The Northern Devil Page 23

  He’d slept, these past two nights, in the bunk in the office. Everyone else tried to pretend they hadn’t noticed.

  A distant corner of her mind told her that her current mood was only grief and shock. But it was a tiny voice, unconnected to the vast, ravaging terror that awoke her every night screaming from nightmares when that tiny room in Ogden blurred into the cellar on Collins’s Ledge…

  She paused to draw her buffalo coat more closely around her. The winds were very bitter this morning, screaming out of the mountains as though they came directly from the North Pole. The old-timers were muttering darkly about another storm coming in before sunset. At least she was dressed for this weather, with her sturdy walking dress and flannel petticoats.

  Bells were ringing, somewhere near the station, but not at the station. She dismissed them.

  “Ma’am?”

  She turned back to face her two escorts, surprised at their interruption, since they’d always been very patient. They’d never complained about her penchant for wandering as far as possible from station houses during stops, only occasionally getting others to help watch her, albeit at a distance.

  Paul Hawkins looked around, his eyes searching the shadows. They stood on a narrow boardwalk on a side street beside a general store. It was darkly shadowed, almost an alley, yet perfectly respectable. Nobody else was in sight, probably because they had enough common sense to stay out of the weather.

  Both men were wiry, weather-beaten, dark-eyed and dark-haired westerners, who clearly had guns very close to hand. His brother Peter was the taller one and slightly more talkative. “Mrs. Grainger, can we head back to the Empress now?”

  She frowned. She’d only been away from it for fifteen minutes. “Very well.”

  She smiled a little wryly at him. “Sorry I lost track of time.”

  “That’s quite all right, ma’am.” Peter’s lips curved in a smile meant to be reassuring, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  An enormous knife whipped into Paul’s neck from behind. He gurgled once and dropped in his tracks.

  A blur of silver flashed past her head and into Peter’s throat. A knife hung there, vibrating rapidly.

  His eyes widened but instead of trying to pull it out and save himself—oh, dear Lord, instead of trying to save himself—he went for his gun.

  Rachel was suddenly so cold she couldn’t move.

  Peter’s breathing was liquid and bloody, but he somehow brought his Colt up, still in its holster.

  A woman was screaming somewhere, long and high.

  He fired his gun and black smoke blew back across his shaking hand. His eyes were barely focused and the front of his coat had turned crimson. He fired his Colt again and sank onto his knees.

  Maitland Collins stepped out behind him. “You bastard, you cost us one—no, two—of our men.”

  People were shouting but not close enough. Someone tried to grab Rachel, but she elbowed him somehow and started to run for help.

  Maitland shot Peter in the head. He crumpled over his brother, as alike in death as they’d been in life.

  Rachel gasped, tears lancing through her, and slowed.

  A rough-handed fellow seized her and pulled her back against him. He pressed a thick wad of cotton over her mouth, heavy with sweet-smelling chloroform, and hoisted her over his shoulder.

  She tried to fight him, but her heavy skirts hampered her. Before she took her third breath, she was asleep.

  The Empress’s dining room was ablaze with light from her chandelier and sconces, reflected from mirror to mirror until the entire room seemed on fire. Armed men stood around the walls and filled every seat at the table except one, where an elegant lady sat. Braden watched from the doorway, still every inch the old sergeant and ready to help in any way possible, with Lawson behind him. No one spoke, for words were not needed.

  A whistle blew in the distance, long and lonesome, and a conductor announced his train’s departure for California. Wheels clanked into motion, shaking the Empress. Wind rattled her windows, as though impatient to set her on her way. They had already started to howl louder and louder, strengthened by the northern storm sweeping in from Alaska. The last few days of relative warmth were over.

  Lucas said a small, quiet prayer that Rachel wasn’t out there somewhere in the elements. Surely Collins had to know he needed to kill Lucas and make her a widow before he could solidify his hold on the Davis fortune.

  He cleared his throat and finished his account with the worst news. It was, after all, his duty.

  “Peter and Paul Hawkins are dead, although they took two of the attackers with them.”

  “May God rest their souls,” Mrs. Donovan murmured and crossed herself. Donovan’s hand tightened over hers before he echoed the silent prayer.

  “Amen,” went around the room.

  “Donovan & Sons will, of course, look after their families,” added Donovan.

  Lucas nodded, recognizing the public confirmation of the popular but hard-earned corporate pension. “But with a fire in the roundhouse,” he went on, “there were no locomotives available to follow the kidnappers.”

  “Why, those—” Viola Donovan exploded onto her feet, a deceptively fragile, blond volcano.

  Her husband patted her arm. “Mrs. Donovan, we’re here to decide how best to destroy them. We don’t need any additional names for them.”

  His words were tinted with his native Ireland, an unusual sign of strong emotion. Lucas smiled faintly, almost tempted to pity Rachel’s kidnappers.

  She sniffed and reluctantly sat down, flipping her train out of the way with a very aggravated snap.

  “A posse left immediately but they haven’t reported finding anything,” Mitchell added.

  “Telegraphers passed the word up and down the line. No account of them there, either,” Lowell finished the report from the back, where he stood against the wall into the corridor.

  “Your opinion of that, Lowell? You’re the only one here who’s seen Mrs. Grainger, the Geiger Grade—the toll road—and the railroad’s right-of-way. You might be able to guess where they could hide her.”

  Lowell straightened, looking almost hesitant, and the man next to him shoved him forward. A San Francisco fellow stood up and the youngest man present sat down at the table for the first time.

  “Mrs. Grainger is a slender lady and very strong,” he said, obviously choosing his words carefully. “I can think of a dozen places to leave that private train and hide her, within the first ten miles. There are even more hideouts closer to the Bluebird. She’s a little tall but, unfortunately, this is the perfect countryside to disappear in, especially with this wind to wipe their tracks.”

  There was a collective growl.

  Lucas went on stonily, finishing the description of her condition. “The sheriff found the cotton they’d used to drug her. It smelled as if an entire bottle of chloroform had been poured over it.”

  Mrs. Donovan’s eyes widened. “Oh, the poor lady!”

  Men growled and guns shifted in holsters.

  The cold fingers around Lucas’s heart, that had been there since he’d first heard the shots fired, deepened. His darling Rachel, staggering or collapsed and in agonizing pain from that drug? People had also died from it, since it could unexpectedly stop one’s heart.

  Donovan’s gaze flickered over him before he rose. “We’d best decide how to rescue her, lads. We know where and when one of the ruffians will appear. I’ll wager we can persuade him to talk. What say you?”

  A roar went up.

  “I’d be glad to help.” Little’s calm words slipped into the quiet immediately afterward.

  Lucas stared at him, shocked out of his heartache. He’d guessed his old friend had the skills to persuade even the most reluctant to speak—but to volunteer for that unpleasant task? Lowell and Mitchell wore the same expressions of shocked disbelief as he did, even though they’d only known the big Ute Indian for a few months.

  Donovan’s lips curved mirth
lessly. “Thank you, friend. We all serve as we must.”

  He rose and flipped a big map open across the large dining room table for everyone to see. His wife promptly began to weigh down its corners with salt cellars and other tableware, while Lucas automatically helped her. The others crowded forward and even those seated leaned forward to see.

  “This is a map showing the route from Reno to Virginia City by train. It also displays the locations of the biggest mining claims and hints at the higher mountains.”

  Lucas looked over it, hunting the Bluebird. Ah, there it was—south of Virginia City and Gold Hill.

  Donovan’s finger traced a thick black line. “The railroad’s route is essentially that of a fishhook, with Reno at the top or eye, Carson City at the bottom, and Virginia City at the sharp tip. While always handsome, the engineering required for the miles from the Carson River into Virginia City is particularly breathtaking.”

  “Literally,” Lowell muttered, which evoked some laughter.

  “Humphreys, the Bluebird’s manager, is expecting me shortly before lunch today, when he’ll undoubtedly try something uncivilized. I don’t believe he knows I’m aware of all of his plans, although he’s certain I suspect he’s stealing from me,” Donovan went on.

  “And from Mrs. Grainger,” Lucas put in. “It’s why we were here. She has the good fortune to be Donovan’s partner.”

  Mitchell walked his fingers across the map, measuring distances. “Do you think she’ll be at the Bluebird?”

  “Humphreys is an extraordinarily clever man. It’s amazing I caught his thievery,” Donovan said, rather bitterly. “He’s not stupid enough to be involved in kidnapping a white woman. No, that’s his partner’s doing—Collins.”

  “Who tried to kidnap her back in Omaha, remember, Mitchell?”

  Lowell’s face came alert. “He’s the one who sabotaged the snowplow back in Laramie.”

  “Exactly.”

  Lowell slapped his leg. “He deserves killing for that alone. Two trainloads of people nearly died for it.”

  A horrified gasp stirred the air.

  “So we need to capture them both, plus Collins’s son, Maitland, who’s brutalized women for years,” Lucas finished.

  Viola Donovan shot Lucas a sideways glance at the last statement. He met it stonily. If he ever had the chance to disembowel Maitland Collins, he’d do so gladly, just for the bastard’s attack on Rachel.

  “But how can we invite everyone to the party?” Donovan mused blandly.

  Some dry chuckles went up at that description.

  Lucas came alert, like the others. He’d never been to Virginia City before so he, too, was relying on Donovan’s ability to plan.

  “Reno and Carson City fall in a north-south line but the railroad track isn’t straight, because of the mountains. Instead it bends sharply east at Steamboat, where you can catch the Geiger Grade over the mountains into Virginia City.”

  Over the mountains—on these roads with a storm coming in? The hair on Lucas’s neck stood up. “One group takes the railroad and the other the toll road?” he questioned.

  Donovan’s face was almost expressionless. “Correct.”

  Lowell studied his boss, his usual blatant hero worship completely absent. “The Geiger Grade is an extremely steep road, sir, known for its high winds and snow. It’s likely to be even worse than usual today.”

  Lucas’s mouth tightened. “Which is why Humphreys won’t be expecting any guests from that direction.”

  Donovan gave him an edged smile. “Exactly. But not many men, just enough to get onto Mount Davidson above the Bluebird. The mine’s very high up, which is how she got her name.”

  “Sharpshooters,” noted Mitchell. “I’m in.”

  “Yes, you’d be able to see any men leaving the Bluebird for hiding places around her. However, you could break your neck before you’ve gone a mile on the Geiger Grade,” Donovan warned.

  “I’ll go,” said Lucas.

  “And I,” added Little, almost simultaneously. They smiled at each other, old Army memories rising to the fore.

  “And I,” said Lowell. “You’ll need a guide who’s ridden the Geiger Grade before.”

  Other men’s voices rose, but Donovan’s strong tenor cut through them effortlessly. “Enough! Four men only as sharpshooters. The rest will come with me to the Bluebird’s headquarters at its stamp mill, where Humphreys will have most of his crew. We won’t show our hand too quickly there, either, so you too can have some fun.”

  Somebody chuckled, all too happily.

  A smile teased the corners of Mrs. Donovan’s mouth, although her hand continued to clasp her husband’s.

  “Any other questions?”

  “How will you reach it, if she’s that high on the mountain?” Lucas asked, comparing terrain, distances, and the weather.

  “There’s a private rail line, which runs from the main line to the stamp mill. It serves both the Bluebird and her abandoned southern neighbor, the Gold Drop—here.” Donovan tapped the map.

  Lucas’s eyes met his old friend’s in a flash of complete communion. An abandoned mine could be a very useful hiding place for blackguards.

  “I’ll give you a copy of this map.”

  “Thank you.”

  Donovan looked around. “Get something to eat and try to take a nap. Sharpshooters will depart within the quarter-hour.”

  Lucas rose, glad to finally be taking action so he could forget the terror freezing his veins whenever he thought of Rachel. Dear God in heaven, the agony of seeing the kidnappers’ train disappear into the distance, while the roundhouse burned behind him, taking all hope with it…“We have to leave now, if we’re to meet you there. The yardmaster’s promised us a locomotive from Carson City, but we’ll have to find horses.”

  “I brought some with me from California.”

  Lucas’s hopes went up. “Some of the ones you bred?”

  Viola Donovan laughed, the musical sound rippling through the air. She had her hands affectionately wrapped around her husband’s arm, as though reluctant to be parted from him for even a minute. “Are there truly any others for him?”

  “Not for this,” Donovan admitted. “We’ve a depot in Virginia City and you can exchange them there, if you have the need and the time.”

  “Thank you.” They clasped hands, silently but with real emotion. This plan had a chance of working—not much, but a little.

  Rachel hid her face in her hands, praying that the headache would continue to leave her. Collins hadn’t bothered to tie her, rightly figuring that the chloroform’s aftermath would incapacitate her for a very long time to come.

  At least it was dark in here. If she’d had to look at bright lights, such as a chandelier, the agony in her head might have exploded into full-fledged life and left her moaning on the floor, unable to do anything. As it was, she could at least sit up and notice her surroundings—and remember.

  She forced back the nausea that threatened to rule her. If she could think, she could fight. Peter had fought. She owed it to him and his brother to do her best. Oh, dear God, she owed it to Lucas.

  She was in a tiny, dusty room that was very cold, although not frozen. Heat was coming through the floor and there was a faint draft. Men were talking somewhere about getting up steam. Perhaps they were a locomotive’s crew, even the one that had brought her here.

  Villains.

  Another bout of dizziness rose up but this one was smaller. She fought it down and continued trying to notice and remember everything. When she escaped, dearest Lucas would want to know where she’d been held so he could bring these brutes to justice.

  He’d been right, after all, and she’d been so terribly, terribly wrong. Men had died for her arrogance. She’d thought rational discourse would rule everywhere and violence meant nothing.

  Folly. Utter, complete, nonsensical folly.

  He’d tried to guard her from the worst side of men and she’d given lip service to his precautions. The one
time she’d treated his precautions casually because she’d been furious, villains had caught her—and killed innocent men.

  She cringed, drawing into herself until her arms were clasped around her knees, and rocked herself, moaning. Dear Lord, it would be justice if she saw the two Hawkins brothers, lying on the boardwalk in their blood, every night in her dreams for the rest of her life.

  Next to that, jealousy of Lucas’s dead mistress and worries over his future fidelity mattered nothing.

  She wanted Lucas back. She wanted him to hold her and cuddle her and tell her that the nightmares didn’t matter, before kissing away the pain.

  She loved him. Arrogant and high-handed though he was, he was the only man who made her heart sing. If he wasn’t in her life, she’d go maimed and empty for the rest of her life—no matter how many men she could buy with Old Man Davis’s money.

  But how could she live with a man whose idea of showing his love was to continually cage her, to wrap her up in cotton wool whenever a single cloud showed on the horizon? Could he give her enough room to thrive, if he was sure that she’d remain with him, unlike Ambrosia or his reckless sister?

  Could she stay, whether or not he opened the doors to the cage?

  Sweet Jesus, it was cold and blowing harder than Satan could have whistled up a hurricane. Lucas hunched his shoulders, grateful for the buffalo who’d given him this coat. He had the best gear in the world—buffalo coat, fur cap, felt boots, heavy mittens—and he was still freezing, while climbing to the top of Geiger Grade. The gale seemed to have a wicked eye for finding every crack and crevice, before slipping inside. If he hadn’t been wearing layers as Little had taught him years ago, he’d have fallen off his horse from pure misery.

  Thank God for Donovan’s skills as a horse breeder, too. Mostly Morgan, part California Barb, and just enough Thoroughbred to handle Lucas’s weight, the black gelding treated this unforgiving road like an interesting ride through a park. He was completely sure-footed and hadn’t even shied when a tree branch broke overhead. Lucas would have given a thousand dollars for a horse like him in the cavalry.