Christie (12 page)

"Father, please let—"

"Nay, daughter, let me finish. As I was saying, Garrett, Christie, being the willful creature she is, would never take our word for it that the horse was not to be ridden, and the first thing we'd know, she'd

be out to' prove us wrong, looking to break her sweet neck in the bargain! Her very life would then be in jeopardy, and that, sir, is a risk I'll never take. No, Garrett, I must decline the offer. I'm sorry."

Beginning to wonder why her presence was even thought necessary in the first place, Christie's temper began to rise. She had been sitting, dutifully quiet for some time now, letting them talk as if she weren't even there, so when, at last, the opportunity came to speak, she jumped in impetuously.

"Father, I thought you wanted my opinion in this decision, but you haven't even asked me how I feel."

"Christie, that was before I fully recognized the danger you might be placed in—"

"Fiddlesticks!" Christie rose from her chair. "You know I'm the best rider around—man or woman. There isn't a horse born I can't ride! How can you sit there and doubt my ability to handle a horse?"

Her eyes glittered with green fire.

"And when I think that it's not just any horse you're talking about, but Thunder! Why, I've been riding him for six years! And didn't people say, before you bought him for me, that I'd never be able to manage a stallion? So how can you be doubting my horsemanship now?"

Garrett's eyes moved appreciatively over her slender figure as she spoke. "What a little wildcat," he thought "She's more than ever in need of taming. I wonder what color her eyes would take on in passion—lying willingly in bed—" He deliberately shut off this thought with a sharp self-reprimand. "Fool! Remember, the last thing you need right now is a romantic involvement with a fire-spitting virgin! That could only spell trouble, old man."

Aloud, he said, "You puzzle me, Christie. I wouldn't have thought you'd even be for the arrangement, and yet, here you are, arguing against the only objection your father has to it. What's your interest in the matter?"

"My reasons, Garrett, are two. First, there's curiosity about the exciting possibilities that exist if a horse with Thunder's qualities were to be properly used in the right breeding program. I know the other horses you've purchased. Those mares in the east pasture represent the best that years of carefully controlled breeding could produce. You have a good eye. But you're right. All the finely blooded mares in the world won't be worth an English farthing without the right stud to service them. And I believe Thunder could be that stud.

"Secondly,"—here she took a deep breath, causing her breasts to rise slowly; and the effect was not lost on Garrett—"there's the offense I take at having my equestrian abilities doubted. Father, how
can
you question my competence? Don't you have
any
faith in what I can do?"

But Charles was not to be persuaded. Although it had been easy for Christie to cajole and plead successfully many times in the past, almost always maneuvering him into acceptance of her wishes, this time she was destined to fail. It was one thing for him to capitulate in the unobserved quiet of their private discussions. But here they were in the company of two men whose opinions he valued, and Charles was stubborn. He could not afford to have his parental authority questioned under such circumstances! Adamantly, he cleared his throat and spoke. "Daughter, you know I love you and have rarely denied you

anything, but on this matter I must insist you bow to my wishes—"

"But—"

"My mind's made up. I will hear no more on the matter. Your safety means more to me than all the breeding programs in this world or the next! The discussion is over."

Now, Christie had had differences with her father before, but there had seldom been the tone in his voice she recognized now. It was to her credit that she knew when she was beaten and, wisely, she decided to hold her tongue. Flushing with controlled anger, she spoke in the softest whisper, with only the barest quiver of her lower lip giving evidence of the helpless frustration she felt.

"Very well, Father. Then I must ask to be excused. Good day, gentlemen."

And turning sharply on her heel, she lifted her skirts and sailed into the house.

Garrett was thoughtful as he rode quietly down the trail that led from the main drive of Windreach. All in all, it had been a successful trip. He would have liked to make contact on the gray, but the mares were excellent and, he felt sure, there would still be time, before they were transported to Riverlea, for him to find a satisfactory stud with strong Arabian bloodlines. He must speak to Jesse about the black upriver he'd heard about.

Then he found his thoughts taking a different path. Turquoise eyes spewing angry green sparks suddenly flashed before him. What was there about that blonde minx he couldn't so readily forget? Why, she wasn't even a woman yet. Half-child, half-wild

thing, more likely. And untried females were something he could do without! Moreover, he had studiously avoided their kind whenever his adventures had cast him in contact with the softer sex. He'd have none of their weeping wiles, artfully ployed to trap an unsuspecting male into one thing—marriage! No, give him an experienced woman who didn't play games any time!

He chuckled softly to himself as he remembered a certain young red-headed widow he'd known in Charleston. With a fair wind, the
Marianne
might make good time back to that port and he still remembered where the lady lived. ... He could use a day—or night—spent in such recreation before setting off on the serious business of—

Once again his mind drifted. He would stop by the offices of Lewis and Carlisle while in Charleston. James Carlisle had been his father's attorney for years, and, subsequently, his and Jesse's. Perhaps the old man would have some news on the matter most important to him. Not that he'd been able to turn up much in recent years.

Garrett knew the deed couldn't have been perpetrated by Indians. He and Jesse had spent their boyhoods in the company of the Indian boy named Laughing Bear, son of a Cherokee chief called Long Arrow. They had become good friends, and even now, the three spent time together, usually when the two white men could spare enough time away from the obligations of their plantation to hunt and fish for a while.

He thought of the hunting trip, spent in Long Arrow's territory, that had kept him and Jesse away during the massacre. Following the funeral, he had
gone to see Laughing Bear and his father to determine what light they might shed on the tragedy, and both Long Arrow and his son had dismissed the idea of Indian attackers immediately. Indians, even renegades, they had pointed out, would never have scattered the livestock the way these attackers had. They would have taken them with them—or at least some of them. Every last one of the Randall animals had been found, untouched. No, this had not been Indian work.

Moreover, the chief had sent some of his own scouts to find out what news might be had of any renegade activity—from their own people or other tribes in the territory nearby—and the word had come back that there were no such raiding parties operating anywhere even remotely near their part of the country at that time. Satisfied that his friends' assessment was accurate, Garrett had returned with a different plan for tracking down the guilty.

He had gone directly from the Indian camp to James Carlisle, mindless of the fact that at the time he arrived, it was well after office hours and Carlisle would be taking supper at home. Leaving Jesse to tend to their horses, Garrett had stormed into Carlisle's house, demanding they talk, and the older man, after a reassuring word to Mistress Carlisle that the visitor, although young and impatient, was not unwelcome, had agreed. Thus it had been that Garrett had enlisted the attorney's help in delving into his search, beginning with a decision to look for possible motives.

It had been quickly determined that Jeremy Randall had been well liked by all who knew him well, with not a personal enemy in the world, so that
the possibilities of personal enmity being at the root of the bloodletting were remote. That had left business.

Unfortunately, the beautiful mahogany Chippendale block-front desk Jeremy had had made and shipped from Philadelphia, and in which he had stored all his business papers, had been destroyed in the fire, and Carlisle could only account for some of the dealings those records might have told. But he had agreed to provide Garrett with the services of several men, handpicked and trustworthy, whom they would employ as detectives in the matter, hoping that somewhere they might come up with a clue, or better yet, hard evidence.

And over the years, some information had come to light from these efforts. About a month prior to his death, Jeremy Randall had sold his entire tobacco crop—a particularly fine one that year—to one William Harper, a factor for a small company based in New York. There was nothing unusual in this, but upon being questioned by Carlisle's man, Harper had mentioned an unusual conversation he had had with Jeremy on the day the cargo was loaded and the final papers signed. Jeremy had told Harper, laughingly, that he was lucky to have had his bid accepted as early as it was, for if there had been any delay, a far more profitable deal could have been made, and that it had been his "damnable honor," as Jeremy had put it, which had gotten in the way. Harper's understanding of what Jeremy's words implied had been that someone else had offered a great deal more money for the same crop, but that Jeremy had given his word to Harper and their oral agreement had precluded his acceptance of the later, more generous offer.

"It is conceivable," Carlisle had explained, "that whoever the party was who had seen fit to offer such huge sums for your father's tobacco—for Harper's price had been more than fair—had stood to gain a great deal by way of making the deal with Jeremy, and, conversely, stood to lose just as much by not gaining it. I say we concentrate our efforts on finding out who that person was."

But determining the objective of a search is far easier than securing it, and although, through the years, a great deal of time and money had been spent in locating the unknown factor or merchant who had made the unusually attractive offer for Jeremy's tobacco crop, no solid clues to his identity were to be found.

In the years intervening, Garrett had become convinced their efforts were bent in the right direction. Numerous circumstantial clues pointed the way.

A transfer agent had been located who swore Jeremy had been unduly upset when making the arrangements to send his cargo to Harper's client. The man had distinctly heard Jeremy mutter words to the effect that he'd never seen a man so upset at having an offer rejected—it had been
thrice
Harper's bid. Jeremy had mentioned wishing he had been able to accept, and that the factor had been in a "murderous mood" when Jeremy had explained it was a "matter of honor."

Nora Winston, Marianne's lady's maid, had been to see her sister the week before she and the others at Riverlea were killed, and she had told the sister how she had heard the mistress spending over an hour one evening telling her husband who fine and noble he
was to have placed his honor above financial gain, assuring him that he could ignore the threats of the disappointed factor, for they would surely come to nought and that his honor rightfully took precedence over anything else.

Now, as he meandered slowly down the trail that led toward Fredericksburg, Garrett pondered these few scraps of evidence he had to go on. If only he could find out who the unknown factor was. He wondered if a trip to New York might be in order. Harper's client, if Carlisle's agents were correct, still operated out of that port. Perhaps talking to them directly could shed some light on what kind of business climate had prevailed at that time, twenty years ago, to make a competitor so anxious to steal a contract from them that he would be willing to triple their already generous offer.

It was a route connected with his present course that he hadn't considered before. It might be worth the trip. Even if it led to a dead end, he would have
done
something—although he knew in his unspoken mind that the present direction of his search
had
to turn up something positive, for if it led nowhere, the chances of finding any new trails to follow were slim, indeed. And, as a drowning man reaches desperately for a floating piece of timber he knows might not even support him, he clung to the hope that this choice was the right one.

Garrett ambled down the riverfront street leading to the wharf where he'd left the
Marianne
and spotted her main mast standing tall in the afternoon sunshine, well before he caught sight of the immaculate hull he knew his crew kept as spotlessly clean and gleaming as the decks themselves. The
mere sight of it made him eager to be under way, and he increased his pace in anticipation.

It was with a state of recognition that he noticed, down an alleyway across from where the ship was anchored, a large gray stallion being held, not without a little difficulty, by a small black boy of about eight or nine.

"You, boy. Where'd you come by that horse?"

"De lady done tol' me t' watch 'im, suh. She gib li'l Jasper a whole gol' piece and says ah's gotta watch 'im till she come back off'n dat ship. An ah's doin' it, suh; but dis hoss, he pow'rful jumpy."

The big horse then proceeded to demonstrate just how jumpy he could be, threatening to pull away from the boy's grasp entirely, as Garrett reached out and grasped the tether.

"Easy, boy, easy, Thunder. That's a good fella." As Thunder began to calm under his gentling hands, Garrett addressed the boy.