbelief ran through Rachel. “But those are very slow, required to stand aside every time a passenger train wishes to come through.”

  Mitchell shrugged. “It doesn’t make much sense to me, either, because it’s unlikely he’d hold his lead for long.”

  “How long?” Lucas demanded. He had his arm wrapped around her and was using his body to protect her from the worst of the carriage’s jolts. He’d also tucked the cab’s buffalo robe over her lap. “You’ve been helping Gillesp
ie ship freight across the Rockies. What do you think?”

  “Given the trains’ schedules and the weather? A day if the weather holds.”

  “Which would let him reach Cheyenne first, maybe Laramie,” Lucas said slowly. “Allowing him to connect to the work train, with the snowplow.”

  “While we travel with the main section, a few miles back,” Mitchell agreed.

  There was a distinctly unhappy silence.

  “What are you talking about? Doesn’t the passenger train always have a snowplow directly connected to it?” Rachel asked, trying to understand the western trains’ composition.

  Lucas glanced down at her, his features far harsher than they’d been earlier in their hotel bedroom. “No, the Union Pacific always runs their big east-west passenger train in three sections during the winter. First, there’s a work train with a snowplow and a barracks full of men to shovel snow.”

  “About an hour later comes the main section, with the first-class passengers. Six hours or so after that, there’s the emigrant train,” Mitchell completed the description.

  Rachel nodded, mentally contrasting the difference in quarters. First-class passengers would travel in the equivalent of the finest hotels, or better. But emigrant trains were as bad, or worse, than the crowded, squalid tenements that had burned in Boston a few months ago. “Shouldn’t that be enough to get through any sort of weather?”

  “Yes, if there’s a snowplow and if the three sections stay close together,” Lucas agreed.

  “That’s ridiculous,” she exclaimed, forgetting all about the cab’s frigid temperature. “Of course, there’d have to be a snowplow. The transcontinental railroad is one of the wonders of the world.”

  Her husband snickered and tucked the cab’s buffalo robe a little higher around her. “Besides coping with the weather, the railroad is also a moneymaking creation for a set of greedy men, who don’t always hire intelligent, efficient subordinates.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “To begin with, a winter gale can cover railroad tracks in snow within minutes, forcing any passenger train to stop no matter how close it is to the work train,” Mitchell drawled.

  “Plus, there’s only one snowplow for all of Wyoming,” Lucas continued the litany of dangers. “Last year, the superintendent took it apart for most of the winter, just to see how it worked.”

  She gaped at him.

  “And work trains have been known to continue traveling west, if separated from their passenger train—without trying to rejoin it,” he added.

  “Dear Lord,” she said faintly. “We could be stranded.”

  “During what’s been a very bad winter, with constantly diminishing stores of food.” Lucas’s tone was very mild, while his broad-brimmed hat hid much of his expression. “It’s a dangerous time of year to travel, my dear.”

  “In that case, gentlemen, we’d best join our train quickly,” she said briskly. “We want to be ready when the main section pulls out.”

  “Who’s the supervisor in Laramie, Mitchell?” Lucas asked crisply.

  “Kincaid—but after last winter, he’s taken leave for the months of January and February.”

  Lucas snorted in disgust. “Typical of him. What about his deputy?”

  “Leventhorpe is always ready to provide excellent service to the last man who pays him the highest price,” Mitchell said flatly, adding after a moment, “but only in gold. As a Southerner, he’ll have nothing to do with bank drafts or greenbacks.”

  “Are you sure he isn’t a Yankee, if he’s so obstinate? Well, cable him and see if you can reach an agreement as one Southerner to another.”

  “Very well.”

  “And cable Little, back in Denver. Ask him to go to Cheyenne and learn what he can of Collins.”

  “Lowell will probably join him, just simply to escape boredom.”

  Lucas groaned. “Well, Little probably has a better chance of keeping Lowell out of mischief than anyone else, especially if those two stay away from civilization. Perhaps they can temporarily join the shoveling gang, to get aboard that work train.”

  “I’ll send that cable now, sir.” Mitchell rapped on the ceiling. The cab pulled up and he was gone, after a polite farewell.

  “It would be easier if we could warn Donovan, directly,” Lucas mused a minute later.

  “Why not?”

  “He’s sailing back from Seattle to San Francisco.”

  She pulled a face. “We don’t have any proof that Collins has done anything wrong yet, either. So the law won’t help us.”

  “We’re on our own,” Lucas agreed. “But perhaps we don’t need to strike at Collins directly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “As your husband, I can be a trustee, correct?”

  She cocked her head, startled by the suggestion, and slowly started to grin. Oh, the joy of having Lucas on the board, blocking Collins’s every nefarious move and possibly even becoming the principal trustee. What she wouldn’t give to see Collins’s face when he found out! “Certainly you could.”

  “So I’ll cable my father and tell him to file suit.”

  Tell him? To file suit? Lucas was about to order his father to go to court? Rachel tried hard to imagine herself instructing her own father to do any such thing, or Father Davis meekly obeying Elias’s orders. She had to try twice before she could say anything. “Are you sure he’ll listen to you?”

  “Of course he will, once he understands how much money the family stands to make.”

  Rachel frowned, hoping the cab’s dim interior hid her expression. Enriching himself was the only reason for helping his son, not love?

  And why had Lucas married her? He sounded very dismissive of mercenary motives.

  “Are there any other reasons you could mention?”

  “None that he’d listen to.” Lucas’s tone of voice didn’t encourage additional questions.

  Rachel winced, hating the idea of how many times Lucas must have tried—and failed—to gain his father’s blessing. But he was the only one Lucas had and she didn’t want her husband hurt any more. To give his father orders sounded a guarantee for a fight, if the Grainger blood ran true.

  “Hmm,” she said noncommittally, deliberately trying to reduce Lucas’s evident emotional tension. “But the situation is different now, since you’re a married man and he now has prospects of becoming a grandfather.”

  “What are you driving at?” At least now Lucas only sounded testy, instead of dictatorial.

  She sent up a prayer that a little bit of feminine diplomacy would work in this situation. “Perhaps if you asked him politely to undertake this on behalf of his future grandson? I have noticed that very few older men can resist the mention of seeing themselves well-established in future generations.”

  Please notice, Lucas, that I called him older, implying a contrast to you as the younger generation. She kept her face serene and waited.

  “Are you asking me to be diplomatic on your behalf?” He was so surprised, he sounded as if he’d swallowed a frog. “You’ve never met him, after all. He could greatly dislike you.”

  She bridled. “He’s your father, Lucas,” she retorted, “and the grandfather of our children. He deserves our courtesy and I will teach our children to respect him, as their grandfather.”

  “Good Lord.” Evidently stunned, her husband fell silent.

  The carriage slowed, its wheels rolling over the gravel which probably marked the approach to the depot.

  “Very well,” Lucas said abruptly. “I’ll ask him politely—but I’m doing it solely as a wedding present for you. I don’t expect it to work.”

  She blinked at his reasoning, but decided to be gracious. “Thank you, dear.”

  “You’re very welcome, wife. I expect to send the cable of my choice, couched as arrogantly as I please, the second time around.”

  She frowned but accepted his hand and stepped down from the cab. “You could be wrong,” she pointed out stubbornly.

&
nbsp; “I doubt it. I’ve fought him all my life.” He stroked a finger down her cheek. “Don’t worry about old dragons like him, dear. I’ll keep you safe.”

  He offered her his arm, which she accepted automatically, before she could find words to tell him that she wasn’t worried about being attacked by his father, not with him around to protect her.

  The sun had now risen enough that the coal smoke-tainted fog had burned away, leaving only billowing sheets and wisps, instead of its previous, impenetrable blankness. Seen in the crisp, winter sunlight, the depot was a simple one-story, wooden structure, set amidst a sea of railroad tracks running east and west, as well as south to the railroad yard. The railroad yard was a mass of swarming men and machines, as industrious and clever as any beehive. To the north and west, shops and saloons marched up the bluff, their upper stories overlooking the depot and rail yard.

  Every vista was so much clearer than it had been last night when Rachel had run for her life from Collins’s private railroad car, parked on the edge of the railroad yard.

  But the Grainger family’s private Pullman was just as warmly welcoming as it had been the night before. Its wooden sides were varnished a crisp yellow and the trim painted a brilliant blue. Beautifully carved letters above a laurel wreath proclaimed it the Empress, an appellation that perfectly suited its beauty and elegance, and heartwarming scents of good food coming from the kitchen.

  In front of the steps leading to the vestibule stood a man of average height and imposing presence: Braden, the Grainger family’s steward, his blue and gold livery matching the Empress’s colors. He possessed an abundance of white hair, crisp mustache and beard, and the piercing blue gaze of the British sergeant he’d once been.

  Rachel would have wagered Anglesey Hall that he was totally loyal to the Grainger family and to Lucas, just as the Davis family retainers had been to Elias.