Elusive Hope (9 page)

Thiago raised his dark brows.

“It would seem that Miss Magnolia has run away.”

Mrs. Scott burst into sobs.

“Apparently with Hayden Gale,” Blake added.

Mr. Scott patted his wife’s back in an attempt to calm the poor woman. “I am not convinced that she went willingly, I tell you! She loathed the scoundrel. Told me so herself on many occasions.”

“But you can vouch this is her handwriting?” James asked, holding up the paper.

Mr. Scott nodded. “No doubt forged under duress.”

“Perhaps,” Blake said with a frown. “Yet I’m having a difficult time believing Hayden would kidnap Magnolia.”

Mrs. Scott lifted moist, red-rimmed eyes. “Surely you remember that this man was a stowaway. He made advances on my precious girl before.”

James tightened his jaw. Accusations that were never proven, but he wouldn’t upset the poor woman further.

Releasing his wife, Mr. Scott thundered forward. “I demand you send out a search party at once.”

Blake raised a hand. “Yet you do not want the lady’s reputation besmirched, do you?”

“Yes, yes, that’s right. Which is why we must tell everyone she has been kidnapped.”

“I will not do that, sir,”Blake said.“I will not ruin a man’s reputation on pure speculation.”

“But you’ll ruin my daughter’s on it?” Mr. Scott raised his voice, his jowls quivering.

“Not speculation…her own words,” James said.

“Preposterous! She would never run away with a man.” Mr. Scott’s face reddened. “She’s a good girl.”

Not a girl at all
, James thought.
A grown woman
. Even if it was the first kind word he’d heard Mr. Scott say about his daughter in all the time he’d known the man. Still, he doubted Hayden had anything to do with this. From what James could tell, the disdain between Hayden and Magnolia was mutual. The more likely scenario was that Magnolia had followed Hayden, hoping to get to Rio to make her escape. In fact, if James knew Hayden, the man was probably dragging her back to New Hope as they spoke.

“That charlatan has taken her. Kidnapped our baby!” Mrs. Scott wailed.

The colonel circled his desk. “Magnolia did not hide her hatred for Brazil or her desire to go home. Is it possible she saw this as her chance to do just that?”

“Alone with that…that rogue? No, no. Not my Magnolia.” Mr. Scott gazed out the window where a breeze brought in the smell of rice cakes and mangos being prepared for breakfast. Yet something in his eyes, a flicker of apprehension, told James the man wasn’t altogether sure of his statement.

“Hayden is no rogue,” James said. “He has more than proven his good character over the past few months. Besides, I agree with Colonel Blake. Until we know the facts, we should stick to what we
do
know.”

“Humph.” Mr. Scott took up a pace across the hut. “Very well, then, at least send Thiago to bring her back.” He waved at the Brazilian guide as if he were a fly on the wall. “He will suffice.”

Blake’s brow furrowed. “But a larger party would cover more territory, find her quicker. Surely that would be better if she is truly in danger.”

Mrs. Scott slumped into a chair and dropped her head into her hands.

“No, I will not see our good name destroyed aga—” Mr. Scott halted midsentence, alarm rolling over his expression. “I will not risk her reputation.”

“Very well.” Colonel Blake faced Thiago. “Are you willing to go after the lady and ensure no foul play is afoot?”

“And bring her home.” Mrs. Scott lifted her tear-filled gaze.

James raised a brow. “Only if she wishes.”

Thiago stuffed hands in his pockets.“I cannot go, senhor. The emperor pays me to stay with colonists. I cannot abandon my work or there will be huge punishment. I will instruct someone else which way to go.”

Blake faced the Scotts. “Will you compensate her rescuer? Offer some incentive?”

Mr. Scott’s gaze skittered over the men in the room before he grabbed the lapels of his coat. “Whoever goes will have my undying gratitude, sir, as well as the satisfaction of saving my daughter’s life.”

James shook his head. Had Mr. Scott’s grief, his desperation, of only a moment ago been merely an act? When the Scotts often bragged of their wealth, were they not willing to part with anything to see their daughter safely home?

Later that morning, James stood before the assembled colonists, open Bible in hand, ready to give the Sunday message—a sermon on love and self-sacrifice, a last-minute change in light of the Scotts’ behavior toward their daughter. While the old carpenter, Mr. Lewis, played his fiddle and led them in the hymn, James tried to shake off the feeling of foreboding that had cloaked him since early that morning—since the middle of the night, in truth. Ever since he’d woken in a chilled sweat from a nightmare he couldn’t remember. He only recalled that it was terrifying and grotesque, and that it had draped a heaviness on him that had been accentuated by Magnolia’s foolish escapades. It was a heaviness he’d felt building ever since they’d arrived in this new land. Like an ominous cloud in the distance drifting ever nearer, blotting out the sun ray by ray by ray.

Gazing across the faces, he caught a glimpse of russet hair glowing like polished mahogany in the morning sun.
Angeline
. He shifted his stance for a better view of the petite woman who always seemed dwarfed by the other colonists. Of course, it didn’t help that she’d sat all the way in the back, though he should be happy she’d accepted his invitation at all. If anything could improve his mood, it would be that charming lady. In fact, all the ladies of New Hope were present, Bibles in hand and faces alight with eager expectation of hearing God’s Word. What a welcome change from the women he’d been accustomed to dealing with back in Knoxville, both in church and out.
As a jewel of gold in a swine’s snout, so is a fair woman which is without discretion
. The verse from Proverbs rose in his mind, reminding him of women he’d known who had lured men to destruction. Who had lured him to destruction. He’d made it his life’s goal not only to avoid such women but to clean the streets of them. Difficult to do in Knoxville, but much easier to accomplish in a new town, in a new utopia based on the Word of God.

Opening his Bible, James began reading from 1 Corinthians 13. He’d been officiating the services ever since Parson Bailey had run off with their money on Dominica. Yet he still felt unequal to the task. Worse, he felt like a hypocrite. He wondered if God looked down on him, shaking His head in disgust that James dared to preach after his many failings on both the battle and mission field.

His voice broke. Clearing his throat, he looked across the crowd. A shadow to the right caught his gaze. Dark mist rose on an empty stump like steam from a cauldron, spinning and curling and thickening until it took the form and shape of a soldier. A corporal, he could tell, from the two stripes on the arm of his coat. He looked familiar. That innocent face. That tawny mop of hair. Yes, James remembered him from a battle—the Seven Days Battle, if he wasn’t mistaken. But the boy had been killed, hadn’t he? Confusion twisted James’s thoughts as he scanned the faces staring at him, waiting for him to continue. He shifted his gaze back to the corporal, who was really just a boy dressed like a soldier. So many of them had been.

A few colonists turned to see what he was looking at. Their brows furrowed and they shook their heads. Clearly they didn’t see the young man.

The boy smiled at James, but his smile slowly faded as his eyes took on a vacant stare. Blood stains pooled on his gray coat, expanding in a circular death march. His uniform tore as if by an invisible blade. The boy’s chest ripped open, riddled with bullets. Sunlight winked off specks of metal embedded in bloody flesh. Still he stared at James, not a shred of emotion on his pale, placid face.

“Why did you let me die, Doctor? Why?”

C
HAPTER
8

H
ayden poked the fire, urging the flames to rise, then threw another log on the embers. If he kept the coals hot enough and sat close enough, the mosquitoes kept their distance. There was a price, however—the sensation of roasting like a pig on a spit. Being eaten alive or roasted alive. Great choice. Something pricked the back of his neck. Swatting the offending insect, he eased up the collar of his coat, which only enhanced his discomfort. But at least his arms and chest were covered. More importantly, at least he suffered alone.

Retrieving a long strip of carne secca from his pocket, he shoved it into his mouth and tore off a bite as his thoughts drifted to Magnolia. He grinned. The audacity of that woman following him into the jungle! A bold move for the primped lady. She must have been desperate, indeed, to venture into such dangerous terrain without being assured of protection and proper escort. Desperate or stupid. Or brave. No matter. She could be whatever she wished as long as she did it somewhere else.

As tempting a morsel as she was, Hayden didn’t need the extra trouble of forging through the jungle with a prima donna in tow, nor the trouble he would have facing her parents if he ever returned to camp. No doubt they would place the blame on him for their daughter’s disappearance. Though he did feel a slight twinge of guilt for leaving her alone. He probably should have escorted her back to New Hope, but she’d been so close to town, and he’d wasted enough time in his life on empty-headed harridans.

He bit off another chunk of dried pork, savoring the spicy flavor. He’d only brought enough for two days. After that, he hoped fruit and small critters would suffice to keep him going until he arrived in Rio, where he was sure he could
convince
someone to offer him a meal or two and a change of clothes. Then he would proceed with his business—questioning the immigration officer about his father’s whereabouts. If the man had changed locations, he would have to report his whereabouts to the proper authorities. Though the land was cheap at only twenty-two cents an acre, the Emperor certainly couldn’t have immigrants swarming around, settling wherever they wished and on whatever sized plots they wished.

Reaching into his waistcoat pocket, Hayden pulled out a small leather-bound tintype. Flipping the latch with his thumb, he opened it and held it to the firelight, studying the photograph he’d stared at a thousand times. He’d memorized every feature of the man: his black hair, slicked back and curled at his collar; the cultured whiskers that covered his angular jaw; his gray satin waistcoat; the sparkling gem pinned to his tight cravat; the chain dangling from his pocket; the round-brimmed hat in one hand while the other rested arrogantly on his waist. But it was the man’s eyes that drew Hayden. Always his eyes. Even in the fading picture, Hayden detected the smug gleam of a swindler.

Like father, like son.

The fire crackled and spit. Sparks danced like fireflies into the darkness. Around him, the jungle played a nightly orchestra that was so different from its daytime melody. More peaceful, secretive, almost sinister. Not a breeze stirred the leaves. Sweat dotted his forehead. A distant growl set his hairs on end. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t come near the fire. He was safe for now. A twig snapped. Leaves rustled. Closing the tintype, he dropped it back into his pocket, grabbed his pistol, cocked it, and scanned the darkness as memories of his vision of Katherine Henley knotted his nerves.

Crackles that didn’t come from the fire sizzled in the air, or was it merely the sound of crickets? Movement caught Hayden’s eye. He slowly rose. Sweat slid down his back. A man formed out of the darkness, tall with stylish dark hair and cultured sideburns. Green eyes flashed at Hayden, followed by the hint of a sardonic smile.

Hayden’s breath fled his lungs.

Father?

A woman shrieked, drawing his gaze. When he looked back, the man was gone.

Another scream.

Plucking a burning stick from the fire, Hayden darted into the brush, sweeping the torch before him, pistol at the ready. Something moved in the shrubbery. He leveled his weapon and thrust the flame forward to keep the creature at bay. A piece of torn lace flashed in his view. A glimmer of blond hair. His heart stopped.
Please, not another vision
. Another vision would only mean one thing—that he’d gone completely and utterly mad.

The lady whimpered. One hand emerged from the bush and flattened onto the dirt, followed by another. Then a face pushed through the leaves as terrified eyes glanced upward. Hayden swept the torch aside but before he took another step, the woman leapt to her feet and barreled into his chest.

“Oh, thank God, it’s you, Hayden.” Her breathless words escaped with a groan. “There were bats! Bats everywhere! Diving at me, attacking me! Trying to bite me and drain my blood.”

Hayden couldn’t help but chuckle as he braced one arm around the trembling lady.

“It was horrible! Just horrible! I thought they were…”—her grip on him loosened—“I thought I was…”—her voice faded—“done for.” She went limp in his arms.

“Dash it!” Tossing the torch into a puddle, Hayden grabbed her before she fell. “Magnolia!” Her name shot from his lips with the hissing of the flame. Yes, it was her. He knew by the soft feel of her skin, the embellished hysterics in her voice. But not by her smell. The scent that filled his nose was most definitely not sweet citrus and cedar.

Releasing the hammer on his gun, he shoved it into his belt and hoisted her into his arms. Anger simmered the food in his gut. Anger followed by concern, for she felt as light as cotton and just as weak. A dozen thoughts peppered his conscience. Was she injured? Had an animal bitten her? Had she encountered a poisonous snake or frog? He laid her down by the fire, tore off his coat, bunched it up, and placed it beneath her head. Whatever contraption women wore beneath their gowns made her skirts flare up like a balloon. Even so, with all her petticoats, he couldn’t find her legs to inspect them for injuries. Not that he should be looking at her legs. Still, she bore no marks or bruises on her face, neck, and arms except scrapes from traversing the jungle and bites from insects. He poured water on his handkerchief and dabbed her face. She moaned. Ebony lashes fluttered over pearly cheeks.