When The Heart Beckons (19 page)

She shifted slightly on the sofa, taking
care not to put pressure on her wound. It did no good fussing over
Roy Steele, she told herself sharply as the wind rattled at the
cabin windows. He wasn’t her problem. Brett was —and so was Mr.
McCallum. Roy Steele, more than anyone she’d ever known, could fend
for himself.

Yet sleep eluded her until a brisk rain
began to fall. The plunk plunk of the raindrops on the cabin’s roof
had a soothing effect—she knew somehow that the roof wouldn’t leak
and the chill wind wouldn’t seep through any wall cracks because
Roy Steele had built this cabin and she figured that anything he
put his hand to was going to be as efficient as he was. A feeling
of calmness overtook her. She drew the rough blanket up to her
cheek and felt her eyes drifting shut. She was safe here, safe with
Roy Steele in this snug little cabin, hidden away in the most
exquisite valley on earth. For tonight, she didn’t have to worry,
she didn’t have to think, or plan ...

All she had to do was sleep.

She woke in the morning to a cool cloudy
day, with drizzle still dripping from a washed-out sky, and the
cabin strangely silent. She glanced over at Roy Steele’s bedroll,
and blinked.

He was gone. So were his bedroll and his
pack. And his hat.

All gone.

St. Louis

C
oming here is
dangerous,” Charles Derrickson whispered in urgent protest as he
glanced nervously around the foyer of the McCallum house and then
peered out at Lucas Johnson waiting on the porch. “Sir, it’s a
foolish, wholly unnecessary risk! Why you insisted on meeting here
in this house at this hour I will never under—”

“Get out of my way, Derrickson.” Johnson
strolled past him placidly, smiling beneath his elegant beaver hat.
Behind him, murky moonlight glowed in an inky sky, revealing the
carriage that waited at the curb. Derrickson saw Johnson’s
efficient right-hand man, Bartholomew, seated inside that carriage,
staring out the window.

“I don’t like to be kept waiting,” Johnson
murmured coolly, as he entered the black and white marble tiled
hall, gently clasping his cane. “And we have important business to
conduct.”

“Yes, sir. I know. But if I’m caught letting
you in ...”

“Stop your chattering. I’m not the least bit
interested in your fears.”

“Y-yes, sir.” Derrickson clamped his mouth
shut, but his hands were trembling. He was terrified that at any
moment the butler or one of the maids or the cook would appear,
roused from their beds by some sixth sense that an intruder had
entered the house, but all was silent as a tomb as the hall clock
ticked away, revealing the hour to be nearly one o’clock in the
morning. Still he cast nervous glances all about as Johnson strode
through the splendid gloom of the hallway as though he owned this
magnificent house himself and continued past the ornately carved
hall table and huge gold-framed mirror to the carved double doors
of Ross McCallum’s study.

He sailed in, took a swift perusal of the
dim, handsome room lit at this hour only by a single lamp, and
glanced at Derrickson with satisfaction.

“It is time;” he said calmly, as Derrickson
rushed to close the doors, “to begin phase two. Do you have the
signatures?”

Derrickson bobbed his head. “Yes. It was
actually quite easy to get them, thanks to that drug you provided.
I put it in his brandy, sir, just as you instructed.” His tone was
low and anxious, and he kept his hands clasped together in hopes
that Johnson would not see their trembling. He sensed instinctively
that the man before him both loathed and savored other men’s
weaknesses and would prey upon them like a carrion bird if given
the chance. “It’s made him weak and ill, just as you said. He paid
no attention when I thrust the papers before him and told him it
was merely some routine contracts he was signing. Never even
glanced at them.”

“Excellent.” Johnson’s eyes gleamed so
maliciously in the amber lamplight that they infused his
countenance with a satanic aspect. He pivoted to study the painting
of Livinia McCallum that hung like a beautiful ghostly vision upon
the wall. As he did so, a strange, eerily excited expression
crossed his face, an expression so diabolical it made Derrickson
want to cringe and hide. It was only under the direst willpower
that he managed to stay rooted to the spot, watching the dashing,
elegantly clad Johnson study Livinia’s portrait as though no other
object existed in the room.

“Thus we can proceed,” Johnson said softly.
“When the time is right, Bartholomew will have the papers delivered
to Herbert Ervin. But now tell me all that has been going on. The
private investigator—”

“Is a woman!” Derrickson broke in suddenly,
reminded of the urgency of his news.

This at least diverted Johnson’s attention
from the portrait and he swung his shrewd gaze to the other man’s
sweat-sheened face. “Really? How do you know?”

“Stevenson came this afternoon to give
McCallum a report. I eavesdropped outside the door—not much was
new, but I did hear Stevenson say that he was sure “she” would be
filing a report soon. I would have expected McCallum to have roared
about a woman performing a man’s job, but he was apparently too ill
from the drug. He took to his bed, and Stevenson left. I showed him
out myself.”

Lucas Johnson paced to the desk, surveyed it
briefly, then settled himself in the deep leather armchair behind
it. “A woman,” he mused. His eyes lit with amusement. “So much the
better. She’ll cause us no trouble. I’ll have Bartholomew send a
telegraph message as soon as I hear from Cobb once more, alerting
him to be on the watch for a female investigator. Although such
caution may not even be necessary, for surely by now Cobb is
closing in upon young Master Brett and finishing the job.”

Derrickson shivered at the cold taunting
quality in Lucas Johnson’s voice. More than once, he had wondered
what this brilliant and wealthy man had against the McCallums—why
he was exerting every resource to visit such punishment upon them,
but he had never had the courage to ask. And he didn’t now. He was
being well paid for his role in the plot, and it was much better
not to know too much. He sensed, though, that the evil obsession
driving Lucas Johnson was growing more pervasive by the day.
Entering the house had seemed to transform the man, unleashing an
even more fervent bloodlust than Derrickson had glimpsed before.
The flesh on the back of his pallid neck crawled as Johnson sneered
up at the molded ceiling, his flushed face taking on a cruelly
mocking aspect.

“So the mighty Ross McCallum sleeps, ill and
confused, above us.” He chuckled in a low tone. “What would he say
or do if he knew that I was here in his house right now, feasting
my eyes upon the portrait of his dead wife, sitting in his chair,
plotting the demise of his son and of all he holds dear?”

Silence fell but for the ticking of the
bronze clock upon the mantle. Derrickson shifted from one foot to
the other, wishing he had never become involved in any of this.
But the money
, he reminded himself as he waited nervously
for Johnson to decide to leave.
You will be a wealthy
man.

That settled his stomach a bit, enough to
allow him to smile as Lucas Johnson at last rose reluctantly from
the green leather chair and made his way toward the door.

“You’d best ease off on the drug a bit,”
Johnson warned as he paused before stepping out once more into the
thick-misted night. “Otherwise McCallum will be dead before I have
the satisfaction of killing him in my own special way and time. And
that, my dear Charles, would make me incalculably angry.”

Derrickson gulped and nodded, his head
bobbing like a puppet’s. “Yes, sir. I won’t give him another drop.
I’ll do my best to see to it that he stays well until—”

“See that you do. And remember he mustn’t
know anything about the Ruby Palace or anything else, not a hint,
not a suspicion. He must walk into my trap of his own volition and
without any warning of what is to come.”

“Certainly, sir. Of course. I perfectly
understand.”

Johnson descended the steps with a jaunty
twirl of his cane, and a moment later vanished inside his carriage.
When the vehicle had rounded the corner, Derrickson closed the door
of the mansion and leaned against it, shuddering in the dimly lit
hall.

It would all be over soon.

But not soon enough to suit his tastes. The
money was splendid, but he wasn’t equipped for this association
with men like Johnson, Bartholomew, and Cobb. They thrived on
violence, while he loathed it.

It repelled his every sensibility.

But not enough to make him wish to warn Ross
McCallum or to end his own involvement in the matter. No, that
would be tantamount to suicide, for then Johnson would come after
him
. No, no, no. And, he reassured himself as he headed up
the wide staircase toward the room he had taken in the east wing of
the house—the better to assist Ross McCallum during this stressful
period—the tidy fortune Lucas Johnson would ultimately pay him
would eventually assuage all of his guilt and his misgivings.

He smiled, thinking of luxurious travels
throughout Europe, of countesses and duchesses sending him
invitation cards for elegant balls, of beauteous young women
fawning over him and flirting as he had seen them do time after
time with Brett McCallum.

Ah yes, Derrickson decided as he reached the
head of the stairs. His conscience would certainly be eased. Riches
beyond measure would provide a certain cure.

F
ear flashed
through Annabel as she stared in disbelief at the empty spot where
Steele had been sleeping. Dear Lord, how could this be? She jumped
up from the sofa, her heart in her throat, and ran to the door,
smothering the cry of panic that sprang to her lips.

“Steele!” she shouted into the damp summer
morning, but almost before she had the word out, she felt herself
grabbed and yanked hard against the wall of the cabin. A strong
hand clamped over her mouth.

“Not a word,” a man’s rough, deep voice
growled in her ear. “Not one damned word.”

But she recognized that voice—it belonged to
Roy Steele. He held her so tightly she couldn’t move, couldn’t even
turn her head to look at him, but then after a moment, when he knew
she would no longer scream, he released her and dragged her back
inside the cabin.

“Five men on the ridge just south of Buffalo
Canyon,” he told her in a curt tone. “I think they’re an outlaw
band, heading here to hide out. Or else they’re just passing
through. Either way, we don’t want to meet up with them if we don’t
have to.”

He was already sweeping the cabin with his
eyes, checking everything as his gaze darted about. “Get your gear
together. We’re leaving pronto.”

She sensed the tension in him, though his
manner and words were calm. In fact, he sounded so cool, so
matter-of-fact, that they might have been discussing the kinds of
flowers growing on the hillside, only they weren’t.

Annabel stuffed everything back into her
carpetbag and hurried with him toward the door, noting how he had
in a few quick movements erased all evidence of their presence in
the cabin.

“Doesn’t it bother you, thinking of other
people coming in here, making a mess of the place, staying as if it
belonged to them?” she couldn’t help asking as he took her arm and
escorted her out into the drizzle.

“I’ve got no ties to anyplace or anyone or
anything,” he shot back coldly. “If someone wants to hole up here,
I don’t give a damn. Now let’s go.”

The horses were already saddled and packed.
“You’re riding with me,” Steele told her. “It’ll be quicker and
quieter that way.”

He hoisted her up into the saddle and then
vaulted up behind her as Annabel smoothed out her skirts. They were
off before she had time to even give one last fleeting glance back
at the cabin.

Somehow, she didn’t think he was being
entirely truthful with her about his indifference at having
strangers invade the cabin. Or maybe he wasn’t being truthful with
himself. For some reason Roy Steele didn’t want to stake a claim to
anything, even a place he had built with his own two hands and
which he clearly loved.

They rode only a short distance before he
halted Dickens beneath a bluff. The drizzle had ended, but the day
was gray and damp. Steele left her there with the horses and an
extra rifle, explaining that he would circle back to the cabin and
erase their tracks. Before Annabel could so much as nod agreement,
he had disappeared back the way they had come.

She dismounted and waited, fighting the
anxiety within her by performing a swift toilette, brushing her
hair and pinning it up as best she could, watching for Steele
uneasily each time a twig snapped or one of the horses whickered.
It seemed like hours before she saw his tall, black-clad figure
come into view, approaching her with the quietly graceful,
purposeful stride that characterized him.

“They’re definitely making for the cabin.”
Without further preamble, he lifted her up into the saddle once
more. “They must know these brakes pretty well to have found it. Or
else they’ve been here before.”

“It’s lucky you happened to see them
coming.”

He threw her an amused look. “Luck had
nothing to do with it, Miss Brannigan. It’s common sense to scout
things out when you’re in these parts. Particularly when—”

He broke off.

“Particularly when what?”

“When you’re escorting a beautiful woman.”
His tone held no emotion as he mounted behind her.

“Oh. Oh, I ... see.” So he thought she was
beautiful? That certainly beat being tiresome, she reflected
happily. Annabel tried to stifle the joyful butterflies swooping up
into her chest, but they fluttered unfettered in riotous circles of
delight. She wanted to thank him for the compliment, but decided it
would sound stupid, so instead she kept quiet and concentrated all
her energy on containing the smile that threatened to burst across
her lips.