The Ruby Brooch (The Celtic Brooch Trilogy) (32 page)

If anything happened to him, she’d fade away to the dark side and there’d be no pulling her back.

THREE HOURS LATER with supper over and dishes put away, Kit left the Barretts and strolled back to her campsite singing
When the Dew is on the Grass
. Tate and Tabor pitter-pattered behind her for a short distance, then circled back to play with the children.

Guess I’m not as much fun anymore
.

Maybe the animals didn’t think so, but Cullen had a different opinion. Whatever had ailed her earlier, he’d healed with a kiss and a touch and, well…other things.

Guilt, however, wagged its sticky little finger at her for acting so snarky. He didn’t deserve to be the brunt of her foul moods. Their time together was too precious.

The sound of his voice drifting from the far side of her wagon stopped her mid-stride.

“…throwing gold around like they’d found the mother lode. Bragged about panning for gold at Dutch Flat. The Hudson Bay Company employees said their story didn’t add up.”

“Why’d they think that?” Kit smelled John’s tobacco and imagined him pointing both his pipe and his question at Cullen.

“Didn’t seem the type to do a day’s lick of work,” Cullen said.

She tiptoed toward the end of the wagon, censuring herself for spying but too intrigued to walk away.

“Do you think they’re the wagon train killers?” Henry asked.

She gasped, quickly covering her mouth.

“Hard to say,” Cullen said.

“Which way they’d go?”

Each slingshot question drew her closer to unwittingly revealing her presence.

“West toward Fort Boise,” Cullen said.

“Are you going to tell Kit?”

She waited through his pause, expecting him to say
of course.

“No. I’ll tell her I’m going scouting and will be gone overnight.”

Her mouth opened, shocked by his planned subterfuge. She stomped from her place of concealment, fists to hips. “Like hell you will.”

Cullen dropped his foot that he’d been resting on the wheel spoke and walked toward her, sparks flying from the tip of his cheroot.

She rethought her rash decision to intrude. He wasn’t wearing the soft face of her satisfied lover. But she refused to be…what? Bullied? She crossed her arms. “I can’t believe you’d lie to me.”

“Why?” The question was a crossbreed of demand and curiosity. “Is that purview limited to you?” She raised her hand to slap him, but he wrapped his fingers around her wrist. “You’d slap me?”

She reclaimed her hand, staring at it as if it had acted on its own. “Never.” Tears trickled from the corners of her eyes. What in the world was wrong with her? Her emotions swung from one side of the trail to the other. Adam even asked her if Mr. Montgomery had turned into a snapping turtle.

A
snapping turtle
for Pete’s sake.

He wiped away her tears with his thumbs. “If I told you what I planned, you’d worry.”

“Did they say anything about the Murray’s baby?”

He shook his head.

“What does that mean? The killers didn’t have a baby in their arms, or tied to their horses, or what?”

“We don’t know they’re the killers. The fort employees I talked to said three men rode in, rode out, and weren’t carrying a baby.”

She took a steadying breath to calm her wildly beating heart. “I want to talk to them.”

Cullen’s eyes widened in surprise. “I’ll tell you what I know.”

“Did you get descriptions?”

“General ones.”

“Like what—brown hair and stands this tall?” She held her hand at eye level. “I can get better descriptions. Please take me to the fort. If you don’t—”

“What? You’ll go by yourself?” He finished her threat, adding a challenging gaze.

“If I have to, I will.” She gathered her skirt and hurried away, but got only a few feet before Cullen scooped her into his arms.

Henry chuckled, but the laugh died on his lips when Kit and Cullen both glared at him. “’Pears you’ve got this under control, son,” Henry said, backing away. “We’ll be at John’s if’n you got anything more to say.”

“Put me down. I can walk.” At least he didn’t throw her over his shoulder like a sack of spoiled-rotten…something.

The corners of his lips curled. “I know you can walk. I’m just not sure where you’ve a mind to walk to.”

“Take me to the fort.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Memories fade. People disappear. It has to be now.”

He let out a long exasperated sigh and set her on her feet. “Get your pencils.”

Thirty minutes later, Kit sat across the table from the two men Cullen had spoken with earlier. For the next hour, they answered her questions about the shape of the suspected killers’ faces, their eyes, and hair coloring. She sketched, erased, sketched again, until the witnesses agreed the drawings were a reasonable facsimile of the men they had seen.

They refused payment for their time but asked for drawings of their sweethearts. It was almost midnight by the time Kit finished sketching.

“Let’s head back to camp,” Cullen said.” You need sleep.” He had sat at her side the entire time watching her and humming Beethoven.

As they left the fort, Kit walked close to him, snuggled underneath his arm. “Do you think their sweethearts exist?”

“Did you look at your drawings?”

“I usually don’t
see
a sketch until long after it’s done. Why?”

“Both men described the set of your eyes, your high cheekbones, and your willful chin.” He gave her a playful tap below her mouth.

“I think you’re imagining it.”

“You draw like you sing. Your range is extraordinary.” His tone was full of veneration.

“There’s nothing spectacular about my talent.” As a student of the arts, she knew her drawings hung from the bottom rung of the artistic ladder, regardless of the century.

“You, my sweet, have never watched yourself draw. You sketch fine lines as if you’re plucking stringed instruments. Broader lines have the rumble of percussion. The full orchestra plays between the chin and brow. You’re both composer and conductor. It’s brilliant.”

While there had been synchronicity between his humming and the movement of her drawing hand, she thought it accidental, not intentional. She swallowed a thick lump. “You’re the only person who’s ever
heard
me draw.”

“Aye, lass. Others see what you create. Not how you create it.”

Cullen sighed, his breath easing out and flowing into her. They were intertwining circles, soul mates. How did the brooch weave those circles? Did it start them? Or, did the stone complete them? She trembled, every muscle tensed.

What-if-questions bombarded her. The latest: If she were born in 1852, she and Cullen never would have met. And if they were soul mates, that didn’t make sense. Therefore, she must have been born earlier, much earlier, maybe 1824. If that was the case, she could discard the possibility of being Heather Murray. If not Heather, then who was she?

As they neared the wagons, Cullen said, “I want to take the drawings to Fort Boise. I might catch up with those men.”

“We’ll leave drawings there when we pass through. You don’t need to ride ahead and risk running into them.” A maternal tone voiced her growing sense of panic. “They’re dangerous men. Especially the one called Jess. There’s evil in his eyes.”

“I don’t intend to tangle with them, only inform the authorities.”

Her fear morphed into terror. “Don’t chase after them, please.”

“I thought you wanted to find the baby.”

“I’m not the Murray’s child.” Her denial sounded stronger than she intended. “The man in San Francisco will identify me. Let this go, Cullen.”

Clouds whipped across the face of the moon, and she could no longer distinguish his features in the inky void. A breeze spanked the bottom of her skirt and bound her legs, preventing her from moving closer to him, to the safety of his arms. An eerie quietness settled over the plains as if a hand covered the mouth of every creature, preventing even a whisper from escaping. In the stillness of the night, she sensed a malefic force.

“I’m afraid.”

As he’d done earlier, he scooped her up into his arms and carried her away. “There’s nothing to fear. We are joined in spirit as we are in body and nothing—not time, not death—will ever separate us.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

KIT CLEANED UP after supper at their camp on the Snake River at Three Island Crossing, and put the utensils away. Cullen sat at the table studying maps and notes in preparation for the meeting the men would have later. They’d left Fort Hall ten days earlier, and had a decision to make. Would they ford the river, the most treacherous crossing on the entire trail or would they take the dry southern route that wound around sand dunes and canyons?

She packed her drawing implements and found a quiet place to draw. She sketched the sagebrush-covered hill they had descended earlier that day. When she finished, she placed her sketchpad and pencils on the ground beside her. What decisions had previous travelers made? Had they had a heated debate over which was the best route? She hoped for Cullen’s sake, there would be a unanimous decision. Splitting the wagon train wouldn’t benefit anyone. The river was formidable, but so was the alternate route. She picked up a pencil and tapped it against her palm. If anyone could lead the group to a consensus, Cullen would.

She gazed out over the water. Surely, they would select the course Cullen recommended. Three prairie-grass covered islands, resembling stepping-stones, lay in the middle of the river. She began to draw them, concentrating on the southern-most and middle islands.

“Last time I was here, we lost an entire family on the island you’re drawing.”

Her body jerked, and her arms flew up in the air. “Damn, Cullen.” She whacked him on the head with her pad and accidentally jabbed his face with the blunt end of her pencil. “Why do you scare me?”

“Ouch. You hurt my chin.”

She looked at the small red dot below his lip. “Serves you right.”

“I’m sorry. I forget you go into a—what do you call it?—a zone?”

“I could have poked you in the eye.”

He grimaced. “I won’t scare you again.”

“Do you know how many times you’ve promised that?”

He raised his brows theatrically.

“Isn’t it time for your meeting to start?”

“Almost, but I needed a kiss first.” After he gave a lingering kiss, he studied her drawing. “Your sketch doesn’t even hint at the dangerous current hiding below the surface.”

“I don’t want to draw the danger. I want to appreciate the beauty. After we cross, if that’s the vote, I’ll consider adding shading and intensity to the water.”

He handed her the sketchpad. “Promise me you won’t jump into this river.” His voice was soft, but she caught an edge of fear in his eyes. She squeezed his hand. The trip west had turned out much more dangerous than she had imagined. Her naiveté had convinced her that knowledge, a gun, and karate would protect her. But these skills had only made her overconfident. Her risk-taking days were over. “You needn’t worry.”

“Pretend I just gasped,” he said, returning her smile. “Worrying is part and parcel of loving you.”

Her mouth opened to level a retort announcing the same was true in reverse, but Henry shouted, gesturing Cullen to join him at John’s wagon.

He checked his timepiece. “Time for the meeting.”

“What do you think the vote will be?”

“Folks are staying tight-lipped, even opinionated Mr. Cameron. If the wagon train splits, I’m committed to go with the largest group.”

“What does John want?”

“He knows I’ll recommend the crossing. I have his support.”

“Ask Reverend Hamilton to say a prayer that the crossing leads straight to green pastures.”

Cullen chuckled. “I’ll suggest that.” He lifted her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist, a kiss guaranteed to leave her wanting more. “I’ll be late to bed. If we’re to make the crossing, we’ll caulk the wagons tonight.”

“You can try to wake me, but I don’t promise you’ll be successful.”

“I’ve ne’er yet to wake you when you haven’t been sweetness in my arms.”

Her face heated. Cullen still had a way of making her blush.

By ten o’clock, she had completed the weekly inventory of her red bag and repacked the backpack, adding a pair of Cullen’s trousers. Then exhausted, she went to sleep. Sometime later, he woke her, nuzzling her ear.

“What happened at the meeting?” She rolled over and wrapped her arms around his neck.

“We’re fording in the morning.”

“It’ll be dangerous.”

He kissed her. “Yes, and I expect you to stay where I put you.”

She kissed him back, whispering against his lips, “Do you ever not get your way?”

He lifted the hem of her gown. “You tell me, sweetling.”

SHORTLY BEFORE MID-MORNING, the dark clouds broke free and scattered, taking away fear of an impending storm. The men finished stringing rope from one side to the other, bridging the thousand-foot-wide river.

Everything was ready now.

The oxen pulled the first wagon into the three-foot-deep water. The next wagon followed, then the next as the animals forged ahead, finally touching the tip of the first island. When the wagons reached the second island, the men unhitched the teams to swim the remaining distance without their heavy loads. The caulked wagons became boats and floated to the north bank using the ropes as guides. Cullen and Henry rode along as outriders helping to keep the boat-wagons in line.

By late afternoon, two thirds of the wagons were on the north bank.

Kit and Sarah sat in the shade of the Barretts’ open-sided dining tent, facing the river, their sewing baskets and a pile of clothes to mend sitting on the table between them. Kit couldn’t concentrate on anything other than watching their men in the water, and she knew that was also true with Sarah. The crossing had gone smoothly so far, but she couldn’t relax until everyone was across.