“What incompetents do I employ!” Salezan railed. “How could they have lost Brazos Sinclair?”
“He’s smart, Governor;” Poteet replied with a shrug. He pulled a glass and a bottle from the desk drawer and said, “Sinclair sent brothers in all directions, and their features were so similar to his that each time, our men thought it was he leaving the plantation.”
“Fools! If that is so, how are you certain that it was Brazos Sinclair you followed in Galveston?”
“Because our man spotted it when Sinclair went swimming.”
“Saw what?” Salezan questioned impatiently.
“The armband.” Poteet grinned at the sudden fire lighting Salezan’s eyes. “Brazos Sinclair wore a band that flashed silver in the moonlight.”
“The bastard dares to wear it!” Salezan exclaimed, slapping the table and rattling the bottle and glass.
Poteet poured himself a drink of tequila as Salezan paced the room, musing, “He’s taking his brother to Juanita.”
“I don’t doubt it. But we’ll find him, Governor. We’ll find them both. I have men searching every conceivable place.”
Salezan nodded. “He is to be brought here.” The governor of Perote Prison lifted his arm and rubbed the spot once circled by a band of silver. “You will leave immediately—take the fastest ship. I want you to personally oversee this operation. Bring me Juanita and Brazos Sinclair. Unharmed.” His thoughts returned to the dungeon cell. “I’ve many plans for my runaways.”
MADELINE WAS sitting in a chair by the dining room window playing pat-a-cake with Rose when Lana and Mason Kennard returned to the orphanage. While observing the enthusiastic reunion of the auburn-haired beauty and her former fiancé, Madeline furtively reached out and swiped a spoon from the table. Before dinner was over, she’d stolen two spoons, a teacup, and a potato masher. It was her largest haul since arriving in Texas, and that in itself had her worried. She was a thief. She stole money and gold and jewels—not kitchen tools. What was wrong with her?
Lana Kennard did not appear to suffer from her ill-fated romance with Brazos Sinclair. In fact, she bloomed with love for her husband, Mason, who obviously returned the affection. Neither seemed uncomfortable with Brazos.
Madeline found the entire situation quite odd.
While the children busied themselves cleaning up after dinner the adults—Brazos included—sat on the front porch, drinking coffee.
Brazos was saying, “I found it to be quite a challenge, and my host was simply obsessed with the game. Every morning, just after sunup, he’d rap on my door and order me to meet him on the course. MacGarey was twice my age, and he could whack the feathers right out of the ball.” He grinned in remembrance. “I never did win. Bothered the hell out of me.”
Lana Kennard looked at Madeline and said, “The only thing Brazos hates worse than losing is not playing the game in the first place.”
Mason Kennard chuckled. “You say you brought a set of these clubs back with you?”
“Sure did. In fact, I have them with me now. You want to see them?”
Madeline was reminded of an eager puppy. At Mason’s nod, Brazos pushed off the porch rail and sauntered over toward the wagon. “You know, we might as well unload these bars while we’re at it. Y’all come help. It’d take me an hour to do it myself.”
Mason and the women followed Brazos, who proceeded to pry the lid off the coffin. Madeline looked around her. None of these people seemed surprised at his action. Curious, Madeline leaned over to peer into the casket. In the center laid out like a corpse on a blanket, were six wooden sticks, one of which was topped by a metal head.
But the clubs weren’t what captured Madeline’s attention. A murmured, “Oh, my,” escaped her lips at the sight. Stacked inside the coffin, one on top of the other around and underneath Brazos’s sticks, lay a fortune in gleaming silver bars. “Isn’t it beautiful?” Brazos asked.
He was holding up and referring to the metal-headed stick. The one he called a rut iron.
LYING IN BED that night, Madeline couldn’t make up her mind. She straddled the horns of a dilemma that would make a pair of longhorn cattle proud. She was a thief. She’d been stealing her entire life, providing herself with basic necessities and an occasional luxury or two. She took pride in her professional abilities. Once she’d even lifted something from a duke.
But as of late, she’d stolen spoons and kitchen utensils. She yanked her covers over her head and wailed, “What kind of thief steals potato mashers, for heaven’s sake?” None she’d claim as a friend, that’s for certain.
Then, as though it weren’t enough that she suffer from this crisis of self-identity, she had to go and discover that her soon-to-be-former husband carried around a fortune in silver bars. In a coffin. With his golf clubs. She blew a frustrated puff of breath, making a hill in the sheet above her head.
She sat upright and glared at her reflection in the mirror opposite the bed. As a professional, wasn’t she duty-bound to steal the silver from him? After all, no self-respecting thief would allow a bonanza like that to slip through his fingers. “I couldn’t hold my head up in a tavern full of good, lawbreaking highwaymen again.”
Admittedly, she didn’t know whether any place similar to the Harried Hound Tavern even existed in Texas. She’d learned many things there—how to pick pockets, how to shoot a pistol, how to throw a man twice her size. What would Gentleman Jack think if he saw her now, contemplating passing up a coffin load of silver bars. He’d be appalled, that’s what.
Gentleman Jack, or GJ as she called him, had been the closest thing to a father Madeline had ever had—until her breasts began to sprout, that is. GJ had been devastated to discover that she wasn’t a boy after all. He’d sent her back to the boarding house in search of a position, and although they’d kept in touch—he’d wanted the information she provided concerning the doings of society—things between them had irreparably changed. Still, he’d cried when she’d returned to the Harried Hound that final time. He’d claimed he would worry about her while she visited France.
If he were here now and saw how she was acting, he’d really be worried. She shuddered at the thought of the words GJ would use to blister the air.
Madeline plumped up her pillows and lay back down. The problem here was that she simply didn’t want to steal the silver. That treasure was for the orphans. So what if Brazos did have plenty more silver where that coffinload had come from? It didn’t change the fact that he’d toted this load all the way from wherever to leave it at St. Michaels Children’s Home.
But if she passed up this opportunity, did that mean she’d condemned herself to snatching potato mashers for the rest of her life? Was this some self-destructive trend?
She couldn’t steal from orphans. Just as she couldn’t take from her fellow La Réunion colonists. Unless a treasure worth more than a coffinload of silver came her way and soon, one she could heist with a clear conscience, she would be forced to admit that she wasn’t who she’d always thought herself to be.
“And if I’m not a thief,” Madeline said to the quiet room, “then who am I?”
She wasn’t Rose’s mother. She wasn’t really Brazos’s wife. She was no one’s daughter no one’s sister; she wasn’t even Rose’s aunt—she couldn’t be under the circumstances. She was no one’s lover.
Well, except in her dreams.
BRAZOS WAS downstairs polishing off a glass of buttermilk when Lana entered the kitchen. She took one look at him and shook her head. “You have crumbs on your face, Brazos. If you’re going to steal the cookies, you should at least wipe away the evidence.”
“Caught me again, didn’t you, Lana,” he replied, adopting a fake guilty expression as he brushed away the specks of sugar.
The smile melted from her face, and in a serious tone, she said, “No, Brazos, I never caught you at all.” She crossed the kitchen and withdrew a cup from the cabinet. Holding it out, she nodded toward the buttermilk.
He filled the cup, saying, “You’re lucky you didn’t. I’d have made a horrible husband. You know that, don’t you, Lana?”
“I wouldn’t say horrible, just not right for me. Not after…” Her voice trailed off, and she lifted her shoulders in a shrug. Sitting at the table, she sipped her milk. “I’m happy. Mason and I are happy. We have a good life here at St. Michael’s.”
Brazos straddled a chair opposite her. “I’m glad for you, honey. You deserve it.” She swirled the butter milk around in her cup, and Brazos felt a tenderness swell inside him. Lana Kennard was a good woman. He’d made the right decision by not holding her to her promise. “You look as if somethin’ is on your mind. What is it?”
Her tongue circled her lip, a habit he recognized as nervousness. Then she said, “Mason and I are expecting a baby.”
The smile hovering on his lips froze. Pain plucked at his heart like a scavenger’s talons. He closed his eyes and fought it, seeking and finding the empty place inside himself. Yet, emotion enough lingered to acid a rasp to his voice as he said, “Congratulations.”
A sheen of tears floated in Lana’s eyes. “Brazos, I remember our dreams. I know how much you wanted children and the house—we spent all that time planning. It breaks my heart to know you’ve suffered so much, and I feel guilty that Mason and I are so happy while you—”
“Shh, honey.” Brazos reached across the table and clasped her hand. “I’m fine, and you don’t have a damn thing to feel guilty about. Hell, Lana, you waited for me all that time, even though Mason was silly in love with you. And it was
my
decision to end our engagement. You would have tied yourself to a crazy man if I had let you.”
The tears had spilled from her eyes and now trailed down her face. “Brazos, you’re not crazy. You are a wonderful man. Look at what you’ve done for the children, for me and Mason. You gave us St. Michael’s.”
An icy chill stole through him. He stood abruptly, saying, “No, Lana, Miguel is responsible for St. Michael’s. I don’t want you or Mason or anyone to ever forget that.”
“But, Brazos, you—”
“Don’t.” He couldn’t bear to discuss it. First Lana and her baby, then Miguel. They were middle-of-the- night memories that all but laid him low. “Don’t,” he repeated softly.
She wiped at her tears and nodded.
Brazos raked his fingers through his hair and scowled. “Now, quit crying. It’s bound to be bad for the baby.”
“Yes, Brazos.”
Hell, she looks pitiful sitting there crying, Brazos thought. He strode across the room and lifted the lid of the earthen jar containing the molasses cookies. Pulling out two, he returned to the table and offered one to Lana along with his handkerchief. “Here, honey, make use of these. We’ve got to cheer you up, or Mason’ll be down those stairs looking for something to punch. I may be bigger than he is, but he always did fight dirty.”
Lana smiled. “I’ll never forget the day he knocked you flat. It took a good three weeks for your black eye to heal.”
“I was only eight years old,” Brazos replied defensively. “Boys heal more slowly than men.”
She gave him a searching look. “Have you healed, then, Brazos? Is that why you brought Miss Christophe and her daughter to visit us? Are you finally able to settle down and build that life you once wanted so badly?”
“My Lord, woman!” Brazos exclaimed, forcing a smile. “You always were a nosy one. I think it’s time for you to take your questions back upstairs and tuck ‘em into Mason’s bed.”
Lana shook her head sadly and stood. She walked to him and stood on her tiptoes to press a kiss against his cheek. “If I were always nosy, you were always full of secrets, Brazos Sinclair. I’ll not pester you, but I want you to know you have friends here. You’ll always have friends here, no matter what.”
“Good night, honey.” Brazos squeezed her hand, then pushed her toward the doorway. As she exited the kitchen, he added softly, “And, Lana, I am happy for you and Mason. About the baby, I mean.” He tried so hard to mean it.
SHORTLY BEFORE DAWN, Brazos awoke to the irritating sound of a barn cat whining right outside his window. He rolled over in his bed and tugged his pillow over his head in a futile attempt to muffle the noise. Damn, he’d have to do something, or the blasted cat would wake the children. Sighing heavily, he sat up and wrenched open his eyes. He scratched his chest, yawned, and stumbled out of bed. Halfway to the window, he stopped.
The noise wasn’t a barn cat, and it wasn’t coming from outside but from across the hall. “Rose,” he murmured. The child continued to cry, and Brazos scowled. Madeline should pick that baby up, not let her scream, he thought. Pulling on his denims, he opened the door and padded barefoot and shirtless to the room across from his. He didn’t bother to knock, just walked on in.
Rose was in the process of climbing out of her crib. Madeline was sitting up in bed, looking half asleep and so beautiful, it liked to make his teeth ache. Her flannel nightgown gaped at the neck, and he caught a glimpse of a coral nipple. Resolutely, he turned away. “Lie back down, Madeline. I’ll handle her.”
While he gently tugged one of Rose’s feet from the bars of the crib where it had caught, Madeline said sleepily, “Thank you. She was up a couple of times during the night. Teething, I imagine.” She curled into the mattress and fell back asleep before Brazos had changed Rose’s diaper.
After a quick breakfast of leftover cornbread and fried bacon, both Brazos and Rose felt ready to take on the world. The child was in fine spirits, babbling and toddling around the kitchen. “You’re learning to walk right well, Miss Magic,” Brazos said, taking a tin pan out of her hands. “But you’re being a bit loud for so early in the morning. What you say we go outside and hit a few balls. You can help me pick them up.”
Twenty minutes later, as the sun broke over the tops of the trees and lit the clearing, Brazos stood rolling balls toward a round, shallow hole he’d dug in the yard. Rose busied herself by toddling after the balls, stooping to retrieve them from the hole, and often losing her balance and plopping down on her behind.
After a bit, Brazos backed up and with a different club, began sailing the balls toward the hole. Rose lost interest in the game and chose to chase a yellow butterfly that flitted about the wildflowers. A warmth of emotion filled Brazos as he watched the child at play. Her bright eyes, shining with happiness and innocence, her giggles, hell, even the way she teared up and boo-hooed got to him. The truth of it was, Rose had captured his heart.