Chapter Forty-Five

I don’t know from where I got the strength. I’d scarcely had a decent meal for a week, and I hadn’t eaten for hours. The water bottle was empty, and we hadn’t come across water in a long time. Perhaps Sheridan’s enthusiasm, as he bounded ahead almost as easily and surely as the mountain sheep, was giving me some energy. Or perhaps my own thoughts drove me forward.

With sufficient funds, not only could I return to Scotland and extract my revenge on Alistair Forester, the man who murdered my parents, but I’d no longer have to worry about the law and my past, uh, profession. No British policeman would arrest an excessively wealthy lady for stealing silver or jewellery. The nobility did it all the time. At the end of a country house party, more than one householder had waved away the last of the guests only to discover valuable items had been unwittingly gifted to their visitors. If a maid pocketed a cheap trinket, she’d be sacked, a footman would face a stretch in Wormwood Scrubs, a hanger-on such as I would be socially ruined if not jailed. Lord or Lady Fitzjames-Worthington-Montague would be assumed to have taken the item by mistake, and it would be impolite to ask for it back.

With my newfound wealth, I’d purchase a country estate of my own, send Angus to Eton and then to Oxford or Cambridge. Eventually buy him a title. Set him up as a proper gentleman.

So happy was I with these thoughts, I almost bumped into the back of my captor. It was well after suppertime and long shadows crossed our path. Tendrils of cold mist curled around our heads and feet. The mountain closed in around us and sheer black rock rose up on either side, as straight as if it had been cut with a giant’s knife. The path narrowed to not much more than a foot wide, as if a doorway of sorts had been carved out of the stone. I squeezed forward to stand behind Sheridan and peered over his shoulder.

I gasped.

We stood high above a valley. Mountains, black and sleek, rose up on all sides. Below us, hawks and eagles circled. A wide blue river flowed lazily across the landscape, and plumes of white steam drifted into the air from several places on the valley floor. Everything was green and verdant, the ground hidden by vegetation: tall trees with large flat leaves and dense undergrowth. The sun was lowering itself behind the peak opposite where we stood, and the hills were bathed in a clear golden glow. The air at my back was Yukon-summer cold, bearing the threat of snow and icy winds. Ahead of us it blew soft and warm, perfumed with what might have been citrus.

The trail dropped sharply away and descended in a straight line, eventually to disappear into a clump of trees heavy with vines.

Gold Mountain.

Sheridan stepped backward. His mouth hung open and he looked into my eyes. He said nothing as he dropped slowly to his knees. A single tear travelled down his left cheek.

He lifted his face to mine.

His throat was wide and white, rimmed with a torn and dirty collar. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I found it,” he said in a whisper. “We’ve made it, Fiona, we’ve made it.”

I gripped the handle of my knife and slowly pulled it out of its sheath. I envisioned piles of gold stacked at my feet, diamonds on my fingers and emeralds in my ears and loops of pearls around my neck. Gowns of silk and satin and lace. More beautiful than ever, I’d bask in the adoration of all who encountered me. Angus would be prime minister some day. Sir Angus of the Yukon. Lord MacGillivray of Skye. He’d marry an insipid, buck-toothed great-granddaughter of the Queen, and I would take tea at Buckingham Palace and be the grandmother of a future king of England.

“Thank you, Mr. Sheridan” I said, “For bringing me here.”

I pulled the knife free.

“You are needed no longer.”

A dog barked.

For a fraction of time, I assumed it was a wolf. Then I remembered Angus telling me wolves do not bark, they howl. Only dogs bark.

Another bark, followed by an excited shout, from the path we’d recently ascended. A gust of wind came out of nowhere, carrying the single word “Mother.” The word lingered in the air like mist.

I looked at my hand, knuckles white on the handle of the knife.

What on earth was I doing? Was I seriously contemplating slicing a man’s throat? I didn’t even want to take tea with the Queen, nor to have a dreary daughter-in-law and buck-toothed grandchildren. Paul Sheridan knelt at my feet, submissive as a lamb to the slaughter. He had not heard me speak. I shoved the knife away and gave my head a proper shake.

“Someone’s coming,” Sheridan said. He pushed himself to his feet. The small pack he’d worn across his chest for the entire trip, the one containing his knife, dropped to the ground. I kicked it aside.

We went to the edge of the trail and peered down in the direction from which we’d come. Through the swirls of white mist we could see movement far below. A man and a dog, ascending. No, two men. My heart moved into my throat. A man and a boy and a big white dog. The man was dressed in a red tunic and black boots and wore a broad-brimmed hat. The boy had a shock of too-long blond hair. Their heads were down and their backs bent as they concentrated on climbing.

Angus. It was Angus. And Richard Sterling.

He’d come for me.

“My escort,” I said. “It’s time for us to part, Mr. Sheridan. I’ll not be continuing, but I truly wish you well.”

The man’s eyes were as round and white as Soapy the horse’s when he’d refused to cross the creek.

Sheridan swung the Winchester off his back. “You belong to me. I’m not letting you go.”

“No!” I yelled. “Don’t shoot. Angus, run.”

Sheridan lifted the rifle to his face, laid his cheek against the barrel. I saw his finger inch toward the trigger.

I launched myself at him and threw my entire body against his left side, throwing him off balance. He staggered and the weapon fired. From below came cries of alarm and increased barking. Sheridan braced his legs and brought the rifle back up. I grabbed the barrel and we wrestled for it.

“You’re mine,” he hissed, the sound like a snake moving through grass, “mine.” His eyes were very cloudy.

He managed to wrest the weapon out of my hands. Shifting it, he struck the side of my head, hard, with the butt. I staggered backwards; stars moved across my eyes and my head swam. I dropped my forearms to the ground and broke the fall before my skull could strike rock. I pulled myself to a sitting position and sat on the hard ground, blinking. Paul Sheridan moved in and out of focus. There were two of him, and then three, and finally just one. But that one was bracing the rifle barrel against a rock and settling back into shooting position.

I clambered to my feet, pulling the trapper’s knife free with one smooth movement. I again threw myself at Paul Sheridan. All the while I was screaming, trying to gather strength for myself as well as warn Richard and Angus. And, hopefully, frighten Sheridan.

He swung around and lifted the rifle in defence. I raised the knife high and brought it down, slicing it across his arm, wrist to elbow. The blade was very sharp, and it cut deeply. Bright red blood spurted. Sheridan said not a word, but threw the rifle to the ground and faced me. His mouth was set, his eyes so round, the surface so white, I wouldn’t have recognized them. He was breathing very deeply and hissed as air passed in and out of his mouth. He moved fast, sending a fist toward my jaw. I pulled back in time and thrust the knife forward, but he leaned aside and my blade sliced cold mountain air. We circled each other, eyes fixed, hearts pounding, hands up.

All I had to do was to keep him away from me and from that rifle, give Richard time to get to us. And Angus. Oh, heavens, don’t let Angus be the first to arrive. I could hear shouting from below and the dog barking. Richard would be moving carefully, not sure if the shooter was reloading or if he had another weapon. Angus would be scrambling up the hillside pell-mell, heedless of danger to himself.

I dared to glance toward the trail. That was a mistake. Sheridan saw my attention shift and he came in low, his left arm up and out, prepared to take another cut if he could get his right fist though my defences.

I ducked down and slipped under his arm. I was aiming for the centre of his belly, but he slid to one side at the last second and the knife cut only his jacket. His fist crashed into my face and I fell. I landed hard, once again, but kept my grip on the knife and held the blade pointing up and out. Sheridan swung his foot at my face, and I brought my weapon up, slicing into his calf, just above his boot.

He stepped backwards. Blood was pouring down both his arm and leg now. He stared at me through those crazed eyes. His chest heaved and his breathing was ragged, but he’d not said a word.

“I’m not going with you,” I said. “You will have to kill me, and you do not want to do that.”

The white cloud faded from his eyes. He blinked. “Fiona,” he said, in a voice full of sadness and of pain. “Fiona. I will always love you.”

He headed for me, and I braced myself for another attack. Instead he dodged and ran around me. I swivelled on my rear end, and the last I saw of Mr. Paul Sheridan, he was standing in the stone doorway, surrounded by a blaze of golden light from the setting sun. He took one step, and then another, and disappeared.

The barking was getting closer. “I’m here,” I yelled. “He’s gone. It’s safe.”

I staggered to my feet, thrust the knife behind a boulder, gathered up the rifle, and dashed a few yards down the path, whereupon I fell to the ground and arranged myself so I was draped across the trail in a dainty swoon.