Bride of the Shining Mountains (The St. Claire Men) (5 page)

Her captors hauled her roughly to center stage while she struggled
and kicked, catching one of the young men square on the shin with the toe of
one oversize boot. The injured one yelped in pain, retaliating with a vicious
shove that sent her reeling from the other one’s grasp. Suddenly freed, she
rounded on the pair, making a dive for the one who had pushed her, her shoulder
catching him in the belly, knocking him off his feet. Then, agile as a
squirrel, she was up in an instant, straddling her captor’s midsection, raining
blows about his head and ears. “Putrefied polecat!” she screeched. “That’ll
teach you to try and truss me up like a fowl ready for market!”

All around Jackson the crowd went wild with her show of spirit;
Jackson went deathly still. This couldn’t be happening. They couldn’t be
dragging her out on the platform to sell her... though his rational mind
reasoned that it happened to Indian women all the time. Captives stolen in
raids were sold each year at rendezvous for a few jugs of whiskey—but a white
woman? It must be some sort of bizarre joke.

The auctioneer did laugh, albeit a trifle nervously, as she was
caught and pinned again. “As you gentlemen can judge for yourself, Miss Dawes
is a bit rough around the edges and the smallest bit reluctant to wed. Her
stepfather assures me, however, that with a little patience she’ll soon warm to
the idea of having a helpmate. Now, shall we begin?”

Several hoary specimens immediately launched into the bidding.
Twenty beaver skins, twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five. The price, given the
scarcity of white women here in the mountains, and coupled with her recent show
of spirit, went soaring in no time. Jackson watched, his belly burning, as Abe
McFarland offered ten prime beaver pelts, the equivalent of about fifty
dollars, just to ascertain if the one being sold were truly female. Laughter
rippled through the gathering, but Jackson knew from past experience that Crazy
Abe wasn’t making idle sport.

Abe had worked for Broussard Furs some years before, until a girl
at Kate Flannigan’s brothel had refused to service him. In a fit of maniacal
rage, Abe had drawn his scalping knife and proceeded to carve his initials into
the ample bosom of his unfortunate victim. He’d just formed the crosspiece on
the
A
when the girl’s screams brought Jackson running. A half hour
later, the sheriff had carted what was left of Crazy Abe off to the jailhouse.
The incident had cost Abe his job; Jackson had seen to it, and he had taken
great pleasure in delivering the unwelcome news.

Beside Jackson, G. D. Strickland had lost his whiskey glow, and
even Tom Bridger’s ruddy cheeks bore a sickly hue. “Jesus H. Christ,”
Strickland said. “You don’t suppose they’d sell that stripling gal to Crazy
Abe?”

Bridger turned his head and spat, then wiped his mouth on the
sleeve of his hunting shirt. “Does give a body pause to think, now, don’t it? I
hear tell old Abe run outta supplies in the winter of twenty-six and et his
last wife. Little Bird, she was called, and a real fine looker, too.”

“Merciful God in heaven,” Jackson ground out. He couldn’t seem to
get the girl from Kate’s place out of his mind. Abe had branded the pock-faced
little prostitute for life for spurning his advances. What might he do to the
chit onstage once she set up a full-fledged rebellion?

Irrational thoughts were
fling
in
g
themselves about his brain, finding
fertile soil in his sudden remorse, taking deep root. Though he argued hard
against it, deep down he knew that he’d been wrong. He was every bit as
responsible for her predicament as the nervous clods who held her onstage, and
it was a responsibility that he could not shun, no matter how much he wished it
were otherwise. If only he’d bided his time, thought it all through, tried to
ferret out the truth before turning her out into the night.

Beside him, G. D. was concurring with Bridger. “It does seem that
I recall hearin’ about such an incident. Word came from Abe’s trapping partner,
Albert Sally. They had a fallin’ out over the affair. Sally swore he’d never
seen such blatant cruelty. He never did have nothin’ more to do with Abe after
that. Don’t you recall it, Boss?”

Jackson barely heard G. D. Those hated words,
her
words, screamed in his brain:
Take me with you . . . please!
He’d
wondered what had possessed her, to seek out the company of a stranger.

And now he knew.

Sheer desperation. She’d seen an opportunity to escape, and she’d
seized it with both hands. Caught up in his own difficulties, he’d callously
knocked those grasping, desperate, dainty hands away.

“Seek-Um?” Strickland said, grasping Jackson’s shoulder.

Jackson pushed G. D. off as Abe McFarland knocked a third and
final opponent out of the bidding. “Two hundred beaver skins.”

The auctioneer, sweating profusely, paused to mop his brow with a
wrinkled kerchief. “That’s a small fortune in furs, sir. Is anyone willing to
best this man’s bid? Two hundred once, two hundred twice—”

“Twenty-five hundred dollars in hard currency!” The crowd had been
silent, waiting for the outcome of the auction; now, as Jackson leaped to the
platform, a ripple of sound, like an uneasy murmur, moved through it.

The girl’s twin captors stared openly at Jackson, their jaws
hanging slack. The auctioneer stared, too, but quickly collected himself,
clearing his throat. “Did I hear you right, sir? Did you issue the bid—”

“Twenty-five hundred dollars for the girl,” Jackson reaffirmed.
“That’s more than double the highest bid, and since I doubt there is a man
among you able to best that figure, this proceeding is over.”

The auctioneer grimaced, showing a missing tooth in front, and
looking uncomfortable. “It cannot be over until I see the cash money, sir.
That’s the rule, you understand.”

“Do you know who I am?” Jackson demanded, looking hard at the
smaller man, smiling when the auctioneer swallowed convulsively and looked
away, unable to stand firm beneath the weight of his stare.

The man swallowed convulsively. “Aye, sir. Everyone ’round here
knows who you are.”

“Then you know that you’ll get your money,” Jackson said. “Now,
kindly stand aside. It’s my habit to review the state of my goods before
signing a bill of sale.” Ignoring the two who continued to hold the girl,
Jackson halted before her. “Open your mouth,” he said softly.

“Go to hell,” she whispered hoarsely, outrage blossoming in her
soft gray eyes.

Jackson smiled at her venom. “You’re somewhat worse for wear than
the last time I clapped eyes on you, yet it’s clear they did not break your
spirit. Let’s see about the rest of you.” Reaching out, Jackson caught her chin
with his strong fingers, turning her face aside. A purple bruise marred the
lovely turn of her jaw beneath the glaze of mud, yet other than that, nothing
seemed broken, at least on the outside. “Your mouth,” he said again. “Open it.”

“I ain’t no horse, damn you!”

“Her teeth are sound, mister,” one lad said.

“Sound enough to take a chunk from any man fool enough to venture
near,” added the other.

“No aches, no pains?” Jackson asked her. “No broken bones?”

“I’m right as rain,” she said, her voice breaking on the last
syllable. She sniffed, glaring defiantly up at him. “You satisfied?”

“For now,” Jackson said quietly. The auctioneer had come to hover
near his elbow, accompanied by a thin-shanked individual with the same
slack-jawed look as the pair that held the girl, and a smaller man standing
well back, barely glimpsed. Jackson dismissed the others, addressing the
dull-looking bookends instead. “Release her.”

“Hold there a moment,” the first newcomer said. “I would not be
fool enough to let her go until you’re legally bound, husband and wife.”

“Husband?” Jackson said. “You must be out of your head. I’ve bought
the twit. I’m not about to wed her.”

“But, sir,” the auctioneer interjected. “It’s part of the bargain.
A marriage ceremony is to follow the proceedings, with the Reverend Eckland
presiding.”

“You may stuff your marriage ceremony and the Reverend Eckland
right up your ass—” Jackson began, only to have the good reverend step forward
to confront him.

He was a foot shorter than Jackson, and had to tip his head fully
back to meet Jackson’s gaze. “You would purchase this poor misbegotten
creature, then, force her to live with you in sin? Sir, I am outraged.”

“Outraged, are you?” Jackson said with quiet menace. “Tell me,
then, just to satisfy my curiosity, were you a party to this arrangement? This
farce?”

“Why—er--an unwilling participant, yes.”

“Then you admit that you conspired with these men to sell this
‘misbegotten creature’ into a life of sexual slavery, against her will, and you
dare
to take me to task for my lack of saintly attributes?” He quieted
his tone and stalked toward the smaller man, towering over him, forcing him to
step back or be trampled on. “For all your holy posturings, the girl would fare
better in my tender care should I decide to make her my concubine than she has
under your so-called protection! Now get you gone from my sight, before I smite
you where you stand!”

At once, the reverend fled, the auctioneer stepped back, and the
boys released Reagan, sidling away to a safe distance, leaving Luther to stand
defiant beneath her owner’s wrath, while Reagan looked nervously on.

“You would talk to a man of God in sich unseemly fashion?” Luther
cried. “By all that’s holy, it shall not stand. I shall not give the chit into
the care of an ungodly man who scorns the sanctity of marriage!” He turned to
the auctioneer. “I refuse his bid, and accept the other with the bales of fur!”

“Luther, please, no!” Reagan cried, biting her lip as Jackson’s
green eyes sought and clashed with hers. There was an unholy power in his gaze,
an intense bright glow that both frightened and compelled her. As she watched,
terrified that he would abandon her to that stinking, bearded mountain of
flesh, she saw him smile. It was an odd curling of one corner of his mouth; the
ruined corner remained fixed, immobile, and there was not an ounce of warmth to
be found in the expression. She stared, transfixed.

“Do that,” he told Luther. “I buy the furs here. Deny my bid and I
swear that you will not get a penny on the pound.”

“He cannot do sich,” Luther said, scowling at the auctioneer. “Can
he?”

“I fear he can,” the auctioneer said. “Mr. Broussard’s family
holds much sway here.”

Luther swallowed hard, and Reagan held her breath, well aware that
Luther’s pride was warring with his avarice. “Very well, then; you’ll have your
way, but I hope your conscience hurts you. Reagan, girl,” he said, turning away
from Jackson Broussard, offering his gnarled hand to her, “I done my best.”
Reagan turned her face away.

“Come,” Luther said, “don’t be that way. We’re kith and kin.”

“You ain’t no kin of mine,” Reagan said in a snarl, still deeply wounded
by his betrayal. “My true papa would have killed you before he let you sell me
to a stranger.” She saw Luther’s face flush dark, and feared that he might
strike her.

In that critical moment, Jackson stepped up to shield her.
“Gabriel Strickland is the quartermaster for Broussard Furs. Tell him I sent
you, and he’ll see that you get your blood money.”

Luther stood a moment, his blue eyes flashing as he glanced from
Reagan to the six-feet-two-inches of pure, unadulterated malice standing
stalwartly between them. Then, his shoulders slumping, he turned, leaving the
dais, the twins trailing after.

“Traitorous skunks,” Reagan said, barely loud enough for anyone
else to hear. “I hope you fall down a hole somewhere and rot.” Tears pricked
her eyes as the darkness swallowed the trio up. She made a valiant attempt to
fight them back. She wouldn’t cry. She would not waste a single tear upon them!
Yet, when she rubbed her cheek with the heel of her hand, her hand came away
wet.

Standing beside her, ominous in his silence, looking windblown
and fierce, Jackson Broussard laid a hand on her shoulder, doubtless an attempt
to comfort her. Yet Reagan’s nerves, stretched to their limits, could endure no
softness, no sympathy of any kind, most especially from him. “Keep your paws to
your own self, damn it! I ain’t no prize goat to be poked and prodded at whim!”