Authors: Alice Duncan
On
the verge of throttling him again, Tom said very tightly, “What exactly
do you mean, you traveled the roads.”
“I’m
afraid ours wasn’t a settled life. We led a rather Gypsy-like existence.”
“What
the hell did you do, damn it?”
Claude,
never much for bravery, squeaked and pushed himself back against the
sofa cushions. His answer came fast, propelled by fear. “We traveled
in a medicine show wagon.”
Tom
felt his eyes bulge. “You’re a medicine-show quack?”
Striving
for dignity, Claude said smoothly, “I prefer to think of myself as
an entertainer.”
“An
entertainer? A snake-oil salesman?” Recollecting the few times he’d
encountered medicine-show swindlers, members of a species he considered
particularly loathsome, Tom said, “You dragged your daughter around
with you in a wagon while you bilked people out of their hard-earned
money by selling them worthless remedies? You call that entertainment?”
Miffed,
Claude said, “I was very entertaining, as a matter of fact.”
Tom’s
hands clenched and unclenched. He was finding it difficult to keep them
from Claude’s throat. He’d witnessed the result of a few medicine
men in his day. Claude Montague and those like him sold gullible, sometimes
seriously ill, settlers medicines made from alcohol and doctored with
everything from peppermint oil to rattlesnake venom. He’d helped bury
more than one victim of a plausible medicine-man’s “sure cure.”
He despised Claude Montague and fakers like him.
Things
were beginning to make a terrible kind of sense to him. “I suppose
you used your children in your act.”
“It
wasn’t an act!”
“Of
course not. Let me guess. You dressed them in rags and made them pretend
to be strangers. Then when you dosed them with your so-called cure,
they were supposed to pretend to get better. They’d throw their crutches
away and miraculously walk without a limp or be cured of pneumonia.
Is that the sort of life you gave your children, Mr. Montague?”
It
didn’t look as though Claude quite trusted Tom’s tone of voice,
which was thin and strained. He sidled down the sofa, away from his
host, as though he aimed to get as close to the door as he could in
case Tom sprang at him. “Claire was never any good at the act. When
she was older, she proved to be a little more useful, although she wasn’t
a very obedient child, I’m afraid.”
Ignoring
the last of Claude’s whine, Tom snapped, “What do you mean, she
was more useful when she was older?”
“Well,
even then, she wasn’t worth much.” Claude frowned at his fingernails
and didn’t see Tom stiffen. “She was such a prissy little prude.
And such a snob. She didn’t approve of the costumes she had to wear.”
“What
kinds of costumes?”
Claude
flung a hand in the air. “Well, you know, she was female and therefore
could have been an asset to the show, even if she was a string bean.
Those costumes cost a fortune, too.” He sounded very disgruntled.
“If she’d had any family feeling at all, she would have realized
that a little flirting would only have helped.”
Tom
tried to say “flirting,” but his tongue wouldn’t work. He stared
at Claude Montague and endeavored to imagine his sweet Claire in this
monster’s clutches.
Things
began to click into place in his brain. Claire’s terror of being thought
a loose woman, her rattlesnake hair, her dull brown dresses, her belief
that she was somehow unworthy, her trying so hard to be prim and proper.
Her finding a hero in the man his uncle had told her Tom Partington
was, a man who was the exact opposite of her father. Her turning Tom
into a dime novel idol.
God
save him. He closed his eyes for a moment, hurting for Claire. The very
idea of her being used by this vile charlatan in his devious medicine
show was repugnant to him. How she must have hated it! How his upright,
splendid, wonderful Claire must have felt, being used by this—this—Tom
couldn’t think of a word bad enough to describe Claude Montague.
And
Tom had made the woman his mistress! And condemned her for writing those
books. His wonderful Claire. The only woman on the face of the earth
he could ever love. He admitted it to himself now without even a hitch
in his heart. He loved her. Of course, he did. She exemplified everything
he’d ever valued in a human being.
Well,
by God, he was going to get her back. He was going to go after her and
find her and bring he home and marry her and never let her go again.
He
would deal with her father later.
Striding
to the door, he yanked it open and bellowed, “Jed! Addison! Get in
here right now!” Then he turned and pinned Claude Montague with a
look that made the old fraud shrink into the sofa cushions again.
“My
friends are going to stay here with you, Mr. Montague. They’re going
to stay here until I find Claire and bring her back. Then we’re going
to get to the bottom of this. If you manage to escape before I come
back, I’ll track you down and kill you.” He gave Claude a smile
that had been known to wither braver men than Claire’s father. “I’m
an ace scout, you know.”
He
had expected Sylvester to fuss at him and was prepared to deal with
the simpering poltroon in no uncertain terms. He was, therefore, surprised
but gratified when Sylvester, upon being apprised of the situation,
cried, “Splendid! What an opportunity! I’ve longed for this moment!”
“You
have?”
“God,
yes. Ever since Claire told Dianthe and me about her father, I’ve
been longing to interview him.”
“You
knew this man was her father?”
“Well,
not exactly. But she’d told us that her father was a vile confidence
trickster.”
“I
beg your pardon!” Claude drew himself up and glared at Sylvester.”
Tom
shook his head. “Damn. She told everybody in the world but me, I guess.”
“She
didn’t tell me,” said Jedediah helpfully.
Tom
wrapped his woolen scarf around his neck and began to draw on his riding
gloves. “I plan to get the whole story out of her, but I don’t want
this prime article to get away before I do. Depending on what Claire
wants me to do with him, I may let him go later.”
Claude
looked mortally offended and not a little frightened, but he didn’t
offer up an objection until after the door slammed shut behind Tom.
Then he eyed his captors carefully before deciding Sylvester looked
as though he’d be more responsive to his tales of woe than the disapproving,
stuffy Jedediah Silver.
Chapter 20
It
had gone dark an hour ago, although some light crept through the window
from the lantern secured outside the Wells Fargo coach. Mostly, though,
Claire saw nothing but her own black visions as she stared out into
the night.
Thank
God she’d been able to purchase passage on the last stage to Marysville.
She had no idea what she’d do once she got there, but she expected
she’d be able to find a hotel room. If not, she wouldn’t be the
first passenger in the world forced to sit overnight with her baggage
in the Wells Fargo office.
San
Francisco was her ultimate destination. Fortunately, her banking account
was in the Pyrite Springs Wells Fargo branch. There were Wells Fargo
branches in San Francisco, so it shouldn’t be difficult for her to
draw enough money out to begin her life anew.
The
thought made the lump in her throat ache, and she swallowed in an effort
to control it. It was amazing how physically painful emotions could
be. Right now, for example, her chest ached, her throat ached, her head
ached, and her stomach ached. Her legs and bottom ached, too, but that
was because of the dreadful bouncing of the stagecoach. She hadn’t
thought to bring a cushion with her like the other passengers.
How
many years
, Claire wondered,
before I don’t hurt anymore
?
It was hard to imagine becoming accustomed to life without Partington
Place and Tom. Partington Place had been the only real home she’d
ever known, and she loved it. And Tom was the only man she could even
imagine loving.
“It’ll
be all right, dearie.”
With
a start, Claire realized she’d sighed aloud and that the kind-looking
woman across from her was smiling sympathetically. The woman was a perfect
stranger, and her amiable good-heartedness was almost Claire’s undoing.
Quickly, she snatched out a handkerchief to catch any tears that might
fall before she could sniff them back.
“Thank
you,” she whispered.
“Life
can be very unkind sometimes,” the woman said with a little nod. “But
we females have to carry on. We’re the strong ones, you know, dearie.”
She spoke confidingly and with a sideways glance at the other passengers,
all men, and all snoring.
The
woman’s declaration surprised Claire. She’d always been led to believe
men were stronger than women, but this perfect stranger’s words resonated
within her, sounding a bell of truth. She sat up straighter and gulped
the last remnants of tears welling up in her throat.
“I—I
believe you may be right, ma’am.”
The
woman nodded again. “I know I’m right, dearie. We’re the ones
always left behind whilst the men go off and fight their fights and
play their silly games.”
Their
silly games. Yes. Claire thought she understood what the woman was trying
to tell her. It was always the females who kept the home fires burning.
They reared the children and prepared the food. They were the glue that
held society together. Claire belonged to a sisterhood forging the grit,
the glue, the very backbone, of civilization.
“Yes,”
she said. And, even though her heart still ached for Tom and her lost
home, and even though the thought of creating a new life filled her
with trepidation, Claire knew she would carry on and, eventually, thrive.
The
lady across from her held out a gloved hand. “My name is Myrtle Finchley,
dear. Mrs. Edwin Finchley, although my darling Eddie passed on eight
years ago.”
Claire
shook the woman’s hand gladly. “Claire Montague, Mrs. Finchley.
Thank you for your kind words.”
Mrs.
Finchley shifted in her seat to lean closer, and for the first time
Claire noticed the novel resting on the woman’s lap. She could scarcely
believe her eyes when she read the title:
Tuscaloosa Tom and the
Outlaws of Oak Ridge Wallow
.
Mrs.
Finchley saw where Claire’s gaze had landed and smiled. “Oh, my,
yes, dear. Some people frown on novels, but I say, if a body can’t
escape the hurly-burly of everyday life from time to time, then what’s
living for? I do so enjoy a rousing dime novel. They’re just my cup
of tea.”
Claire
swallowed and licked her lips. “And—and do you find Mr. McTeague’s
novels to be representative of the genre?”
“Oh,
my goodness, Mr. McTeague’s books are the very best, my dear. If you
haven’t read them, I highly recommend them. If you like that sort
of thing, of course.”
Mrs.
Finchley looked a little guilty, but Claire hardly noticed. She, who
had never known a mother, was suddenly engulfed by a burning desire
to talk to the motherly Mrs. Finchley—really talk to her—as a daughter
might talk to a mother in times of trouble. Taking a deep breath, she
blurted out, “I wrote them.”
Mrs.
Finchley peered at her blankly and said, “I beg your pardon.”
“I
am Clarence McTeague. I wrote those books.”
“You?”
The woman’s eyes opened wide, and Claire could plainly read disbelief
on her face.
Sweeping
a look at their traveling companions and finding them still lost to
consciousness, Claire sucked in another enormous breath. Then, in a
tumble of words, her story fell from her lips and into Mrs. Finchley’s
astonished ears.
She
couldn’t recall ever talking to a complete stranger the way she was
now. Or anybody else, for that matter.
Spurred
on by the compassionate older woman’s frequent, “oh, my goodnesses”
and sympathetic clucks, Claire discovered herself revealing things she’d
never told a soul. She skipped the part about Tom and her becoming lovers,
but she admitted her affection for him and how hurt she’d been by
his anger when he discovered her to be the author of the
Tuscaloosa
Tom
books.
“But
I wrote them because I loved him so, you see. He’s—he was the hero
of every one of my dreams.”
“Indeed,
my dear, I do see.”