Runaway (13 page)

“What fine advice,” Clive murmured, staring at Eastwood. Eastwood really was a wretched little man. His eyes were beady. He was sweaty, fat. Smelly. A lowlife.

“For the right amount of money I can find McKenzie! It may take some time and expenses—he is sailing back to Florida,” Eastwood said. “I know about him,” the man boasted. “Where to find him!”

“I imagine I can find him as well,” Clive said. Eastwood was actually revolting. His teeth were rotten; absolute greed had replaced the hint of fear in his eyes. Clive shuddered, repulsed, hating the obnoxious little man whose money-hungry ways had already cost him the girl tonight.

Clive smiled and tapped his cane upon the floorboards with a single hard strike. A small, razor-sharp blade suddenly protruded from the tip of it. Without exerting more than a modicum of energy Clive Carter suddenly lifted and swung the cane.

Eastwood threw his hands to his throat. The blood that suddenly spewed from his jugular vein flowed and bubbled between his fingers. Still staring at Clive in amazement, he keeled over, dead almost instantly.

Clive looked to his man. “Drop this refuse in the river. See that a rumor is started that the girl returned and did him in before running away again.”

His man did as bidden, collecting the body in an expert manner that didn’t allow the blood to run upon the floorboards.

The muddy Mississippi had claimed many another poor soul; it would take Eastwood now, and throw him up elsewhere later.

No one would take much heed, Clive thought dismissively. Men like Eastwood died almost daily along the river docks, the whorehouses, and the gambling establishments.
Sometimes, Clive thought, life could be so cheap.

Eastwood had deserved to die.

Oddly enough, so had Julian Carter.

But then, some things had to be planned so much more meticulously than others.

He still felt the burning within him. The fury that she had managed to elude him so far. What ate away inside him was to realize that she’d been willing to sell to anyone rather than accept all that he’d had to offer.

He had to be very careful now. He couldn’t talk about the law; he had to have the law. He had to move slowly and carefully this time.

He sat down again, drumming his fingers on one of Eastwood’s tables. She’d not have told this man the truth. She’d have seduced him into aiding an escape of some kind. Clive would have to plan carefully to get her back. Very carefully. He would not be coming to persecute her, but to defend her. And he would do so because …

He smiled slowly.

Clive knew he would need the proper papers, of course. But then, anything could be bought.

Almost anything at all.

He’d play it on her terms.

But he’d find her. Find her and drag her back. And he didn’t care if he had to go to Florida or hell itself to do it.

Actually, from all that he had heard, they were probably one and the same.

J
arrett didn’t awake himself the following morning until an annoying tap upon his door finally entered into his sleep-numbed mind. He arose, discovered his naked body, swept up his sheet—then remembered that he was leaving a naked wife behind him. He scowled, threw the covers quickly upon her, and drew on his breeches. The knocking continued.

He threw open the door to the cabin and found Robert waiting. His friend wasn’t at all apologetic but leaned against the door frame, studying his nails. “Sorry to disturb you,
Captain
, but your crew are awaiting a few orders.” He tried to look over Jarrett’s shoulder into the cabin. “Well?” he whispered.

“Well?” Jarrett responded blandly.

Robert grinned. “How’s your bride?”

“Sleeping. When she awakens, you must ask her yourself. And if she’s unhappy, remember, it will be your fault.”

“My fault?” Robert demanded indignantly.

“This marriage was your idea.”

“Right! So you behave like a brute, and it’s my fault.”

“I behave like a brute?” Jarrett demanded irritably.

Robert shrugged. “Well, the poor thing is passed out in your cabin.”

Jarrett gritted his teeth and Robert laughed, quickly stepping out of the way. “My captain, my captain! You’re needed. And since I’m fond of my features remaining in the order I was born with, I’ll quickly leave you, and say no more! But the men are wondering about your orders for the voyage home, sir!” With a smart salute he turned about to leave. Jarrett closed the door and walked back into his cabin. His wife was out. She slept so very still, barely breathing. He paused, taking a moment to watch her, and realized again that he had not known her just the day before. It seemed amazing. He was married. And whatever truths she was keeping from him, she had held to her part of the bargain last night. Perhaps more than he had even imagined, for he had not thought to feel this morning as if slender golden chains were slipping around him. He had definitely meant to have her—that from the start. Yet he had not expected that he …

That he what?

Her lashes were long and thick and luxurious over her cheeks this morning. Her hair still reminded him of skeins of gold. Her flesh was ivory, her shape exquisite. But he had known all that as well. He had just imagined something different.

His ship was sleek and fine, and he loved to sail it, but he could walk away from it, and not miss it. He was deeply fond of his horse as well, rode hard and frequently, and yet could walk away from it too.

And with Lisa gone, once Robert’s suggestion had been made, he had, perhaps, thought of a wife in the same light. Something to have, to use, to set aside, to care for and tend, and yet …

Walk away from. Forget.

He leaned hard upon the cabin door frame for a second, mocking himself. Wives were living women, not ships. Nor beasts of burden. Yet that was what he had
wanted, what he had expected. To have her, aye, use her well, carefully tend her—walk away. And he hadn’t even known quite what he had wanted until he had realized it was not what he had gotten. He was entangled in that golden hair. Now that he had awakened after such an evening, he was still convinced that she was, indeed, priceless.

And that he was going to pay the price. He had certainly never expected the emotions she had wrung from him, and he felt oddly defensive and displeased. He was no longer willing to play her game. He wanted more from her. More than what she had given. He wanted what she held away from him, all the truth of who and what she was. He had promised not to demand it.

His shoulders squared and his back stiffened as he strode to the foot of the bunk and studied her anew. He yearned to wake her, to hold her again. To inspect her from head to toe, touch her … have her, feel that he could somehow demand in such a way what she remained unwilling to give. But he wouldn’t wake her, not now. And he swore beneath his breath, for he had promised not to make demands.

But neither would he give her any of himself, he determined. Any of his past.

Thus decided, he turned his eyes from the tangle of hair that covered her throat and breasts, and swore again as he dressed. He went to the helm and found Robert at the wheel, and discovered, to his surprise, that he might well be needed, for the sun clearly showed him that he had slept through the morning and into the afternoon. Even as he approached the wheel, Leo strode up behind him with a steaming cup of hot coffee.

“We didn’t know which way y’had in mind of traveling, Captain!” Leo told him, offering the cup.

“Winds have been low, we’re just off the coast of
Pensacola now,” Robert told him. “Did you want to stop?”

Jarrett hesitated a moment and then shook his head. They’d come into New Orleans for Christmas Day, and it was already January second. He realized that he’d taken a wife on the first day of the year. He didn’t know if that meant anything or not, but it was certainly one different way to start the year, meeting and marrying a woman all in one on January first.

He might have wanted to stop at Pensacola just to see what news was brewing within the territory, but he was anxious to get home. The situation was often tense down by the plantations just north and south of the Hillsborough River. He didn’t like to be gone long. Things could change so quickly.

He hadn’t been happy about the state of politics when he had left home. He was worried that men hadn’t been paying attention to what was going on.

The territory was beginning to boom, and much of the present trouble dated back many years.

When the fledgling young American country had begun having trouble with the British again and the War of 1812 had broken out, both sides had used the Indians to fight with them as allies. During that war, with those divisions creating some of the havoc, the Creek War of ’13–’14 had broken out, and many of the Indian survivors had then moved south to become “Seminoles”—the Upper Creeks, because their lands had been decimated, and the Lower Creeks, because even though they had fought on the side of the Americans, they had returned from their fighting to discover that their lands, too, had been taken over. Trouble had of course arisen again in Florida, still Spanish territory at the time. That hadn’t bothered the Americans. They’d come in with their accusations that the Spanish had no control over
marauding Indians and British spies. Andrew Jackson had already fought the Creeks, and had given the people a spectacular victory at the Battle of New Orleans—even if the war had been officially over at the time, none of the combatants had known it. Jackson had then come south to settle the problems in Florida provoking a Seminole war. Indians who had fought against one another just years before now became allies. Just as those who had earlier fought side by side now became enemies. But in the end, in the north of the territory, the Seminoles were subdued. Many moved deeper into their hammocks. Some pressed southward into the peninsula. Then events had happened quickly. Spain had finally ceded Florida to America for concessions in return. Jackson had become the first military governor of the new territory, though he had not stayed a full year. And the Indian question had finally led to the Treaty of Moultrie Creek, where the Indians had been granted the right to certain lands, with a twenty-year promise to go with those rights. Nine years were still guaranteed by that treaty. But the Indians and whites had come too close. Despite the fact that the land was wild, much of it marsh, some of it swamp, great vast tracts of it wilderness, some of it was good. Excellent land for raising cattle, for growing sugarcane, for that good southern staple, cotton. Everyone wanted the good land. Men came to make their fortunes; Florida was American now. With a great deal of backbone and a little bit of money, a man could homestead. Poor men could create small heavens. Richer men could create vast estates. That was being done. In the meantime the whites wanted more of the Indian lands. The Indians began to hate their boundaries. The Indians accused the whites of encroaching upon Indian lands, the whites accused the Indians of
stealing cattle and raiding their plantations for farm animals and supplies.

Sometimes relations between whites and Seminoles were good. Seminoles traded their furs and pelts for white goods. Earlier on they had traded for liquor, trinkets, and cloth.

They had ceased to trade for liquor recently. Jarrett knew both the Indians and the traders. The Indians had been trading for some very particular commodities—bullets, rifles, and gunpowder.

Jarrett knew many of the chiefs, and he knew the Seminole society better, he thought sometimes, than he knew his own. There were not just different language groups in the territory, there were many different bands within those groups. There were dozens of clans. Each clan had its own leaders, just as each band had its own chief. Obedience to a higher power was voluntary. When war was called upon by one chief, the message was sent out to other bands. Sticks were collected from each warrior who was willing to fight a certain battle. The name “Red Sticks” had been given to the hostile Creeks of earlier wars because of the sticks collected from warriors and then used at times to shake at the enemy during battle. Because each chief was virtually free to act on his own, small skirmishes could erupt at any time. But because so many Indians had been trading for so much gunpowder, the situation didn’t look good.

Jarrett was still uneasy about his meeting with Osceola as well. The Indian agent, Wiley Thompson, should have known that even among themselves, within their own law, Seminoles did not chain one another. It was the greatest humiliation. Crimes among the Seminoles were settled at the Green Corn Dance each year. Horrible crimes sometimes demanded the death penalty, sometimes banishment. Sometimes men and women
were disfigured by ear or nose clipping for such crimes as adultery, but never was a man chained. Wiley Thompson had been angry and frustrated in his dealings with Osceola, and he had claimed that the Seminole had come into his office spouting verbal abuse, and so he’d had him arrested, cuffed, and brought into the stockade. Thompson was still confident that he’d done the right thing. When he’d heard about what had happened, Jarrett had ridden inland to the fort to confront Thompson, but Thompson had told him that the measure had been necessary to break the confidence and arrogance of such a man as Osceola. Jarrett had left him with a stern warning. He’d done his best to make his own peace with Osceola over the incident. He was one man. There were other whites who knew they had wronged the Indians. That didn’t matter. Those whites would be caught in the crossfire if there was trouble.

Now Jarrett had a wife to bring home. No matter how secretive he wanted to be about his own life in return, there were things she was going to have to discover. He wanted to have her home when she discovered them.

“We’re well enough supplied?” he asked Leo.

“Aye, sir, that we are. If this breeze picks up, I can have us into Tampa Bay by midmorning, day after tomorrow.”

Jarrett swallowed down the hot black coffee. It tasted good, sharpening his mind. The fresh salt feel of the air was good too. “I’ll take the helm,” he told Robert, handing back his empty cup to Leo. “I’ll take the best Nathan can round up for a meal as well, Leo, as soon as he’s able.”