A Cowboy Unmatched (10 page)

“We'll take care of Danvers and his man for you, Neill,” Travis said in his usual take-charge way. “Go home to your woman and let her know you're all right.”

For once, Neill felt no urge to argue. He hobbled toward Mo and hefted himself into the saddle, ignoring the protest of his muscles.

“Send Josiah back with word on whether or not Clara's willing to let Danvers see the babe,” Travis called out. “If not, we'll escort him back to town and see him on the train.”

Neill raised a hand to let his brother know he'd heard, then nudged Mo into a canter. The faster pace sent pain radiating through him with every stride, but Neill didn't care. All that mattered was getting to Clara and assuring her that Harrison was safe.

 
 Chapter 13 
 

Clara paced the parlor, unable to sit. Her exhausted body begged her to join Meri on the settee, but her fretful mind wouldn't allow it. Not until she knew how Neill fared.

Josiah stood guard on the porch, one hip resting against the railing as he scanned the drive. Every time Clara paced by the window, she glanced his way, searching for a clue in his demeanor that might tell her how dire the situation truly was. But the man kept lounging there as if he weren't the slightest bit concerned. Such a stance should reassure her, but instead all she could think was that he knew she was watching him and was purposely projecting a relaxed air to ease her worry. Which only served to inflame her anxiety.

“Come sit, Clara,” Meri urged. “You're going to wear yourself out with all that pacing. You won't be any good to Neill if you collapse.”

That last argument stilled Clara's feet. Neill had been strong for her through all of this. She owed it to him to be strong in return. The stoicism that had been her strength for so many years fell back over her like a familiar gown, rolling from her head to her toes in one long wave. No more pacing. No more fretting. Whatever came, she'd deal with it the best she could. Hadn't God proved He could be trusted, even in the darkest times? He'd brought Neill to her, after all.

And didn't Neill deserve her faith, as well? She'd been angry when Meri and the others had referred to him as a boy, but had she done any better—immediately assuming he'd not be able to hold his own against Mack? Neill had proven himself capable, honorable, a man worthy of her trust. And where trust led, her heart had followed—right into Neill Archer's keeping.

Clara made her way to the chair nearest the window and lowered herself onto the cushion. No matter what happened, she'd not disgrace him with hysterics. She'd be a rock, a steady fortress, a . . .

“Rider comin' in.”

Josiah's shout spurred Clara from her chair, heart pounding. She rushed to the window, all thoughts of rocks evaporating like insubstantial mist.

“It's Neill!”

That's all she needed to hear. Clara ran for the door, her heart sending prayers of gratitude heavenward even as her feet flew across the porch and down the steps. God had brought him back. He looked like he'd been run over by a freight wagon, but he was alive and fit enough to sit a horse. God was good.

He'd barely dismounted when she threw herself into his arms. He groaned, but tightened his arms around her waist and drew her even closer into him.

“It's over, Clara. Harrison's safe.”

Clara gazed up at his face, bruised and bloodied, yet the most beautiful face she'd ever seen. “I love you, Neill Archer,” she said, echoing the words he'd left her with in the wagon, and infusing them with the truth of her own heart. “And as soon as that preacher brother of yours returns, I plan to make you mine.”

Neill grinned that crooked, boyish grin that always turned her insides to melted butter and lowered his head toward hers. “I'm already yours.” The husky murmur echoed in her ears as his lips met hers in a caress so tender, a tear of sheer wonder slid past her lashes. Her palms moved up his chest and her fingers clutched at his shirt as if she could hold him to her forever.

“I'll . . . uh . . . just take care of your horse,” Josiah said from somewhere behind them.

Clara broke away from the kiss and buried her face against Neill's neck, embarrassed to have forgotten they weren't alone.

“Thanks, partner.” The deep sarcasm in Neill's voice made Clara smile against his collar. Then he shifted his stance a bit and called after his friend. “Oh, by the way, it might be a while before we can make an offer on the ranch. I'm still over a hundred short.”

“Don't worry about it,” Josiah answered. “Travis said we could run our herd on his back acres as long as we need to. We'll make do.”

“No. Wait.” Clara raised her head and looked from Neill to Josiah and back again. “Remember when I told you about the inheritance I had set aside? I always planned to use that money to provide for Harrison. What better way to provide for my son than to invest in a home for him and a livelihood for his future? All I have to do is write a letter to Mr. Whitfield at the bank back in Dry Gulch, and he'll transfer the funds to your account here.
Our
account. He can even see about selling my old cabin for me.”

Neill's fingertips stroked her cheek. “Are you sure, honey? That's your money.”

“No, Neill. It's
our
money.
Our
dream. Let me share it with you.”

“You're an amazing woman, Clara Danvers.” His fingers trailed from her cheek down along her neck and toyed with a stray piece of hair that had come loose from her pins. Her skin tingled in response. “What did I ever do to deserve you?”

“What did you ever do?” A laugh bubbled out of Clara before she could stop it. “Well, let's see.” She ticked her answers off on her fingers. “You fixed my roof, you delivered my son, and, oh yes, you saved me from an obsessed man set on stealing my child. I'd say you've done plenty.”

Instead of the smile she'd been expecting, his face grew solemn at her words. “About Mack . . . I need to ask a favor of you.”

“What?”

“I think you should let him see Harrison.”

“No!” How could he suggest such a thing? After all Mack had done, there was no way she'd let him anywhere near her baby.

“Hear me out, Clara.” Neill's soft voice penetrated the haze of her indignation. “Hear me out, and if you still don't feel comfortable with the idea, I'll send him away. I told him you would have to agree. That I wouldn't go against your wishes.”

Clara exhaled a long breath, giving her mind a chance to catch up with her emotions. This was Neill. The man she loved. The man she trusted with her life. With her son's life. He wouldn't ask her to do anything that would put Harrison in jeopardy.

“All right,” she conceded. “I'll listen.”

He led her to the porch, to a pair of rocking chairs, and held her hand as he explained the bargain he'd proposed to Mack. A bargain made in Harrison's best interest. To reserve the boy's chance to inherit the Circle D. The chance to know his only living grandfather. The chance to restore relationships that Clara had believed beyond mending. All while under the watchful eye of the man who would be his father not by blood, but by choice. A choice inspired by love.

“I trust you, Neill,” she finally said, squeezing his hand. “I trust you to protect our son and to guide our family. Mack can come.”

He lifted her hand to his face and kissed the back of it, holding his lips there for several long, delicious seconds. “Thank you,” he murmured against her skin. “I think it's the right thing to do.”

“But he can't stay for the wedding,” she blurted. “Archers only.”

A deep chuckle rumbled in his chest, shaking his body as laughter overflowed into the air between them. “Archers only, huh?” Slowly, the amusement faded from his gaze, replaced by a love so intense, her lonely heart ached from the pure belonging it inspired. Bending his head, he laid another kiss upon her hand. “Sounds perfect.”

Keep reading for a special sample of
Full Steam Ahead
by Karen Witemeyer.

N
EW
O
RLEANS
N
OVEMBER
15, 1849

Passengers jockeyed for position along the steamboat
Louisiana
's railings, waving and calling merry farewells to the crowd lining the levee. Darius Thornton stalked determinedly across the deck in the opposite direction. He'd done all the smiling he cared to during the previous half hour while Captain Cannon gave him, and a handful of other investors, a tour of the vessel.

His brother, David, should have been the one mixing with the Caribbean coffee barons and southern cotton tycoons, not him. David was the diplomat of the family. Mingling with wealthy plantation owners and charming their wives came as naturally to him as adding a column of numbers came to Darius. But David's wife was expecting their first child and insisted her husband remain by her side in case the babe chose to come early. Early? Darius snorted. The birth was months away. The little tyke wasn't scheduled to arrive until January.

Darius rested his forearms against the river-facing rails and stared into the dark water off the starboard side of the bow. New mothers. Always so jittery and anxious about everything. Tying their men to
their apron strings and making their brothers-in-law suffer through torturous affairs when they could be at home in their office poring over ledgers and schematics—objects that didn't expect wit or charisma. Solid, dependable things that required a man's brain, not an ability to titter and chat about the weather. Stuff and nonsense, all of it.

But sharing the familial load was what brothers were for. David had stepped in for Darius on more than one occasion. It was only right that he return the favor. Too bad he had to be so formal while he did it. He much preferred working in his shirt sleeves behind closed doors to prancing around in a tightly tailored coat and beaver hat with a bunch of dandies who considered a man's fashion an accurate measure of his importance.

With a groan, he dug a finger beneath his collar, wishing he could rip the thing from his neck and fling it into the river's murky depths. The ridiculous starched points had been jabbing the underside of his jaw all afternoon.

“I thought King Star Shipping specialized in ocean vessels, Thornton. What's your interest in riverboats?”

Darius bit back an inhospitable retort as he turned to face one of the investors from the tour.
Drat.
What was the fellow's name? Something starting with a R. Or maybe an N? David would have remembered. He would have known the man's wife's name, the names of each of their twelve kids, and probably the monikers of the horses in his stable back home. All Darius could recall were the numbers. The man owned four Mississippi steamboats, each capable of hauling two hundred fifty passengers and five thousand bales of cotton.

“We're not against expansion,” Darius drawled, hoping the man wouldn't notice his lack of proper address. “With the rate the Port of New Orleans is growing, one would be a fool not to consider investing in the steamboat trade.”

The man nodded, his pea-green waistcoat not quite containing the rounded girth of his belly. “True. But riverboats are an entirely different animal from your ocean liners. Temperamental things, you know. One cannot just assume he is fit to add one to his collection without first gaining a proper respect for the vessel.”

The smug expression on the fellow's face combined with his superior tone snapped the last thread of Darius's tattered hold on civility. Straightening to his full height, he glowered down at the man. “King
Star Shipping does not
collect
vessels, sir. We live and breathe them. Not one of our transatlantic liners has failed to reach its destination, and I daresay the same cannot be said of your riverboats. One has only to read the papers to learn how often they run aground on sandbars, get snared in debris, or catch fire due to negligent captains. Not to mention the boiler explosions that sink ships and take lives when greedy pilots push their engines to reckless speeds in order to race.

“If King Star does decide to expand into river transport, you can bet we will be enforcing higher standards than any who have come before. Respect the vessel, sir? You don't know the meaning of the word.”

The mottled purple hue staining the man's face was the first clue he'd gone too far. The slap of the man's glove across Darius's face was the second.

“You high-and-mighty Thorntons think you're above the rest of us, don't you? Well, one of these days disaster will knock on
your
door, and then we'll see just how far your lofty opinions take you.” With an audible
humph
, the man pivoted and stormed off in the direction of the waving masses.

Darius sighed and turned back to the railing, searching the dark water below. Lofty opinions, indeed. He never should have opened his mouth. He should have just smiled at the little peacock and walked away. But no. He'd let his temper get the best of him and spouted off like a bullheaded idiot. The green-vested fellow could be a stellar boatman for all he knew. He had no right to accuse him of not respecting his vessels or his crew. This was why David handled the people and Darius handled the accounts. The minute one of them switched assignments, a mess was sure to follow.

If God were merciful, he'd eliminate any need for polite conversation for the length of the voyage.

Another steamboat came abreast of the
Louisiana
. The bright red lettering on the side declared it to be the
Bostona
, and its decks were equally full of passengers and goods. Darius frowned. Must the boats pack together so closely while in port? It was bad enough that the
Storm
anchored nearby having just returned from upriver, but now the
Bostona
was crowding in. Once the
Louisiana
's captain shoved off, they'd have to do some fine maneuvering to get to open water.

Darius pulled his watch from his vest pocket and flipped open the brass case. Nearly five o'clock. Good. Time to depart.

He replaced his watch as the chimes rang the hour from the cathedral bell in Jackson Square. Then the
Louisiana
's whistle blew its piercing call, and the steamboat eased away from the wharf.

All at once a deafening roar crashed over Darius. The deck shuddered and splintered as if besieged by cannon fire. Debris shot through the air. A metal object collided with Darius's head, sending him reeling. He grasped the railing and barely kept himself from toppling over the side.

Vision blurred and head throbbing, Darius closed his eyes against the chaos, trying to calm his rioting senses and decipher what was happening. Screams assailed his ears. The smells of scalded flesh, blood, and burning wood churned his stomach.

The boilers.
A moan tore from Darius's throat as his eyes flew open in comprehension. The boilers must have exploded.

How? They were in port for pity's sake, not racing at top speed up the river. This wasn't supposed to happen. Not with a capable captain at the helm.

But the
why
s didn't matter. Not when people were dying all around him.

The deck shifted, collapsing inward. Darius linked his arm around the railing. Heaven help them. The ship was going down!

Blinking away the blood dripping in his eyes, Darius peered out over the river. They were only a hundred yards or so from the wharf, thank God. Swimming to shore would be easily managed—for those who knew how to swim, at least. Having grown up in a shipping family, Darius was as at home in the water as on land, so he had no concerns for himself. But he needed to help the others. The masses trapped on the upper decks or in the boat's midsection would perish if they couldn't reach the rails before the sinking vessel dragged them under.

Recalling the ships around them, he jerked his head up. Surely the crews of the
Storm
and
Bostona
would aid in the rescue. However, the sight that met his eyes punctured his hopes. The
Storm
had been laid waste by the explosion, splintered and crumbling from side wheel to the stern. The
Bostona
hadn't fared much better. Her upper works were a mess, her pilothouse had been knocked off, and her wheelhouse was badly crushed.

Bodies littered the river between the three boats, some moving, others not. Bile rose in Darius's throat.

Then something hardened in the pit of his stomach. His fingernails dug into the railing. The ship was going down. No time for weeping over what couldn't be saved. Turning away from the watery scene, he braced his legs wide beneath him and catalogued what
could
be done.

Setting his jaw, he strode forward. Directly into the path of the man with the pea-green vest. The fellow lay crumpled on the deck, gripping his head, seemingly unaware that a deep gash in his arm bled profusely.

The fellow's name suddenly came to him. “Monroe!” Darius knelt at his side and yanked the wide silk tie free from his own collar as Monroe's sluggish gaze found Darius's face.

“Thornton?” he rasped.

Wrapping the impromptu bandage around the man's arm, Darius nodded. “Can you stand?” he asked brusquely.

“I-I think so.” Monroe started to push himself up.

Darius grabbed the man's good arm and assisted. “Good. The boat's going down. We need to evacuate the passengers.”

Monroe's eyes rounded as Darius's meaning sank in. “But the only way off is into the river.”

“I know. The women will need something to keep them afloat, so their skirts don't drag them under.” Darius scanned the deck for anything that might be suitable. “Wood,” he declared, pointing to the debris scattered about them. “They can grab on to planks and kick their way to shore.”

Monroe nodded, his shoulders straightening like a soldier receiving orders, no sign of lingering animosity. “I'll gather some men and see to the ladies' safety.”

“Good. I'll see if I can reach the passengers on the upper deck.” Darius pushed his way through the staggering masses, encouraging everyone to make their way to the railing. Yet the farther inside he went, the more grim the scene. Dead and dying passengers covered the floor, their skin scalded from the violent expulsion of steam, bodies fatally pierced by metal projectiles launched by the explosive force of the ruptured boilers.

The stench of blood and burned flesh clung to him as he picked his way through the horror. A woman lay to his right, moaning, her clothing shredded from the blast. He ripped his coat from his shoulders and draped it over her torso, knowing even as he did so that she'd never survive her injuries. Moving on, he tunneled his
vision to a narrow space directly in front of him and let his mind go numb. The people here were too far gone. He had to get to the upper deck. Had to find a way to get the passengers there to safety. But when he reached the staircase, fallen timbers barred his path. He grabbed the one closest to him and strained against the weight. It didn't budge.

“No!” Darius slammed his palm against the wedged beam. He hung his head—and noticed water seeping over his boots. Time was running out.

Darius rushed back outside and headed for the railing. There was more than one way to the upper deck. Ignoring the unsteady lurching of the boat as the river sucked it down, Darius scrabbled on top of the railing, using one of the connecting pillars as a support. He reached over his head and managed to grab hold of the bottom rung of the upper-deck balustrade. Now he just had to haul himself up.

Loud splashes echoed around him. Dark forms dove through his periphery as men and women alike started leaping from the upper deck. Darius hesitated. Should he continue?

Then a woman's voice cut through the panicked mass of screams. “Please, sir!” she cried. “Take my child. He can't swim.”

Darius barely registered the woman hanging over the rail directly above him before a pair of child-sized shoes knocked against his nose. Without thought to his perilous position, Darius released his hold on the support pillar and clutched the lad's waist. In an instant he had the boy on the lower deck.

Catching sight of a pea-green waistcoat, he yelled, “Monroe! Take the child!”

Monroe turned and immediately scurried forward.

“Here!” the woman above Darius called again. And before he knew what had happened, a steady trail of children were dangled over the side into his waiting arms.

Sweat beaded his brow. The little ones were easy enough to handle despite their wailing, but the larger children kicked and screamed their terror, nearly sending both themselves and him over the side on more than one occasion.

Thanking God for his height and strength, Darius wrestled them to relative safety, though they'd still have to manage their way ashore. He prayed there'd be smaller boats on hand before the
Louisiana
submerged.

Darius reached for the next child, but instead he saw a girl holding fast to the outside of the rails, no adult in sight. She must have been twelve or thirteen, her eyes round, pleading with him to save her.

But she was too far down the railing for him to reach. “Easy, now.” He held a hand out to her. “Let me come to you.”

Taking hold of the pillar again, Darius carefully swung one leg around the post, then the other. “I'm coming. Just be still.” Her legs batted the air so wildly, he feared she'd jar herself loose before he could get into position. Darius moved his hold to the upper railing and eased a step closer to her. “I won't let you fall.”

He widened his stance on the railing and braced his legs to take her weight even as he reached up to grab hold of her waist. At the same moment, something below gave out a mighty groan and the
Louisiana
pitched violently.

The girl's hold broke. Darius lunged for her, but she slipped through his arm. Her scream rang in his ears as she plummeted past him into the dark water.