| |
At breakfast the next morning, Jenna refused to join Branch’s
family until Dove swore on the sacred graves of her Ute mother and Scots father that Branch wouldn’t be there.
According to Maura, the leading men of the town had called a meeting to discuss final arrangements for the day's celebration and their attempt to get Park City incorporated. They wanted Branch to run as their first city sheriff. A job he would do very well, she thought with an inexplicable stab of pain.
When she finished eating, Jenna fled to her room. Maura had offered to loan her a dress since Branch had ruined hers ripping it off her, but she declined. Her trousers and shirt suited her fine, especially now that every male in town seemed determined to court her. She buckled her gun belt around her waist, took up her bow and arrows, and returned to the kitchen.
The only holidays allowed to the miners were Independence Day and Christmas. Every business in town would be closed today, including the Silver Bullion Mercantile. With all the excitement in town, she might be able to slip away unnoticed. A ride in the mountains, alone, sounded much more appealing than foot races, pie-eating contests, and shooting matches.
"Look, Jenna." Kathleen Trenoweth patted the last dab of red tinted icing on a sheet cake and tipped the platter to show Jenna her frosted recreation of the stars and bars.
"It looks lovely," Jenna assured her.
Kathleen beamed with pride. "Mother's making up a picnic basket for you with fried chicken, potato salad, bread-and-butter pickles, biscuits, and apple tarts. It'll be auctioned off at noon with the others, after the program at the grandstand the men built below town."
Mary crawled onto the stool next to Jenna, her fingers a suspicious shade of blue. "Paddy says if Ma'd let him, he could get rich taking bribes from men who wanna know which basket is yours."
"Hush, Mary," her mother scolded from the stove. Grinning mischievously, the child leaned closer to whisper, "But the only one who's gonna know is Unc—"
"I said hush!" Maura lifted the child from the stool, set her on the floor, and smacked her behind. "Get ye off an' see if Paddy's dressed. I'll be needing him to take pies down for the contest later."
When the girl had skipped out, Maura turned to Jenna. "That
child has an imagination bigger than Iron Mountain."
Jenna forced a smile. "It's all right, except you're wasting your time with the basket. I'm going over to the livery to see Miguel."
"Sure, and wish him a happy July Fourth for me, too. I see ye have your bow. Are ye entering the archery contest then?"
"Maybe."
"'Twould be good to see those conceited men shown up by a woman for a change, that it would." Maura laughed and went back to the chicken frying on the stove. "We'll be forming a procession at ten at the top of Main Street to march through town to the bowery and grandstand. Don't ye be late, now. Ye don't want to miss the singing or the speeches by them pompous louts running for mayor."
"I'm not so sure about that."
At the stable behind the mercantile, Jenna grained and watered her horse, then headed for Watt and Brizzie's. Already, the children bubbled over with excitement for the day's celebration. They whooped and shouted as they chased pigs in practice for the contest later. In no mood for merrymaking, Jenna figured a quiet ride would give her a chance to think about what to do with her life after she located her father. She’d hoped to speak with Miguel, but he’d been moved because of the festivities.
Once out of town, she'd find a spot to get in some target practice, too. She hadn't shot an arrow in ages. Not since the day Hendricks and Virgil attacked Branch in Echo Canyon. Halfway to the livery, she met Jake Longan riding down the street. He halted his horse in front of her and tipped his hat politely.
"I was just coming to see you, miss."
"Me? Why? What can I do for you, Mr. Longan?"
"Actually, Rembrandt sent me. He said to tell you that if you want to know who your father is, you should come to the mine right away."
Of course, she would go. Yet, she hesitated. Why the mine? Especially today, when everyone else was in town. And why had Rembrandt chosen Longan as his messenger? Did this mean Longan was not her father? Or that he was? No use standing there pondering. The answers awaited her at the Silver Bullion Mine. "I'll get my horse. Can you give me directions to the mine?"
"Better than that, miss. I'll take you there."
"There's no need if you'll just—"
"The boss insisted I see you get there safely."
Longan stayed right on her heels as she retraced her steps to the stable, then insisted on saddling Gent for her. Minutes later, they rode out of town.
Jenna felt like she had ants crawling on her as they made their way along the mountain trail. Anticipation threatened to eat her alive. She wanted to kick Gent into a gallop and get to the mine as fast as possible. Yet, fear also raced through her veins—fear and dread. After fifteen long years, would she truly meet her father?
Memories washed over her, bad and good. One moment she felt weepy and sentimental, the next livid. To get her mind off the matter, she decided to see what she could wheedle out of Jake. "Was anyone with Rembrandt when he asked you to fetch me?"
"Not that I know of, Miss Jenna."
Maybe Longan hadn’t been informed she was his daughter. If so, she needed to go about things in a more roundabout way. Glancing over the countryside, she said, "It's very pretty here. Have you been in Utah long, Mr. Longan?"
"A few years."
No one could accuse the man of being loquacious. She tried again. "Is your family with you?"
"I lost my family several years ago."
"I'm sorry." She lapsed into silence, aware that her heart beat more erratically. Could it be mere coincidence he'd lost his family, and she'd lost a father? She needed more information. "Were you living in Utah at the time?" Breathlessly, she awaited his reply.
Longan merely shook his head. "Forgive me, miss, but it's not something I like to talk about."
Uncertain where to go from there, she studied the terrain. Why had she called it pretty? Greedy hordes of gold- and silver-hungry miners had raped it of foliage and left it riddled with holes. Dun-colored mounds of bare earth dotted the hills, dump sites for the drifts, adits, and shafts that laced the interior of the mountainside like giant ant burrows. To the north, she caught a glimpse of the town and beyond that, Parley's Park. Then a bend in the trail and a cluster of white-flowered chokecherry shrubs cut off the view.
"My mother and I believe my father to be dead until quite recently," she said after a while, unable to give up. "I came here hoping to find him, but you must know that already. Do you know who he is?"
"No." Longan pointed to a canyon toward which they seemed to be headed. "But you'll be meeting him soon. The mine's right up there."
His smile was too cold and assessing to give her any comfort. She suspected he knew who her father’s identity and was silently laughing at her. Why? Because he knew how disappointed she would be when she met the man? She had been wrong to figure him a candidate. He had no need to bring her all the way up here to tell her he was her father. James Leigh-Whittington must be one of the other Silver Bullion miners. Why else would she have to go there to meet him? Had she met him, spoken with him, without being aware?
The trail merged with a rutted wagon road that zigzagged down the face of the mountain. A shortcut, apparently. Gent followed Longan's mount across an open face of scree, then into a forest of quaking aspen as they started into the canyon. A porcupine ambled across the road in front of them. Laughing, Jake took out his gun and shot the slow-footed animal.
"Why did you do that?" Jenna demanded, horrified.
"Ah, hell, there's too damn many of them, anyway. You can't eat them. What good are they?"
Jenna knew for sure then he couldn’t be her gentle father and breathed a sigh of relief.
The deeper they rode into the wooded canyon, the more nervous she became. When they broke into the open, she spotted the faded brown of a crude log building and off to the side, a hill of barren dirt like the other dumps that seemed to mark every mine site. Jenna's heart thumped in her ears as a rush of adrenaline surged through her veins. What if she found her father as revolting as Jake Longan? What if he rejected her? Blast it, Jenna, get hold of yourself. What do you care if he likes you or not?
"Is that it?" she asked.
Longan looked back at her. "Yep. Won't be long now." This time, his smile seemed to straddle a fence between lasciviousness and ordinary villainy.
Jenna drew Gent to a halt.
Longan stopped and twisted in his saddle to gaze at her. "Scared?"
"Only. . . nervous."
"You might as well get it over with."
A voice inside her head yelled for her to get the hell out of there. Reason argued. This land belonged to Branch. Rembrandt should be here somewhere. Her fear was only a cowardly attempt to avoid the confrontation she knew was coming. After all the months of planning, of waiting, it angered her that she should get cold feet now, so close to attaining her goal. She had put her life on the line to find her father. She could do no less than to face him openly.
Nudging Gent with her heels, she rode on. Longan fell in beside her as they approached the cabin. When they drew closer, other buildings came into view. A dark, square hole in the face of a rocky cliff marked the mine itself. Ore carts sat outside, waiting to be rolled inside and filled with riches. To Jenna, they looked oddly empty and forlorn. The way she felt inside.
Longan guided her to the smaller of the two main buildings. He dismounted, looped his reins over the short hitching rail, then reached for hers. The moment her feet touched ground, he took hold of her arm. Not a gentlemanly grip, but one the ensured she didn't get away. He opened the door and waited for her to precede him into the cabin. Wishing she'd thought to tell someone about coming here, she eased her hand over to rest on the butt of her gun and stepped through the portal.
Lantern light thrust a yellow glow over the rough log walls. With an audible gasp, Jenna gaped. From every wall, her own face stared down at her, like dozens of mirrors. Happy, wistful, thoughtful, angry, passionate—the portraits captured her every mood.
"Impressive, ain't they?"
She whirled at the sound of the voice. Marshal Sleed Hendricks stood close behind her. An alarm sounded in her brain, and her fingers wrapped around the handle of the Starr as her mind groped for a reason behind his presence here.
Divining her thoughts, Hendricks chuckled. "No, little lady, I ain't your father."
His gaze traveled over every inch of her body, making her feel as though ants crawled over her again.
"Frankly," he said huskily, "I'm damned glad I ain't. I'd be a mite uncomfortable dipping my wick into my own flesh and blood."
An angry-sounding thump took her glance to a darkened comer of the room. In a chair beside a cluttered desk sat Rembrandt, his mouth covered with a dirty rag tied behind his white head, and his hands and legs bound. Even so, he made a valiant effort to stand and get to the marshal, his eyes dark with fury.
Hendricks laughed. Jenna drew her pistol. No sooner had it cleared leather than the marshal grabbed her arm. His fleshy fingers dug into her soft skin as he wrenched the six-gun from her hand. He stuck it in his waistband, still chuckling.
"Not so fast, sweet thing," he chided her. "These things gotta be done right. Ain't that so, Longan?"
"Yeah, but let's get on with it, Sleed. And don't you be forgetting you promised me the girl."
Jenna glared at Longan. His eyes glowed with a mixture of humor and lust as he met her gaze. She felt sick to have ever thought he might have fathered her. Thank God, she'd been wrong. But if not him, then. . . her gaze whipped back to the old man tied to the chair.
Hendricks took her arm and shoved her closer to Rembrandt. "Come on, honey, let me introduce you to the man you been hunting all these weeks."
The portraits covering the walls seemed to mock her as she faced the white-haired man in the comer, her heart thundering in her ears, her hands trembling now.
"Hell, Sleed," Longan said, "take the man's gag off him so he can say a proper hello to his daughter."
Jenna watched, spellbound, as Hendricks moved to do as Longan suggested. Her eyes pleaded with Rembrandt to tell her the truth. But even after the gag was removed, the old man remained silent, his tired eyes seeming to beseech her. For what? Understanding? Acceptance?
Forgiveness?
She had come to care for this man with his quiet, faded gentility, his kindness, and compassion. Once, she remembered, she had wished he had been her grandfather instead of cold, bloodless Benedict Treadwell. But Rembrandt couldn't be her father. Hendricks and Longan were using the old man to get to her for some reason.
Turning on Hendricks, she demanded, "Why are you doing this? Rembrandt's too old to be my father. What are you trying to pull here?"
"What are we trying to pull?" Hendricks bellowed with laughter. He pointed to Rembrandt. "That old jackass there has been fooling you all this time. Hell, he had me fooled, too, with that white beard and all. Fifteen years I searched for him, and the whole time he was right under my nose.
The marshal quit laughing. His voice grew hard. "He thought he was a clever bastard, cleverer than me." He backhanded the old man, making Rembrandt's head snap to the side.
Jenna took a step toward him. Rembrandt warned her away with his eyes.
Hendricks went on talking. "But he's gonna pay for it now. Yes, sir, he's gonna wish he'd died of that bullet I put in him all those years ago. First, though, he's got some papers to sign."
"What papers?" Rembrandt asked.
"You'll find out. Let's get it over with." The marshal drew out his knife, bent, and cut the rope at Rembrandt's wrists. Stunned and still uncertain what was happening, Jenna watched Hendricks take a sheaf of papers from the inside pocket of his coat and lay them on the desk in front of the old man. He picked up a pen, dipped it into an inkwell, and handed it to Rembrandt. "Sign. Here, and here."
Jenna watched Rembrandt study the documents. She wanted to scream at them to stop worrying about stupid papers when her whole life seemed to be hanging by a thin thread, waiting for the truth. A truth she'd waited for much too long already.
Hendricks smacked the old man hard on the shoulder and shoved the pen closer. "I said, sign. No need to read the frigging things. I'll be glad to tell you what they say." His grin contained both evil and triumph. "Once McCauley gets here and adds his signature to yours, I'll be the new owner of the Silver Bullion Mine."
"With me as his partner," Longan added.
Hendricks glowered at the man. Green and cold calculation lay in the depths of his eyes. Jake Longan might be in for a surprise, she thought.
Rembrandt's hard voice captured the marshal's attention. "I managed to keep you from getting my claim fifteen years ago. What
makes you think I'll cave in to you now, Sleed?"
"Oh, you'll sign." Hendricks walked over to Jenna. She tried to back away, but he grabbed her. Holding her with one hand, he stroked her cheek with the other. "Unless you want to watch Jake there rutting on this pretty young daughter of yours right in front of you."
The hand on her face tightened, cupping her chin and squeezing her mouth out of shape. Her blue eyes darkened with anger, yet she refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing he frightened her. Hendricks let his hand drift down from her face to her breast. She brought back her arm and swung with all her might. Her palm met his cheek with a resounding whack that sent him reeling.
Hendricks caught himself before she could break free. He slapped her so hard she would have fallen if he hadn't been holding onto her. He laughed. "Damned if I don't like a spirited woman. Makes it a helluva lot more exciting when you finally get your pecker in 'em, don't it, Jake?"
"Sure does, but I go first, Sleed. Remember that."
For the first time, Jenna noticed that Rembrandt had come to his feet. His fists were balled, the knuckles white. Longan had left his post by the door and held a gun on the older man. Rembrandt ignored him, directing his words to the marshal. "You harm one hair on her head, and I'll personally break every bone in your body before I consign you to the fires of hell."
Jenna's fear heightened. "Please, Rembrandt, don't—"
Hendricks dragged her closer until they stood within arm's reach of the white-haired man. This time when he put his hands on her, she could do nothing. Both her wrists were gripped painfully behind her back. "Then you'd best get that frigging pen moving on that paper real quick-like, or you're gonna see her hurting a whole lot more."
Jenna ached to kick Hendricks, pummel him, spit on him. Only the knowledge that Rembrandt—her father—might suffer more held her off.
Rembrandt's lined face paled as the man roughly fondled Jenna, but he stood his ground. "That might work on me, but you're fooling yourself if you think you can force Branch to sign away his half of the mine."
"Oh, he'll sign. And for the same reason as you." Hendricks gloated. "Or didn't you know your partner was hot for your brat here?"
Rembrandt said nothing. His eyes, full of pain and remorse, fell on her now. "Whatever happens here, Eugenia, I want you to know that all these years I believed you and your mother were dead. That's the truth."
An iron ball formed in her throat. Moisture pricked her eyelids. She wanted to ask questions, but the hand squeezing her breast reminded her to wait for a better time.
"Aw, ain't that sweet?" Hendricks snarled. "Sign the gawddamn papers, Leigh-Whittington. There'll be time afterward for the two of you to get all weepy over each other while we wait for McCauley."
Rembrandt switched his gaze back to the marshal. "And if we sign, what will you do with us then, Sleed?"
"Well now, what do you think we'll do? We can't leave live witnesses around who might try bringing charges against us later, now can we? Course, you and your partner may meet your fate a little quicker than your girl here."
They meant to kill them! Jenna's mind screamed.
Not Branch, she wanted to plead. Please, not Branch!
Like widely scattered buckshot, Hendricks' laughter ricocheted off the walls and off every charcoal likeness of her face until Jenna felt her heart and soul shatter into tiny shards.
FIVE MOUNTED HORSES raced wildly down the middle of Main Street as Branch shoved his way through the cheering crowd in search of Jenna. A grim slash beneath the russet of his mustache marked the location of his taut mouth. Frustration and lack of sleep had left his face harsh and drawn. His bad leg ached.
The past two days had been a nightmare, starting with the moment Jenna rejected his proposal and threw him out of his own room.
A Pinkerton! He still found it difficult to believe. The harder he tried to put her from his mind, the harder she stuck. Like a goat’s head thorn in a horse's tail.
He never had found a chance to talk to Tuttle. He and Rembrandt had had to postpone their plans to expose Hendricks until after the holiday. Now, to make things worse, Snyder and the other town leaders were hounding Branch to run for sheriff.
"Most of the folks already turn to you when there's a problem," Snyder had pointed out. "We even elected you to play honorary sheriff for the day. That way, we have someone to keep things in hand during the festivities, and you can get in some campaigning early."
They were determined to turn Park City into a respectable, incorporated city, with law and order, schools, churches, everything. Telegraph wires expected to be installed by fall. The railroad would follow. Gas lighting—they wanted it all.
He'd spent most of the day breaking up fights, sobering up drunks, and trying to get to the bottom of a shooting at Mrs. Power's boarding house. Now, Branch didn't care if Park City ever made it onto the map. He wanted only to get the mess with Miguel and Hendricks cleared up, then straighten out his own affairs.
Which meant Jenna.
Over by the tables set up for the pie-eating contest, he caught a glimpse of fiery red hair. Maura spotted him at the same time and started toward him. All around, voices shouted cheerful greetings. A few miners who had been in the mercantile the day before when he dragged Jenna up the stairs cast him irate glances. He ignored them.
"Branch—" Maura began the moment she reached him.
"Is she here?"
There was no question which "she" he meant. "No, Branch, I'm afraid Jenna's in trouble."
His eyes narrowed. "Don't tell me one of her ardent admirers has run off with her."
"I don't think so."
"It's no more than she deserves if that's what happened. Damn
her hide. I told you to lock her in her room."
Maura's eyes blazed. "Sure, as if she were your property. She's a free woman, that one, and not about to call you or any other man her master."
"Don't remind me." He forked his fingers through his hair. "Confounded female's more contrary than a mule with a burr up its ass. You have no idea where she is?"
"Curse the devil! Yes, I know exactly where she is if you'll just shut up and listen."
For the first time, Branch noted the fear in her green eyes. The hand she laid on his arm trembled. Foreboding prickled at the back of his nape and set his blood racing.
"What is it?" He clutched her shoulders and gave her a slight shake. "Has something happened to her? Tell me, dammit!"
Her mouth opened, but no words came out. Her gaze darted past him. Branch turned to see Paddy standing behind him, stiff-backed, hands fisted, his young face set with steely determination."
Let go of my mother, Uncle Branch."
Branch let his hands fall. He glanced at Maura and back at her son. Lord, was this what his feelings for Jenna had brought him to? Terrifying his own family. The anger went out of him like gravel washed from a miner's pan.
"Ah, Branch, 'tis so worried about ye I've been. I haven't seen ye take anything so hard since Patrick—"
"Ma, tell him," Paddy broke in.
Branch straightened, his premonition of danger renewed. "What?"
Maura took a deep breath.
"'Twas just after the picnic, young Bobby Wharton came up and handed me a note. He said a man paid him a nickel to deliver it to you, but with all the excitement he got sidetracked and forgot. Then he couldn't find you." She took a scrap of dirty paper from the pocket of her dress and held it out to him.
Branch unfolded the note and silently read the message: "If you want your partner and the girl to live out the day, come to the mine.
Now. Alone."
His face blanched, then colored as fury once again took hold of him. "Did Bobby know the man?"
"No. I asked him. He said the man was a miner, like everyone else."
"What time did this happen?"
"This morning, before the procession to the grandstand."
"Good hell. If they've hurt her. . . " He couldn't finish. A pain worse than any he'd ever suffered before corkscrewed into his heart at the thought of his hellcat being harmed because of him.
No doubt Rembrandt had stayed to guard the mine, so all the men could have the day off to celebrate. That would explain how he had become involved. If someone wanted a showdown with Branch, the abandoned mine was as good a place as any. Jenna provided the bait. His hand clenched crushing the paper slip. It fell from his hand to the ground. Swinging about, he started shoving back through the crowd, limping slightly.