CHAPTER FOUR
Stella Morgan was quartered with the wives of the Fort Bliss corporals, plump, contented matrons who talked all the time as they knitted winter mufflers for their husbands and munched constantly on sugar cookies, of which they seemed to have an inexhaustible supply.
Making the excuse of a headache, Stella said she was going for a walk before she turned in. “Some fresh air may help,” she said.
“You be careful, dearie,” one of the women said. “It’s cold outside. Take your shawl and don’t get a chill in the bladder.”
“And remember . . . there are bloodthirsty savages about,” the other said.
“I’m not going far,” Stella said, throwing her shawl around her shoulders.
She stepped into the starless murk and, keeping to the shadows, walked past the troopers’ barracks and then angled across the parade ground toward the sutler’s store. Colonel Grierson had pickets out, but they were invisible in the darkness, and the woman moved on soundless feet.
Stella passed between the side of the store and the blacksmith’s shop and then walked more quickly toward the wood-frame cabin that lay some thirty yards away. She tapped on the cabin door, and it opened immediately. Lucian Carter, stripped to his pants and undershirt, stepped back to allow the woman inside. He stuck his head out of the doorway and looked around. Satisfied, he closed the door again and said, “You spoke to them?”
Stella smiled. “Yes, they’ll do it.”
“Thank God,” Carter said. “The sooner we get away from this godforsaken post and put some distance between us and San Antonio the better.”
“Take it easy, Lucian, and content your mind,” Stella said. “Remember, the San Antonio police have nothing on us.”
“They were suspicious, Stella. I knew that by the way they were sniffing around. One of the detectives said to me that it was surprising that a healthy, active old lady like Martha Morgan should die so unexpectedly of natural causes. He had a big copper’s nose and sneaky eyes, the kind that told me he was saying one thing but meant another.”
“Yes, perhaps it was all a little surprising,” Stella said. “But the police said nothing about murder.”
“I know, but that damned nosey little detective . . . was not the word murder on the tip of his tongue?”
“Hardly. Lucian, you left no mark on the miserable old biddy.”
“No, I didn’t mark her.” Carter smiled. “It was a very soft feather pillow.”
Stella put her arms around the man’s neck, tilted back her head, and spoke directly into his handsome face. “We’ve come far, Lucian, you and I, haven’t we?”
“And we have farther to go, Stella. The money and jewelry we have is only a start.”
“A small start, my darling. There is so much more ahead of us.”
“What about that damned redheaded shotgun guard I had the trouble with?”
“What about him?”
“Did he swallow your story?”
Stella placed the back of her hand on her forehead and pretended to swoon. “Oh, I am undone. I must be with my husband when he hears about the death of his dear, dear mama.” The woman’s smile was hard, triumphant. “The fool fell for it hook, line, and sinker.”
“What about the other one, the driver?”
“He’s a harmless idiot.”
“I plan to kill them both, Stella,” Carter said. “I swear to God, I’ll shoot those two barbarians in the belly and listen to them scream.”
“Time enough for that when we reach Fort Bliss. Let them get us there first.”
“Clever girl,” Carter said. He ground his groin into the woman. “Stay a while.”
Stella stepped back. “No, not here. What if someone saw us? It’s too dangerous. We’re just traveling companions, remember?”
“Then I’ll wait until we get to Fort Bliss,” Carter said.
“No, wait until we get to Washington, Lucian. You’ll enjoy me all the more.”
Carter grinned. “When we’re members of the capital’s high society, huh?”
“Exactly. Now, I must go. The fat washerwomen will miss me.”
“Until tomorrow then,” Carter said.
“Yes, until tomorrow, my one, my only love,” Stella said.
Since her head was on his shoulder, Lucian Carter couldn’t see the woman’s eyes, hard as polished diamonds. Just as well . . . because they were amused . . . and calculating.
* * *
“How is your headache, dearie?” one of the army wives said.
“Better, much better now,” Stella Morgan said, smiling.
* * *
Lucian Carter slid the carpetbag from under the cot. It was large, the kind that had a leather flap across the top fastened with a brass padlock. He took the key from his pocket, unlocked the bag, and peered inside. Dishonest himself, the threat of theft preyed on his mind. Yes, the contents were still intact, fifty thousand dollars in large-denomination bills . . . Martha Morgan didn’t believe in banks . . . and jewelry, necklaces, rings, and bracelets mostly, worth at least an additional fifty thousand, and probably twice that. Even more precious was Martha’s will, folded into a long manila envelope. Its contents were straightforward enough. In the event of her death—Carter smiled at that—she left all her property to her only child, her son John. The properties consisted of her San Antonio house, a Washington, D.C., town house, railroad shares, considerable holdings in a South African diamond mine, and shares in the White Star shipping line, in all, assets worth a few thousand dollars north of halfa-million. When Major Morgan died, and his impending demise was a guaranteed natural fact, his fortune would of course fall to his grieving widow.
Stella would be rich, and so would Lucian Carter, her next husband.
Carter stood with the bag open, lost in thought.
Did he love Stella? No, he didn’t, not really. But he lusted after her lithe body. Would he be sad if she died? Well, a rich man could choose from plenty of willing women. Would he consider . . . making her die? Of course, murder was always an option, because then all the money would be his.
Carter raised his chin and slowly scratched his throat, his manicured fingernails scratching on bristles. He had a lot to think about, but not now. Later, after they were safely ensconced in a Washington town house and Stella wore his wedding ring on her finger. He’d make his decisions then.