Chapter Fourteen

No spying eyes. No prying ears. That was what Grey sought. Neutral ground. Thus, the night was right for meeting at their social club. Charles had immediately answered Grey’s note from late that afternoon, after Taylor had gone to her room, asking Charles to meet him here. So here they were now.

The carpeted gaming room where they had secreted themselves was shot through with masculine decor. Dark wood wainscoting graced the thick walls. The gold- and green-flecked wallpaper above it calmed the senses. But the air was close and stuffy, reminiscent of the smoke of countless cigars. The heavy velvet draperies were drawn against the dark outside. And the door was shut and locked. No one would interrupt them.

All around Grey and Charles were neat groupings of felt-topped card tables and empty chairs. Grey stood to one side of the room, leaning an elbow against an old upright piano. In his hand, he held a whiskey. The bottle and another glass sat atop a table across the way. Charles hadn’t wanted a drink. The only thing he nursed right now was a tremendous anger at Grey.

“Why are you working so hard to keep my daughter from me, Grey? You alone of all people know what she means to me. You know how I feel, how broken I’ve been because—”

“Spare me,” Grey drawled as he moved away from the piano and went to perch a hip atop a card table, leaving his leg to dangle. “I thought I knew what she meant to you, Charles. I really did. Until today. I really expected you to be forthcoming with me this afternoon while the women were outside. But instead you launch into some fatherly diatribe on my behavior with your daughter.”

“I have every right to question you, Grey. She is a young, unmarried girl living under your roof. You’re not exactly the most acceptable of chaperons.”

“I hold the same high opinion of myself on that score, Charles. Still, we’ve already been through this. I’ve told you how it occurred that she came to be in my keeping. She was approaching your door the night of the party for Franklin and Amanda, I intercepted her … and the rest you know. Except allow me to say that you’re a little late to be showing fatherly concern for her. According to her, you’ve made no effort to see her since she was a child.”

Charles’s expression contorted into one of pain. “If you’ll recall, Grey, I made no effort because I believed her to be long dead. Then I find out she’s been alive all this time, only to think I’d lost her again to a hanging. And this morning—for God’s sake, man—I find out she’s alive and here in St. Louis in your keeping. Just what in the hell do you want from me?”

“The truth, Charles.”

“I have told you the truth, Grey—the truth as I’ve known it to be. I swear it. But I will say that even had I known Taylor was alive all these years, I would not have dared to acknowledge that she was. I would not have dared to try to see her.”

“Now see there? What exactly does that mean … you wouldn’t have dared? What reason could possibly be good enough to keep a loving father away from his only child? It can’t be because her mother is Cherokee and Taylor’s a half-breed. After all, you had a hand—as it were—in that. So it’s not that. But what is it, then? Your own guilt at having such a child? Or perhaps your guilt at leaving her mother in the manner you did? Or both?”

Charles’s blond coloring heightened to a fiery red. He bared his teeth in an angry grimace and fisted his hands, stalking around in a small circle before finally striking a felt tabletop. He then pointed threateningly at Grey. “Dammit, you go too far. You don’t understand. And you’re way out of line, my friend.”

Grey stood up, leaving his whiskey glass on the table. “Friend. That’s interesting. You see, when Taylor first arrived here, I kept her from you to protect you until I could prove or disprove her story. But now, I find myself in the reverse position of protecting her from you. So, dammit, Charles, help me here. Believe me, I’ve been your staunchest supporter in this business. But on the very day that you welcome home your daughter—after thinking her dead twice over—Camilla offers her money to go away. Can you explain that to me? And please don’t be tiresome by saying you didn’t know she would do that or that none of this is my business. I’ve made it my business.”

Charles’s anger seemed to melt away, leaving him looking his fifty-odd years or more. He looked down and away from Grey. With stumbling steps he pulled out a leather-cushioned chair and sat heavily. He put his elbows on the table and rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I didn’t know Camilla would do that; I swear it. I know why she did, though. But you have to understand, Camilla had lied to me about Taylor being alive. I truly believed my daughter to be long dead. But now, Grey, she’s here … and she’s in great danger. Great danger.”

Grey felt as if his throat were closing. He could barely swallow. Grabbing up his shot glass—he felt certain he was going to need fortifying—he quickly weaved his way around the tables and went to sit facing Charles. He sat his glass on the table. “Charles, are you telling me that Camilla James has always known Taylor was alive and she kept that from you?”

“Yes.” Charles had his hands over his face, so the word was muffled but adamant.

“Why would she do that?”

“Her fear that I would go get Taylor or inadvertently give away, by word or deed, that she lived.”

Grey ran a hand over his mouth. “Jesus. What business would it be of hers if you did? Taylor’s your child, not hers.”

Charles lowered his hands from his face, which was splotchy with emotion. “She did it to protect Taylor.”

“From you?” A cold dread filled Grey. Had he perhaps missed some deep insanity here? Or a sickness of the soul that would have a father misusing his daughter?

“No, Grey. Not from me. I love my child. I would never harm her. But there is someone who could.” He hit his fist against the tabletop. “I wish to God she had never come here. I fear we can’t keep her safe.”

Grey clutched at Charles’s sleeve. “Yes, we can. And we will. But let me tell you why she’s here. Her mother sent her to you.”

Charles frowned. “Her mother?”

“Yes. The hard truth is, Charles—and you already know this—your daughter was sentenced to hang for murder. However, you may not know the details. She says she didn’t kill the man for whose death she was supposed to hang. And she tells me she was broken out of jail by her uncle the day before she was to hang. Furthermore, your daughter has killed three other men. But she assures me they deserved it.”

Charles stared dumbfounded at Grey. “My little girl is certainly far from an innocent young miss.”

“Yes, she is. But only in some ways.” Grey wasn’t about to divulge in what other ways Taylor was no innocent, but he did add, “In others, she’s very naive.”

Charles shook his head, wonderingly. “Camilla was right to try to get Taylor to leave.”

“Camilla.” Grey said her name in a considering manner. “So her emotional performance last night, her crying over the long-lost Taylor was just that? A performance?”

Charles shook his head no and grimaced, rushing to Camilla’s defense. “No. It was genuine. Although she knew Taylor to have been alive all these years—”

“How did she know and you didn’t?”

“She never told me until today, but she’s corresponded with Tennie Nell Christie.”

“Christie? Taylor’s … mother, then, I take it?”

Charles stared at Grey a moment, then nodded. “She raised her.”

“I see. We were talking about Camilla.”

“Yes. Her emotion was—is—genuine. She loves Taylor very much. Last night was real. At that point we had no idea Taylor had escaped hanging and was here, remember. So Camilla’s sadness at her death was genuine, I assure you. But those other things Camilla said … well, she had to say them like that, about believing Taylor to have been dead all along. To acknowledge otherwise could have unleashed terrible trouble. Terrible.”

Grey liked this conversation less and less. It was confirming too many things for him that he already had feared. “Charles, listen to me.” He waited, making sure Charles was giving him his full attention. “Did Camilla have to behave that way because in that room with us last night was the person or persons who would want to see Taylor dead?”

Charles’s expression could only be called bleak. “I fear so, Grey.”

A hopeless, helpless rage leached Grey’s strength and took all joy in being alive from him. Taylor’d been right when she’d said that if his happy world toppled with her truths, it was because his world had been built on lies. He felt sick and cold. “I’ve suspected as much, Charles. Believe me, I have. Just tell me what is going on and how to help. I do want to help.”

Charles crossed his arms atop the table and slanted a look to Grey. For a few silent seconds, he roved his gaze—so similar to Taylor’s—over Grey’s features. “You do care very much for her, don’t you?”

Tight-lipped, grim, Grey exhaled and nodded. “Very much, Charles. More than I should. More than I have a right to feel. I’ve only known her for three days, but that seems to have been enough. Because I do. I care very much.”

Charles squeezed Grey’s hand in a gesture of fatherly affection. “I thought so. And I’m glad. I am. She generally has that effect on people. Very quickly, almost upon meeting her, you either hate her or love her. She invites no namby-pamby feelings on anyone’s part, I assure you.”

That was quite the odd speech. Grey tilted his head at a questioning angle. “How do you know, Charles, what effect she has on people? You haven’t seen her in eleven years.” He watched the effect of his words on Charles, saw the emotions roving over the older man’s face.

“No, I haven’t. But when I told Camilla today about Taylor being here, that was when she confessed that she knew Taylor was alive and showed me her letters from Tennie. That’s how I know the effect my daughter has on people. It’s nothing more sinister than that. I do wish you would believe me, Grey.”

Grey’s jaw tightened. His hands fisted. “I’m trying, Charles. But tell me, who the hell is sending all these messages flying around St. Louis about Taylor? Do you have any idea?”

Charles shook his head. “I don’t. Well, except for the one about her being hanged. That came from Tennie Nell. But the one today about her being here and alive—no, I don’t. I just fear that the, uh, wrong people may be behind them. And that these messages are warnings or veiled threats. I just don’t know.”

Grey rubbed at his temple and then considered his friend. “I think, Charles, that now may be a good time to tell me everything you know or even suspect. Your knowledge of the past, of Taylor’s past, may be the only thing that will help us figure this out and keep her alive and ensure her a future.”

Charles again met his gaze. “Yes. I agree.” He stopped, ran a hand over his face, and sent Grey a look of alarm. “Where is Taylor now, Grey?”

“She’s safe at my town house.”

Charles relaxed his posture. “Well, thank God for that much.”

“Yes. Go on,” Grey encouraged levelly, reaching for the whiskey bottle and the extra glass sitting in front of them. He poured Charles a drink and shoved it toward him.

“Thank you.” Charles closed his hands … so pale and long-fingered … around the squat crystal glass. He stared at the dark amber liquor and began talking. “This is all so hard, Grey. So hard. Until now, Taylor has been dead to me. And now I have found her again, only to possibly lose her again. Unless we sort this out—and quickly—she is, this moment, as good as dead.”

Grey stared at Charles James, a man whose friendship he had enjoyed, a man with whom he’d played cards and drunk, a man in whose home he’d been entertained … a man to whom he was soon to be related by virtue of his brother Franklin’s marriage to Amanda. Suddenly, given all of Charles’s secrets, Grey felt as if he’d never met the older man before. “I don’t care for the way you phrased that. As good as dead.”

Charles took a draining swig from the glass in front of him. Grey refilled it. “Don’t think for a moment that I do, either. I just fear it may be the truth.” Charles turned a pleading expression on Grey. “Believe me, Grey, Camilla’s done everything she’s done regarding Taylor to keep her as safe as you also want to keep her. I am satisfied on that score.”

“You can so easily forgive Camilla for lying to you all these years? You’re a bigger man than me, Charles.” Grey’s stare was as level as his voice. “I still cannot fathom why she would have the nerve to keep information like that from you. Was that truly the only way, do you believe?”

“Not only do I believe it; I know it. God, poor Camilla … having to live with that knowledge all these years. Well, at least she was able to—” Charles’s gaze slid away from Grey’s face. The older man took a deep breath and went on, but in a different vein. “Camilla’s philosophy was the fewer people who knew the truth about Taylor’s continued existence, the less chance there was of a slip-up. We have an enemy, Grey. Someone close to us—and to you—who would like nothing more than to see Taylor dead.”

Grey’s heart plummeted. His hand tightened around the whiskey bottle in his grip. He stared at Charles, who eyed the contents of his glass. “You’ve said that before. And I’ve thought it, too. I accept that, but I just don’t know the why of it, or what lies behind all this. I cannot sort it out for myself, or know how to defend Taylor against whatever is coming, without reasons and a name, Charles. Especially a name. I want to get to the bottom of this.”

Charles raised his head, showing Grey a bleak expression, one devoid of hope. “You may think you do now, Grey, my friend. But I’m not so sure. You don’t want to live with what I know. The best mercy I could show you now is not to tell you.”

Grey fought the urge to jerk Charles bodily up out of his chair and throttle the man senseless. “Look, you son of a bitch,” he settled for saying conversationally. “I’m not some child who needs protecting. I’m a man, and I love your daughter. Granted, before now, I haven’t behaved like much of a man. I haven’t held up my end of the responsibilities that fell to me and my brother following our father’s death. You know me to drink and carouse and never think of tomorrow. Well, believe me, all of that’s over. I’ve never felt more serious or grown-up than I do now. And I have your daughter to thank for that—or to curse; I don’t know which. Even worse, I have no idea how she feels about me, if she even at the very least thinks kindly of me. But what she feels in return doesn’t matter. I will keep her safe, even at the expense of my own life and that of every blessed or cursed soul on this earth whom I know or am related to. And that includes you. Do you understand me?”

Charles nodded. His chin trembled. He looked down, staring at his measure of whiskey. His shoulders shook with silent sobs and great heaving breaths.

Grey rolled his eyes at his own unkind words. He’d kicked the man when he was down. How sporting was that? He had no idea, after all, what Charles’s demons were. And who was to say, Grey told himself, that once Taylor left him he wouldn’t be in this same broken condition … not caring, crying in his whiskey, not worth the chair he sat on?

Unable finally to hold onto his burst of anger in the face of Charles’s helplessness, Grey squeezed his friend’s arm in a show of support. “I’m sorry, Charles. Forgive me. I just want to—I need you to … Oh, hell, man, just tell me what is going on, for Taylor’s sake.”

Charles turned to Grey, staring intently at him, as if he meant to look right into Grey’s soul and assess his worth. He heaved out a sigh and awkwardly swiped at the tears that had wet his cheeks. He then drained his whiskey glass and thumped the heavy crystal tumbler onto the felt tabletop. “Taylor is—” He cut himself off, firming his lips together and inhaling deeply.

Grey’s heart damned near thumped right out of his chest. He poured out another shot for Charles. “Taylor is what, Charles?”

“Taylor is not who she thinks she is, Grey. And if we don’t get her to go away from here before she finds out the truth about herself, it alone could very well kill her. And I mean inside herself. She has an enemy she doesn’t even know about and for reasons she can’t even guess. But I fear the simple truth of who she is will do her more harm in her heart and mind than anything anyone else could do to her.”

Grey sat perfectly still. “Charles, what are you saying … exactly?”

“I’m saying that we need to get Taylor out of St. Louis before she learns these truths—and before another who already knows the truth finds out that she is here. She could be killed. Too much is at stake for her to live. Too many old wounds best left unspoken and unseen. We have to get her to leave, Grey. And never come back. We have to. It’s her only chance.”

“Son of a bitch,” Grey muttered, sitting forward to prop his elbows on his knees. He tented his hands over his nose and mouth. For long moments he concentrated solely on breathing in and out and staring at the carpet. The silence in the room was almost palpable. Outside the door Grey could hear the sounds of revelry, of masculine banter and camaraderie, the happy, laughing sounds that permeated the many rooms of this mansion built to cater to a man’s leisurely pursuits. But inside this small and quiet room off to one side of the grand foyer, it seemed that unbearable truths were about to be told.

Grey lowered his hands, allowing them to dangle between his knees. Inside he felt as cold and exposed as a newborn tossed naked out into a raging blizzard. However, this wintry feeling inside him was a bleak and dark season of the soul. He opened his mouth to speak … and to set the chain of events into motion. “I cannot believe this. It appears, from what you’re saying, Charles, that we will have to tell further lies to Taylor to preserve her from the truth. Amazing. You’d better start at the beginning, my friend.”

*   *   *

Just as she’d done that first night she’d come to St. Louis, Taylor again sat her horse outside her father’s home. The evening was pleasant, the sky was darkening, and behind her on the street, fancy carriages passed to and fro. As she’d ridden here, other carriages had passed by her. The elegant people inside them had suddenly sat forward, staring wide-eyed at her. Taylor had dismissed them then, and she ignored them now. She concentrated instead on thinking just what to say to her father. She’d bravely and with determination got herself this far.

But being here now, and without Grey or her aunt and cousin in attendance, Taylor realized she felt some hesitance. It wasn’t that she was afraid of the answers her father might give. It was more what she should do if he refused to answer or to tell her the truth. After all, what could she do if he didn’t? He was her father. She couldn’t slit his throat or shoot him. Well, she could. But she felt certain she wouldn’t. And this was St. Louis, not the Nation, where disputes were settled more directly … at least in her experience and with the people she’d been involved with. Outlaws, mostly. With them, justice had run a swift course.

But not here. Threats and weapons seemed to hold no sway. These white people were too civilized to suit Taylor. She yearned for the direct over the complicated, for the physical over the emotional. She didn’t want to think, to care. She wanted to act, to do, and get what she needed by her own hands … or her gun … or her knife. Those she was good with. It was only when she involved her heart that she was uncertain.

Thinking of her heart and its desires paid her back with what she deserved. The image of Grey’s sad face this afternoon popped into her mind. He’d said they could not lie together anymore. This was an odd thing to Taylor. Always before, she had been the one to say when she would lie with a man. And never before, when she had wanted a man, had she been refused. Until Grey. Of course, he hadn’t yet refused her. They’d been in bed together when he’d taken his stand … after their lovemaking. She wondered if when she next wanted him and had the chance to show him, if he would really turn her away.

Taylor shook her head and stroked Red Sky’s neck. The white man asked too much. He wanted her heart, he said. Taylor’s eyes narrowed. One cannot give what one does not have. No. That wasn’t right. She had a heart, but it was divided between two nations and two people who did not want her. Was it any wonder, then, that she kept her heart with two halves to herself? Maybe one day, when she could make it whole, she would feel she could bestow it on … someone.

Taylor sighed, tiring of such thoughts that spoke of pity and weakness. She raised her chin, calling up her Cherokee pride. She had no need of anyone. She would make her own way, as she had always done. And Greyson Talbott be damned.

Thus restored, Taylor dismounted. She looked toward her father’s mansion. The windows were dark. Perhaps he was not home. Or perhaps he was in another part of the house with no window on this side to reveal a light. Uncertainty gripped Taylor, telling her that this time there would be no Greyson Talbott to stop her. If she went up the walk, she would make it unchallenged to the door. She wondered how different the last three days would have been if Grey hadn’t interfered. Would she have met him at all, had he not? Her first thought was that she most likely would have. His brother was marrying her cousin. So, at some point, they would have met. This was a comforting thought. Maybe they would have met here today at her father’s.

Taylor frowned, shaking her head no. Grey would have had no reason to come with Aunt Camilla and Amanda. After all, neither Uncle Stanley nor Franklin Talbott—both of whom would have had much more of a reason to do so—had accompanied her aunt and cousin.

As she looped Red Sky’s reins around a wrought-iron bar in the rail fencing, Taylor took a moment to ponder what she was doing, what she was thinking. What were these thoughts in her head? She frowned with the truth—she was assuring herself that she would have met Grey. Somehow, somewhere, she would have met him. But she knew it wasn’t really true. She may not have. Assailing Taylor now was a sudden realization of the chance meetings that could change a life. If one thing had been done differently, they never would have met. She found the thought unsettling. But what discomfited her the most was that she was upset by the realization that she might not have met Grey had he not poked his nose in her business.

In the next instant, Taylor realized she was grinning and shaking her head. Greyson Talbott had forced their meeting—by fate or by chance—and she was glad he had. A rare peal of laughter escaped her, garnering for her the shocked stares of a fashionably dressed man and woman just then passing by. A glare from Taylor had the woman clinging to the man’s arm and them hurrying on their way. Taylor grinned again at that result. She hadn’t lost her toughness. Greyson Talbott. She shook her head. And couldn’t imagine a time in her life when she hadn’t known him. He was under her skin. He filled her thoughts. She could smell him when he was nowhere around, could feel his hands on her just by thinking about him—

Enough. Taylor gave herself a mental shake and looked around, realizing that she’d already started up the walk to the house. In only moments she would be at the front door. Taylor suspended doubts and fears and steadily continued on her way. She kept her gaze trained on the closed and solid front door, facing it as if it were her enemy. And then, she was standing in front of it … and was lifting the brass lion’s-head knocker. And knocking. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, on the other side, the sounds of a lock being turned greeted her ears. Taylor swallowed, felt her heart tripping over itself. The door opened.

Taylor recognized the butler from that afternoon. Estes. The thin, starchy-looking man took one look at her and his eyes rounded with surprise. “Oh. I say. Good evening … Miss, uh, James.” He looked all around her as if he thought someone was missing.

“Bentley is not with me.”

He met her gaze … his face reddened. “I should hope not. Uh, I mean I hadn’t supposed he would be.” The man retreated to his butler pose and remembered his duties. “Forgive me. Won’t you come in, Miss James?”

He was welcoming her. Relief coursed through Taylor. She’d half-expected to be sent packing. “I will if my father is here.”

The butler’s expression fell. “Oh, dear. He’s out for the evening. He’ll be so sorry he’s missed you. Is there anything I can do?”

“Yes. You can tell me where he is.”

The butler looked into her eyes … and swallowed. Taylor saw his prominent Adam’s apple bob up and down. “I see. Well, he’s gone to his gentlemen’s club. He’s to meet Mr. Greyson Talbott there, I believe.”

Taylor’s pulse quickened. Her father was meeting Grey? A sense of urgency seized her. “Where is this club? What is it?”

Alarm rounded the man’s eyes. “As I said, Miss James, it’s a gentlemen’s club. Surely you’re not thinking of going there?”

Taylor cocked her head in a challenge. “Is there any reason why I shouldn’t?”

“Yes, miss, I’m afraid there is. Women aren’t allowed on the premises.”

“What are … premises?”

Estes blinked, looked confused … but then his expression cleared. “Oh, I see. You don’t understand the word. Premises are … the grounds, I suppose. No, wait. More like inside the building. That’s it. Inside.” He raked her up and down with one look—not unfriendly or demeaning, just pointed. “But you’re—that is, women … no matter their attire or station … are not, uh, welcomed.”

Taylor nodded consideringly. “How do I find this building where women are not welcomed?”

Estes made gulping noises. To Taylor, he looked like a fish did when it was taken out of the water. But concern of another stripe jumped to the fore inside her—he wasn’t going to tell her where to find Grey and her father. She arched an eyebrow at the man and edged her hand toward her gun. Estes gasped and began a rapid babble punctuated with dramatic hand gestures that told and showed Taylor the directions. At the end of his exertion, as he stood there with a hand on his chest, Taylor nodded her thanks and said, “I wouldn’t have killed you. I would only have shot you in an arm or a leg.”

Estes blinked rapidly and paled. Then he said, “Thank you, miss. That’s most kind of you.”

Taylor nodded her head in leave-taking and turned, heading back down the path to the street and Red Sky. Behind her, she heard the door close—and heard the lock turn. A momentary grin rode her lips.

But as she walked on, her mind churned over what she’d just learned. Grey was meeting her father, but not at his home. Could it have something to do with her? She felt certain it did. And Grey hadn’t wanted anyone else to know or to hear what was said. Taylor’s eyes narrowed. She would confront the men, and they would tell her. She would see to that. It didn’t concern her in the least that she intended to go to a place meant only for men. What could they be doing inside that they didn’t want women there? Well, she wasn’t a mere woman. Their rules meant nothing to her. They would give her entry. Or they would die.

Taylor blinked, bringing herself back to the moment. What had caught her attention? She looked toward the street. Red Sky. He was moving about agitatedly, tagging against his reins and showing the whites of his eyes. Suddenly he whinnied his displeasure. Then he kicked out. Fear caused Taylor’s heartbeat to accelerate. She picked up her pace, sprinting toward her horse.

In the twilight darkness, she couldn’t see if anyone—there! A man. A big man. Grey? Even if it was, she still needed to warn him. Perhaps he’d forgotten that Red Sky responded only to her, her mother, and, of course, Calvin. Anyone else who tried to handle her mount would know the animal’s wrath.

Taylor was running now. She cursed the long and winding path that slowed her down. Finally she jumped the low hedge and tore through the neatly trimmed lawn, heading directly for the gate. Now she was close enough to call out. She did so, only to immediately realize she’d spoken in Cherokee. Cursing herself, she repeated it in English: “You there! Stop! Get away from him!”

The man jerked around to face Taylor. His stance was the hunkering one of an angry bear. Taylor could make out only his silhouette. His features were lost in the darkness. But something about him, something like a billowing cloak that wasn’t really there, seemed to surround his being. It was darker than his form, darker than the encroaching night … and it was threatening. Wave after wave of ill will radiated off him … and hit Taylor like physical blows.