Bride of the Shining Mountains (The St. Claire Men) (16 page)

After several weeks of long, hard days, cold baths, and just
making do, it felt heavenly to be clean again. Naked, she padded to her
breeches and shirt, stockings and shoes, an untidy pile on the carpet, then
fingered the hem of the night rail Bessie had thoughtfully laid on the foot of
the bed. It was wondrously soft, and smelled like fresh air and sunshine... and
since the hour was late, and she had nowhere else to go, she simply couldn’t
resist.

Below stairs, Jackson stood by the great bank of many-paned
windows. Rain sluiced over the glass in sheets, leaking through a loose
casement to puddle on the inside sill.

Still gripped in the throes of the nightmarish scene upstairs,
torn by conflicting emotions, he barely noticed.

Navarre had taken a seat on the blue velvet settee upon entering the
room and now sat with his long and elegant legs crossed at the knee, making
inane conversation while Murphy lit the whale-oil lamps, for all the world as
if nothing of import had taken place. Jackson marveled at his uncle’s capacity
to shrug Emil off. It was a talent he himself had never mastered. Emil had
always managed to strike at the most vulnerable part of him, to make him feel a
Broussard in name, but not in truth, a disappointment, unable or unwilling to
live up to his father’s lofty standards.

“Amos Teach, a breeder from Saint Charles, has a blooded
two-year-old that shows a deal of promise. She’d be a fine addition to our
stables, and if you’d like we could ride out tomorrow and take a look at her.”

Navarre’s chatter brought Jackson back to the present. “What? No.
Not tomorrow. I shall be otherwise occupied tomorrow. Now, if you please,
Uncle—explain.”

“I believe the physician—er—Nash is his name—proclaimed it an act
of God, but I myself subscribe to the theory that it was a direct result of
your father’s ill temper. With the way he carries on at your various escapades,
it is a wonder it hasn’t happened long before this.”

Jackson bent a look upon him, and Navarre made a sound of
impatience. “Very well, then. If you must have all the tedious details! He was
stricken late in the evening, the day of Clayton’s death... the same evening he
struck you with yonder sword and had you cast into the gutter.”

“He did not cast me anywhere,” Jackson said, chafing the scar,
which, with the storm, had begun a deep, throbbing ache. “I went of my own
accord.”

“As you like it,” Navarre replied pettishly. “Garrett found him
upon rising the next morning. As to why I chose not to inform you, I should
think that would be obvious. I was worried. The loss of blood you sustained
from your injury was considerable. Those first few days you were weak and
feverish, and I was at a loss as to what should be done.”

“You should have told me, Uncle,” Jackson said quietly. “It might
have changed things.”

Changed things...
But how?
They still hated one another; Emil still blamed him for Clay’s death.

The frivolous air Navarre so loved to affect slipped a notch. His
expression was somber. “The town was rife with gossip. Clayton had a number of
powerful friends, nephew, and though your position in this community shielded
you from the law, I could not be sure what they might take it upon themselves
to do. I wanted you safe, and there seemed but one way to achieve that end. You
may think my actions selfish, yet I would do it again without forethought or
hesitation.” He spread his elegant beringed hands. “Now that I have answered
your questions, perhaps you will humor me and provide a brief explanation as to
how you are returned so soon, and with a slip of a girl—your ward—in tow. Given
your reckless bent, I am surprised that you would take on such a”—he paused,
searching for the word
—“weighty
responsibility.”

“It was not something I planned, I assure you,” Jackson replied,
“and I would hardly call Reagan ‘a slip of a girl.’ At twenty, she’s of
marriageable age. As for my recklessness, don’t let it concern you. I fully
intend to do right by her.”

Navarre leaned forward slightly, and though he made a valiant
effort, he couldn’t quite conceal his horror. “You do not intend to marry this
girl?”

“Marriage has no place in my future,” Jackson said softly, “not to
Reagan, not to anyone. Besides, I have other, more pressing concerns that
require my attention.”

Navarre’s dark brows shot up. “You will be staying on, then?”

“I will remain in the city until my business is concluded,”
Jackson said.

“What about your father? You will not attempt again to cast him
bodily into the street?”

“He is welcome to stay for as long as he wishes. I could not put
him out in his condition.”
Neither can
I forgive him.

The unspoken thought hung heavily in the air as Navarre rose and
walked to the gilt baroque mirror that hung above the cherry sideboard to
straighten his already immaculate cravat. “Well then, with that I shall take my
leave.
Bonne nuit,
nephew.”

For a long while after Navarre had gone, Jackson remained by the
windows, staring with unseeing eyes out at the darkened street and struggling
to make sense of all that had happened.

He’d mounted the stairs with the worst of intentions—to sever all
ties with his father—and then he’d stalked through the door of the master
bedroom and Emil had once again sent his world reeling on its axis.

The indomitable old patriarch was gone, vanished, and in his place
was a withered, stricken shell of a man who’d been robbed of everything except
his great and considerable pride.

It was all he had left, that pride, and Jackson had shaken it to
its foundations by confronting him when he should have just stayed away.

Yet he’d had no inkling... no inkling at all.

Navarre should have told him . . . despite his injury, despite
everything. Emil was his father. He’d had a right to know.

Turning away from the window, he doused one lamp and was trimming
the wick on the other when a soft scratching sounded on the door. “Come,” he
called out, turning as the door creaked open and Bessie came into the room.

“Just wanted to tell you that Murphy’s drawin’ your tub, Mr.
Jackson. A nice, hot soak’s good for what ails you.”

Jackson smiled wearily. “Somehow I doubt a bath will solve my
problems, Bessie, but I thank you all the same, and I apologize if I caused you
any duress by my sudden appearance this evening.”

“Now, son, you know I’m always glad to see you come home. No
matter what you think, right here’s where you belong.”

Jackson said nothing, just kissed Bessie’s work-worn hand. “Where
is the rest of the staff? James, Francois, and Malvina?”

“Gone, sir. Some went to work in other houses hereabouts... the
rest, they just skedaddled. I expect with Mr. Clay’s passin’, and what came
after, they felt uneasy ’bout stayin’. Then your daddy took sick, and one by
one they drifted off. Now there’s only the four of us left out of twenty.”

Jackson sighed. “It would seem that everything has changed.”

“It ain’t the same, no, sir,” Bessie agreed. “But things’ll get
better now that you’re home.”

It would have done no good to voice the doubts that crowded in
around him. Bessie would stubbornly cling to her beliefs, so he said good night
and went quietly up the stairs.

Outside Reagan’s door, he paused and, raising his hand, knocked
lightly on the panel. Then, at her muffled reply, he edged the door open.

She was seated in the middle of the big bed, her voluminous night
rail a gossamer cloud all around her. An angel, she appeared, her face scrubbed
and glowing with health... that glorious dark mane wavy and damp from her bath.

Mother of God, how he longed to bury his face in its cool, sable
mass... to press her back in the soft feather bed and feel those slim, strong
arms come slowly around
him....

Instead he feigned a puzzled look. “Kaintuck?” he said, then made
a show of hesitating. “My pardon, mademoiselle. I must have the wrong room—”

She tossed a pillow at his head, and swore softly when he ducked.
“Missouri jackass. Come in and close the door.”

“I must remember to thank Bessie,” he said approaching the bed.
“She’s done a miraculous job.”

“ ’Twas just a little soap and
water....”
Reagan
countered. “And this
...”
She fingered the sleeve of the night rail, with its deep fall of
Brussels lace. “I don’t know that I’ve ever seen anything half so fine. It sure
was nice of Bessie to lend it to me.”

Jackson merely smiled. “Indeed, but it doesn’t belong to Bessie.
Once, long ago, it belonged to my mother, yet I am sure she would agree that
you do it justice.”

She said nothing to that, but he could see that his words had
pleased her. Watching her toy with her food, as the blush on her cheeks
deepened to a becoming rose hue, Jackson let the silence stretch long between
them. After a while, she raised her gaze again. “Have you eaten? I’ve plenty
enough for two.” Josephine, stretched full-length on the foot of the bed,
nudged Reagan’s bare foot with her nose, a not-so-subtle reminder that she was
present and hungry. Chastened, Reagan added, “And Josephine, too.”

“Thank you, no,” Jackson said. “For some strange reason I seem to
have lost my appetite.”

“Jackson?” she said softly, almost hesitantly.

“Hmmm?”

“I’m sorry about your pa.”

“No sorrier than I,” he said. “I’d come here hoping for a small
retribution, but it would seem the devil has beaten me to it.”

She frowned. “That’s a hard stance to take, considering all that’s
happened.”

“My father is a hard man.”

“I surmised as much.” She pushed the tray aside, close enough for
Josephine to reach, then pinned him with her frank gray gaze. “Was it the truth
you said back there? Was your pa the one who cut your face?”

“Aye.” His reply came hard, a mere whisper of sound, his stomach
clenching on the single syllable. Mother of God, how he dreaded what would come
after. He braced himself for it, yet was at a loss as how to reply to that
single-word inquiry.

“Why?”

Sinking down on the edge of the bed, Jackson reached out and took
her hand, staring down at her slim tan fingers... anything to avoid meeting her
gaze. “It is... complicated. It has to do with my brother Clayton, and his
death. Someday I shall endeavor to explain, just not tonight. The hour is late;
you need your rest.”

She wanted to press him further, Jackson could feel it, yet
something held her back, and he was strangely grateful for it. Torn between the
urge to escape and the deep yearning to linger in her bright presence, he
pressed a kiss upon her hand, then forced himself to rise. At the door she
stopped him. “Jackson?”

“Yes, Reagan?”

“What’d you tell them—your folks and your servants—about how we
met?”

She wanted reassurance, the one thing he could freely give. “Only
that you are my ward, and I am intent upon looking out for your best
interests.”

“You didn’t mention Luther or the auction?”

“No,
cher,”
he said. “Nor will I. Now get some sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
With a last, lingering glance, he stepped into the hallway, closing the door
behind him and allowing the shadows to swallow him up.

Sometime later Jackson stood in the dust and the gloom that
comprised the main warehouse of Broussard Furs. Navarre and the employees who
worked in the old building had long since found their way home, and except for
the ghosts of Jackson’s not-so-distant past, the building was silent and still.

Glancing around at the bales of fur stacked head-high along the
clapboard walls, Jackson wondered what had drawn him to this place, the scene
of his brother’s murder.

Was he looking for peace of mind? Absolution? A tangible link, a
feeling of closeness to the family he had lost, a sense of belonging, perhaps?

If so, then he would not find it here.

“You will not find it anywhere,” he said aloud, “no peace, no
absolution. Not for you. As for family
...”