The Treasure Hunter's Lady (17 page)

“That's what I'm afraid of. He'll be on my heels like a shadow if I don't get a move on.” With Christensen bringing down the whip like a coachman from hell. Abel's gut clenched in a way that didn't have anything to do with serpents or treasure; he was mere feet from Romy and he missed her already.

“Be careful, my friend. If you find what you’re searching for the ship will be here waiting for you.”

Van Buren offered his hand. Abel accepted it with the hope he'd make it back. “It should be a short trip. If I'm not back within the week, you may as well go on.” Any number of things could happen while he was on his own in the wild country.

“A little faith might serve you as well as determination.” The captain lifted his hat in salute and headed for his ship again.

Sweat gathered at Abel's collar and on his brow. The flight of stairs that took him from the lowest floor of the three-level dock to the street below left him winded. Not a promising sign. He shrugged off the thought. Caden had worked through this stage of the illness to gather information about the Serpent and make the proper arrangements and contacts for his nephew. At nearly thirty years Abel's senior, Caden's efforts made him feel unworthy of the task set to him.

An image of home invaded his mind. Patience and her children were waiting for Abel to save the day. He couldn't let them down. But what if none of this was real? What if all the stories, all the endeavors came to nothing? He swallowed past the dry taste of dust and fear that threatened to suffocate him.

No, the strange feeling that he got when he held the fang meant something. Whether it was a legendary serpent or not, something drew him here. He'd find it.

On the street he stopped and looked back at the docks. The
Ursula Ann's
aft was just visible from his position. Her faded and patched gray balloon glared against the azure sky.

The street was nearly deserted except for a couple of dogs and a petite, ancient-faced old woman decorated with trailing scarves. Perched on the palm of one gnarled, veiny hand, a crystal ball caught and bent the midday sun, casting miniature rainbows on the ground. Something long and sinuous stretched across her shoulders and up the arm that held the gazing ball.

A poison green serpent rested its head on the crystal before turning to peer at Abel. If the dogs noticed the apparition, they had no interest in it. Even from a few feet away he caught the foggy glare of the old woman's eyes. Her lips moved in a silent prophecy that raised the hair on Abel's neck.

He remembered her prediction of a beautiful woman and he thought of Romy.

Abel blinked. Heat waves shimmered in the place where the fortuneteller had stood. The dogs trotted off, kicking up puffs of dust as they went.

“What the hell?” He searched the street for any sign of human life. “A trick of the light. A gypsy woman with a pet snake isn't following me.”

The gypsy didn't have a snake in Boston. Why would she have one now? His heart thudded in his ears. There he was, considering the possibility that she had arrived in Bismarck. That she truly knew where this venture might take him and that it might end badly. His mouth felt dry as Death Valley.

Two men descended the stairs. Looking oddly formal in his crisp suit, Christensen paused on the landing. His cold eyes brushed over Abel before a sneer pulled his lips away from his teeth. He flicked his wrist in a dismissing gesture. “Out of the way, vagabond.”

Behind him, in khaki trousers and a chamois shirt, Maggard Farrington stared, mouth slightly agape at the sight of Abel. Their eyes met. Farrington closed his mouth and shook his head, a minute movement Abel nearly missed. The doctor's face was sallow and lined. He looked like he was on death’s doorstep.

Beads of sweat dampened Abel's shirt, but an icy chill covered him, racing along his skin. Farrington stumbled and collided with Abel's shoulder. The weight of the pack toppled him. He sprawled on the gravel-strewn path, wincing at the pain in his tailbone.

“I beg your pardon,” Farrington said, staring down at him. His dark blue gaze—much like Romy's—darted between Abel and Christensen.

“Come along, Maggard,” Christensen snapped.

“One moment, Andrew.” Farrington crouched beside Abel. “Are you all right, sir?”

“Fine, I think.” Though the temptation to remain on the ground had him in its clutches.

Christensen's head jerked around.

“Allow me to help you up, my boy.” Farrington extended his hand, leaning closer to Abel.

Farrington ignored his boss's questioning look, so Abel followed in suit. The older man's mouth came near his ear as Maggard pulled him up.

“Is Romancia safe?”

It depended on one's definition of safe. She'd stowed away on an airship, nearly fallen out of the same ship, been threatened by another man after the Diamond and wound up sharing Abel's bed. But he believed, for the moment she wasn't in harm's way. Damned if he'd explain all that to Maggard.

Abel nodded and raised his chin toward Van Buren's ship to indicate she was on the docks. Christensen still watched, shifting his weight and huffing as though annoyed by the delay. Abel rubbed at his neck with his free hand, pretending to stretch it out. Farrington's hand tightened on his for a split second.

“She's in danger. Both of you are,” Farrington muttered. He looked heartsick. “Tell her I love her. You must go. Now.”

“Thank you,” Abel said. The longer Farrington's eyes lingered on the docks, the more suspicious Christensen's expression grew. Abel hitched up the pack and mounted the stairs, one slow step at a time. He paused to listen to Christensen complain about Farrington's bleeding heart before the pair moved on.

Why the warning? Farrington knew the stakes as well as Abel. If he thought for a second Abel was going to abandon the search because of a little menace like Christensen, he needed to think again. But he had to let Romy know her father was in town. Even if it wasn't safe for her to see him.

By the time he reached the deck where the
Ursula Ann
rested, his knees were soft as fresh mud. His mind raced with the idea that Christensen’s wanted notice. Either he hadn't recognized Abel or he was so determined to get to the Diamond, he couldn't see what was right in front of him. With a shrug, Abel dropped the pack and stepped onto the gangplank.

The first mate threw a puzzled look his way. “What are you doing back so soon?”

“I need to see Romy,” he said.

“She's moping near that pile of crates the pair of you favored all journey.”

Abel nodded his thanks and clutched the rail as he made his way across the deck. Romy sat with her knees tucked up, chin resting on them and eyes glazed over. She blinked when she saw him. “Abel!”

His head pounded. Spots blurred his vision. She flew to her feet, meeting him halfway. Soft hands pressed against his face. "Your skin is so hot."

Her voice sounded distant and echoing. He leaned toward her, intending to tell her about her father.

The fortuneteller shimmered in front of him like a mirage, blotting out Romy's face.

The world faded into dismal gray before falling completely black.

Chapter Fifteen

Romy paced the width of the ship's bow. She twisted the ends of her hair around her fingers, ignoring the curious stares of the remaining crew. Her heart was in her throat, pounding out a tempo only slightly faster than her feet. She'd tried sitting still, but it made her feel useless. As long as she kept moving, she could be certain the world was the same place it had been before Abel left the
Ursula Ann
. The same place where he still lived and breathed and vexed her with his plans to get to the Diamond.

In his haste to get to Bismarck, he hadn't gotten proper rest or a decent meal. A few days in bed, he'd be back on his feet and . . . they would be right back where they started. Her on a flight to Boston and him on the way to the Diamond. Being separated from Abel by death was a distance she didn’t want to contemplate.

Under her worry, anger bubbled like molten lava. Trust that damned sky pirate to bar her from Abel's cabin. At the insistence of a shaman. The feathered and painted man took one look at her and declared she was in the way. He'd rattled something off in broken English, and when she looked for Van Buren to explain, he'd replied with, “He says you are tainting the air with your worry. The spirits do not like you. Perhaps it is best if you wait above deck.”

For all her protesting that he ought to find a real doctor, Van Buren wouldn't budge on the subject. The nerve of the man! Well, she'd find one herself. She spun on the ball of her foot and headed for the gangplank.

“Where are you off to, Miss Farrington?”

Romy froze, ready to ask how Abel was, when she thought of her new quest. She faced Van Buren, arms akimbo, shoulders square as she looked into his face. “To find him a real doctor. None of this mumbo jumbo you seem so fond of.”

Van Buren didn't seem intimidated by her stance. He stared at her coolly. “The mumbo jumbo, as you say, was not my decision. I suggest you take it up with Abel when he wakes. You are prohibited from leaving my ship.”

Instead of feeling trapped by his words, relief fluttered through her. They weren't going to keep Abel from her. Surely he wasn't going to die. “Is he going to be all right? That witch doctor has cured him?”

“I believe the term is medicine man.” Van Buren's face didn't change, but something in his eyes shifted, almost as though he agreed with her idea. “Go on down, Miss Farrington. You may as well decide for yourself if the medicine he uses is real.”

“We'll discuss my comings and goings at a later time, Captain. Excuse me.” She brushed past him, bumping his arm as she went. He grunted as she passed by, but said nothing.

Her boots thumped the stairs as she ran down. She grabbed the rail at the last second before she collided with the shaman. His deep-set brown eyes regarded her gravely from under a thatch of straight, graying hair.

Romy cleared her throat and straightened herself again. “Excuse me. That man is my friend and I'd like to see how he's doing, if it's all right with your spirits.”

The shaman raised his hand and like magic, the fang appeared on his palm, looking both innocuous and faintly sinister at the same time. Romy blinked, first baffled by the trick, then furious that the old man was stealing from Abel. Never mind that Abel had stolen it to begin with and she’d stolen it from him.

“You can't take that!”

“This bad magic. Serpent want it back and want a soul for payment.” The magician's voice was rusty and dry like the wind through fallen leaves.

A curl of fear wrapped around Romy's stomach. “That's absurd. The Serpent isn't real. It's a myth.”

Spidery wrinkles around his eyes deepened as he frowned. He waved his hand and the fang evaporated into a cloud of dust. “I cannot heal him. Only destroying the Serpent can do that. I get him on his way. Give him this, drink it all.”

He drew a small, corked gourd from the white buckskin satchel at his side. It was painted with a snake baring its fangs. Romy hesitated before reaching for it. “What's in it?”

The shaman shrugged his thin shoulders “Many good things. This give him time. He sleep now, feel better tomorrow. Then he find Serpent, give it payment. Serpent will decide if he lives or—” He made a slashing motion across his throat.

Romy couldn’t her voice. What kind of story was this man selling? He slipped by her as she stared at the crudely painted snake on the gourd.

“Perhaps you can give me some idea of what's wrong with hi—” She turned to look up the stairs but the shaman was gone. A shiver ran up her spine. “He's just an odd old man. Spirits, indeed.”

A tug pulled the cork free, but before she could inhale, the smell made her eyes water. It reminded her of stagnant water after a rainy season in India. “Good heavens, that can't be safe to consume.”

She pushed the cork in again and covered her nose. Well, she'd have another look at Abel herself. Then she'd find a way to contact a real physician, even if she had to throw notes off the deck of the ship to get the attention of someone below. She couldn’t figure when she'd gone from being a paying occupant to a captive.

As she crossed the threshold, Romy released a pent-up breath. Abel lay on the narrow bed beneath a moth-eaten blanket, eyes closed, face drawn, lips slightly parted. She approached, half-afraid of waking him and half-worried he'd never wake up again. Setting the gourd flask aside, she paused before perching on the edge of the bed. He'd regained some of his color, but the flush on his cheeks was too high to be normal.

“Airsickness. Honestly, what a flimsy excuse you stubborn Texan.” Romy took his hand and pressed her lips against his knuckles. His pulse throbbed under her thumb, steady and strong. It gave her hope. Even at odds with each other over the Diamond, she couldn't imagine a world without Abel in it. Couldn't stomach the thought of settling with Woefield. Not after taking part in Abel's adventure.

His eyes opened. The barest hint of dark amber showed through his thick lashes, but her heart jumped with happiness. A faint smile crossed his lips and his fingers squeezed hers.

“You have until the morning to rest. And then if you so much as look the least bit peaky, you're going straight to a doctor with formal training. So you'd best be in top form tomorrow, cowboy.”

Another quick squeeze and his eyes slid shut again. Tears blurred her vision. How ridiculous not to fetch help now. His breathing settled into an even rhythm, the kind of deep sleep he no doubt needed in order to recover.

The dark line of his tattoo curved above the blanket. She hated the sight of it. What was it supposed to represent? Some badge of courage among his Neanderthal friends? Or was it something darker? The mark of a man who truly believed in a serpent created to battle the sun? She tugged the blanket down a few inches to trace the eerie design. Up his arm starting at the elbow, across his collarbone, stopping at . . . Romy stared. Hadn't it just been positioned over the right side of his collarbone? She shifted, studying it from another angle. The diamond-shaped head rested on the left now, a few scant inches above his heart. Her eyes were playing tricks. It was the only explanation she'd accept.