0

Indiana Territory August 1807

THE DAY HAD BEEN UNCOMFORTABLY warm. The

air so still and oppressive that the simple act of breathing took a supreme effort. Lying on the cot, in the comparatively cool shadows of a one room cabin, the heat still seemed to sap Henri’s bodily fluids. His skin felt hot and dry as parchment, and blisters caused his lips to blister and crack. Water. He needed water. From his position against the north wall, he had only to shift his gaze to see the bucket resting on the rough plank table. A bucket filled with water that his daughter had brought from the creek that very morning.

How heavenly it would taste right now! He was not greedy. A dipperful would satisfy this awful craving for a little while. But it was so far away, and he was so weak. If only she would come….

Raven was a dutiful daughter for the most part. And far too young and beautiful to be tending to a sick old man. She’d turned nineteen this very day. She should be wearing stylish, beautiful clothes and dancing with handsome young men. It was her birthright, and he had stolen it from her. The agonizing thirst he felt now was penance for depriving his little girl of her youth. Of course, in the beginning, it had seemed no more than indulging the child’s whim. Since her dear mama’s passing, Raven had become the light and substance of his life. He had petted and spoiled her, and she’d only had to show interest in something for Henri to go out of his way to tutor her.

For this very reason, she could ride and shoot as well as he, and if she was less than adept at womanly arts, like cooking and needlework—well, there would be plenty of time for that when she got older. Or so, he had thought.

Very gradually, the years had slipped away. Raven grew up and grew wild. She delighted in the rough company of the hunters and trappers and Indians who stopped by Henri’s post

to trade. Some were dangerous men, others just lonely for the talk of a woman. Still, he had kept a close eye upon his beautiful daughter. He’d noticed the men’s eyes following her trim figure, and knew it was dangerous for her here. He’d shuddered to think what could happen if a renegade stumbled upon her while he was off on business. For most of her young life, he’d been all that stood between Raven and harm’s way— his presence, and the fact that he was well-respected, had kept her safe. Always, there had been time to broach the subject of learning and academies for a young lady’s refinement, so Henri had felt quite comfortable in postponing discussions that might become uncomfortable in favor of enjoying his little girl’s company. The days, and months, and years had slipped away. His little girl grew up and grew strong-willed—far less easy to manage.

It was his fault that she knew nothing of city life, or the skills required to catch and keep a husband. His fault that she’d become so difficult. Unlike her mother, who had cast her eyes down demurely, Raven met a man’s gaze with a forthrightness that was unnerving. One might even say, scathingly.

She tended to consider herself a man’s equal, a misconception it was too late to change. Now, with the wasting sickness upon him, he grew weaker by the hour—less able to shout her arguments down. What on earth would become of her when he was gone? Henri worried. Did the man exist with the patience to tame his little shrew? And if he did, how would Raven—unwilling to be ruled and made a slave to any man—find him?

His daughter’s predicament preyed upon the old man’s mind. “Sainted Mother of God, deliver us,” he rasped. Water. He needed water. If only he could gather a little strength, he would rise from the cot and reach the bucket. It was but a few steps away, and perhaps the effort would make him feel a little stronger.

EBEN ST. CLAIRE HAD DEVELOPED a strong respect for the sorrel mare he’d bought in St. Louis. She’d carried him back into the mountains when he’d said goodbye to

Meriwether Lewis and William Clark, and she had served him valiantly since, saving his tough hide on several occasions. He called her Cadence for the delicate way she had of placing her hooves, and for the fact that when she cantered, the rhythmic ring of her shoes reminded him of military drums.

The mare was a pleasant animal, with a keen intelligence and an easy disposition—something Eben prized very highly, since it was the one thing that he himself lacked. Over the past decade, he’d garnered a reputation for being a hard-nosed, hard-assed son-of-a-bitch. A reputation justly earned by busting up a string of taverns—and not a few number of heads

—from Pittsburgh, all the way to St. Louis.

Looking back, he liked to think the four years with Captains Lewis and Clark had bled some of the piss ‘n vinegar out of him, adjusting his priorities if not mellowing his bad disposition. Perhaps the time to put his foolishness behind him had finally come. He was thirty-three years and twenty-five days and faced with a sobering choice: begin the long, hard road to success, or die a pox-ridden drifter and a ne’er-do-well without a penny to his name.

If the choice was sobering, at least his desires were clear. He wanted to be more than he was. He wanted money, and he wanted respect. He wanted his legacy to mean something, and if everything went according to plan, it would. Before long, the name St. Claire would be synonymous with fine horseflesh, and he would be a wealthy and powerful man.

The only fly in Eben’s perfect ointment was the young, half-wild stud trailing behind the mare on a short tether. Green as a willow switch, the animal was cantankerous—he was also a goodwill gift from a Mandan chief, and therefore not easily disposed of. The woods were full of Indians, and as a rule, they were terrible gossips. If he sold the stud and the news got back to Half-an-ear, his gift would be deemed unappreciated, and it would cause great offense. Better to lead him home, and then decide what to do with him. Besides, the animal was young. There was always a chance the stallion would mature into something worthwhile, and Eben’s good Scotch frugality

wouldn’t allow him to squander an opportunity to turn a profit until it had been fully examined.

The stud would get his chance, but the mare—the mare was his gem. His beginning.

The land was fairly level, so Eben let his thoughts turn to the future. He pictured the house he would build, the barns and outbuildings. A fine, strong house that would outlast him and be standing long after he was dust.

What he didn’t think of were sons, or daughters, or a wife with which to share his future. He’d been so long without familial threads that thoughts of loved ones never entered in— except perhaps for Jase, the older brother he’d lost so many years ago. Taken captive during the same Indian raid that had robbed him of his mother and father, the chances of Jase surviving were slim, yet, Eben had never quite given up the hope of someday seeing him again.

Brothers were one thing, but women were something else again, and definitely not to be trusted, or relied upon. The man who relied on a woman to be faithful and true was a fool indeed, and Eben had vowed four years ago never to be foolish in that way again. Whores were more to his liking. At least he knew what to expect from a whore. Money changed hands, and his needs were satisfied with no unrealistic expectations on his part or hers—and as long as he kept vigilant, and kept her hands out of his trouser pockets, the outcome was predictable. But, when a man was stupid enough to give his affections to a woman, he became a prostitute himself, giving his time, his trust, his heart, and he was repaid with deceit and betrayal. It was a position in which he never intended to find himself again.

Caught up in his thoughts, he forgot for a moment the tight hold he had on the stud’s tether and urged Cadence down a slight incline and into a rocky streambed. At the sight of the water, the stallion reared up, his sharp hooves coming down across the mare’s solid rump.

The mare screamed and lunged forward, wedging her left foreleg between two jagged rocks and pitching Eben headlong

into the cold water. He gained his feet immediately, streaming water as he stalked toward the cause of his problems. “Damnable mule! What the hell has gotten into you?”

The horse stood, blinking stupidly at him as Eben’s temper soared. He fingered the hilt of the knife at his belt, wishing for the luxury of gelding the jackass here and now—but Cadence waited. Anger tightening his movements, he grabbed the tether. “Lucky for you that I have higher priorities. Your balls are safe for now—just don’t get too attached to them. One more empty-headed move like that, and I’ll have you gelded before you can blink.”

Standing on the bank, favoring her injured leg, Cadence nickered uneasily. That she was standing was indication the leg was not broken, but upon closer examination, he saw it was bleeding and bruised and starting to swell.

Across the wide valley, blue-gray skies were lowering.

Lightning flickered, followed by the distant rumble of thunder. A storm was coming, and his gem, the promise of a brighter future, was lame.

IT WAS RAVEN’S NINETEENTH BIRTHDAY, but she

was in no mood to celebrate. In a very short time, her world had turned on its axis, throwing everything off kilter. The resulting chaos had at first seemed a passing thing. Everyone succumbed to illness now and again. Even Henri, her papa, who was normally hale and hearty. Always when he sickened, he quickly recovered. Surely, she’d thought, this time would be no different. But as the profuse sweats and racking cough alternating with raging fever continued for more than a week, Raven’s mild concern turned to worry, then to panicked denial. She could not allow herself to think the unthinkable, and so she concentrated on making Henri well again.

Now, with the sickness into its fourth week, the feeling of dread that normally filled her only in the heart of the night was choking even in the stark light of afternoon. Henri was dying, and there was nothing to be done but make him as comfortable as possible and wait it out.

She could not allow herself to think about what might come after. She would just have to deal as best she could with a solitary existence when it happened and hope that she was up to the challenge. Off to the west was a low growl of thunder.

She quickened her pace along the path leading to the creek. The storm was slowly advancing, and if she hurried, she might just have time enough to bathe before returning to the cabin with the water. A dip in the creek had become a daily ritual. To deny herself that simple pleasure would make the evening long and uncomfortable. Such a small luxury—one of the very few she could now afford to enjoy.

Even before she reached the deer trail leading down to the water, Raven was shedding her clothes. Her dress was a simple, round-necked affair with small capped sleeves and a high waist. A drawstring at the neckline held it in place, so it was only a moment later that she dropped it to the ground.

Then, naked, she waded into the water. How deliciously cool after the unbearable heat of the day! It lapped at her thighs and hips, as soft and luxurious as satin.

Raven had seen satin once, sewn into a sumptuous lady’s gown, but she had never worn anything so extravagant or frivolous, and she could only imagine how it would feel against her skin. As a young girl, she’d dreamt of someday owning such a gown, but maturity had brought home the stark reality that such luxuries were meant for other young women. But not for her.

RAVEN HAD STILL NOT RETURNED with the water, and Henri’s thirst was a terrible thing. All consuming, he imagined that should it remain unsatisfied, he might burst into flame and burn into ash right there on the cot. He needed water. Now. Feebly, he drew back the shabby blanket and struggled to drag himself upright. Dear God, what the effort cost him. He had to fight the urge to lie back down and die.

Determined to reach the water, he kept his gaze fixed upon the handle of the metal dipper, just protruding above the lip of the bucket. It gave him the strength of lurch to his feet and stagger a few steps closer before his feet got tangled up together and he fell heavily to the floor.

For a long while, Henri lay there dejectedly, his eyes closed, and waited to die. He’d failed. The bucket sat a body’s length away, and yet, he could not reach it. Moaning softly, he sensed, rather than heard someone slowly enter the cabin. His head lolled weakly to one side. Slowly, he opened his eyes and saw close to his shoulder a pair of dusty, square-toed boots that were in deplorable condition. Tucked into those boots were buckskin leggings, made Indian-style, complete with breechclout and fringed seams. The breast of the stranger’s belted hunting frock was covered with lavish beadwork that looked Shoshone, but how could that possibly be? The Shoshone lived far west of the Mississippi, and many days ride from here. It puzzled Henri so deeply that for a moment, he forgot that he lay helpless on the floor, far from his goal. His eyes fastened on the scalping knife the man wore at his belt, and he thought idly that if he could not convince the stranger to get him water, perhaps he would be so kind as to ply the knife to end his misery. At last, Henri’s gaze lit upon the man’s face. It was lean and hard, with skin deeply tanned, and eyes like chips of pale blue ice. Then, there was no more time to look, for he was being lifted and placed with surprising gentleness on the cot.

“M’sieur,” Henri said. “Water, please. Over there.” The hand he lifted to indicate the bucket’s position was skin and bones. He watched the man fetch the dipper. Saw the precious drops that fell from the bottom to the floor and licked his lips.

Within seconds, Henri was eased upright and supported with an arm at his back. “Easy does it,” the stranger said as Henri drank and sputtered.

The dipper was drained, and Henri sighed. His guest replaced the dipper and stood looking down at him. He seemed reluctant to speak. Henri was not as reticent. Providence had at last smiled down upon him, sending him the golden-haired, bearded frontiersman, in lieu of an angel. “My thanks, m’sieur, for your assistance. It was a kindly god who sent you here at this most trying moment of my life.”

The stranger grunted in reply. “No god, old man. Just a block-headed jack-ass who caused my mare to come up lame.”

He glanced around. “You live here alone?”

“No, no. Not alone. My daughter lives here with me. Please excuse my lapse in manners. We have so few visitors these days. My name is Delacour—Henri Delacour. I am a Canadian by birth, and a trader by profession. I have lived here many years, but do not recall seeing you before. Yours is a face I would not forget.”

“I have not been by this way before today. The name is St. Claire, and I am headed East—or at least I was, until that fool horse wrecked my plans.”

“St. Claire. You are French, perhaps?”

“Scotch-Irish mostly. My pa’s pa was born in Belfast.” “An Irishman of good character, no doubt.”

Those pale eyes flickered over Henri, chilling him to the marrow. “They hanged him for a horse thief a score of years before I was born.” He shrugged, as if it did not matter.

Henri’s chill intensified.

He’d known many of this man’s figurative kith and kin over the years and they were a tough breed often given to violence that equaled anything the natives could deal out. Henri could only hope and pray that this man was different. He had few options left to him and could not afford to be too discriminating—but neither was he eager to place his daughter’s future into the hands of an unprincipled ruffian. He would need to proceed with caution. “Will you fetch up a chair and sit a while? As I said before, we don’t get many visitors, and news is always welcome.”

Eben considered the man’s request. It was not at all an unusual one. Contact with the outside world was often infrequent on the frontier, and visitors were a ready source of information, news, and gossip. “My animals are still in the dooryard, and one is lame. I saw the smoke from your chimney and thought to buy a night’s lodging in your barn or shed. I can pay you for the trouble.”

The invalid waved aside the notion of payment. “I would not think of taking payment from you, m’sieur. You have been

most kind to help me, and now you are my honored guest. You say your mount is lame? If it can wait a moment or two, my daughter will be returning. She has some knowledge of herbs and will be glad to lend her talents to heal your animal. Would you care for some refreshment? There is a demijohn over there on the shelf. Bring it and settle your bones for a little while.”

Eben found the wicker-bottomed jug and extracted the cork with his teeth. The distinctive aroma of brandy floated up to tease his senses. It had been a long time since he’d had anything except the swill that passed for whiskey in the wilderness. Colored with leaves and mixed with gunpowder to provide its kick, more than a swallow could turn a man’s stomach inside out and his bowels to water. He’d avoided it, and he’d been as sober as a nun since saying goodbye to civilization. It had taken its toll on him, however, and lately he’d found himself dreaming of the fine liquor Zeb stocked in the inn’s cavernous cellar. It was all he could do to resist tipping the jug right then and there and instead found a metal cup for his host. He wasn’t completely uncouth, no matter what the Frenchman might think.

“Salut, mon ami.”

“To the benefits of civilization,” Eben returned in kind. He hooked his forefinger through the handle and, resting the weight of the jug on a muscled forearm, took a few leisurely swallows. The liquor went down like liquid silk, blossoming in his belly in the same way flowers opened their petals to the warmth of the sun. Some of the tension drained out of him as he lowered the jug, placed it beside the Frenchman’s bed, and sank into the chair. “My thanks, Monsieur. I haven’t had anything so fine in ages.”

“You are most welcome. I believe you mentioned that you are traveling to the East?”

“Aye. As far as Pittsburgh, then north along the Allegheny.” The brandy’s glow spread outward, taking the ache from his bones that came from a long day on horseback, loosening his tongue. There had been times in the past two years when loneliness and solitude of the mountains had nearly driven him mad, when he’d longed to hear the sound of another voice,

besides his own. When the longing seeped deep into his soul, he’d dreamt at night of Meg’s kitchen—the dim warmth of the brick hearth, the fragrance of drying herbs hanging from the rough crossbeams, even the discordant jangle of Meg’s constant bitching.

He’d always been prideful, telling himself that he needed no one—but after those dreams, he’d known himself as a bit of self-deceiver, too. Perhaps it was that realization that made him indulgent of a dying man’s wishes, that turned him thoughtful of the reception he might receive upon arriving at the closest thing he’d ever had to a home. Zeb McAllister wasn’t getting any younger, and neither was Meg.

The invalid’s voice cut into his musings. “The brandy does not set well on m’sieur’s stomach? You do not drink, and you wear a frown.”

“It sits very well, thank you. Yet, for some reason it is bringing to mind things I would rather forget. I’ve delayed long enough, and should see to my mount—”

As Eben pushed from his chair, the cunning old bastard held out his cup. Eben sat back down. “Another dram, perhaps? And then you can go. You must join me in a toast. We drink to your safe journey! To my hospitality! To the fairer sex!”

Eben had matched him drink for drink, but on this last bit he choked and sputtered. “Fairer sex, ha! They are all evil bitches!”

“Ah,” the man said, wagging a boney finger. “Not all, my friend. It is just that you have not met the right one!”

“Ha!” Eben said. “Women are trouble, plain and everything but simple. I’m done with them, and this time for good.

Witches, the lot of them, and I won’t let another one get her hooks into me.”

“Bitches and witches,” Henri scoffed. “You are far too young to be so jaded. Too young to have seen much of the world—let alone, of women.” He held out the cup. Eben splashed liquor into it and hoisted the jug twice again himself.

“I’ve been around, and that you can count on. Been as far as the Pacific, and to the Shining Mountains. And believe me, I’ve seen enough of women to last me several lifetimes.”

“The Shining Mountains, eh? Then, the beadwork on your frock is indeed Shoshone?”

“You’ve a damned good eye, Henry.”

Henri shrugged, his bones poking against his nightshirt. “This, I can’t deny.”

Eben pulled the frock out from his chest and stared down at the beadwork. It was fuzzier now than it had been a minute ago, and he thought that it must have gathered dust from a long day’s travel—despite his earlier dip in the creek. “A young Shoshone girl made this shirt for me. The wife of the interpreter. He was a Frenchman, too, but more asshole than anything.” He sighed and took a small swallow from the jug— just enough to wash away the thought of Sacajewea and her child as her imbecile husband paddled them away. He’d grown quite fond of the girl. “She was most unfortunate in her choices, but doubtless too young to know any better.”

“This girl was not a bitchy witch, then?” Henri said slyly.

Sacajew—Saca—no, not her. She was just a kid. Barely out of swaddling.”

“But with a husband and child?” “Even so.”

“Tell me, dear friend. Do you travel with companions?”

Eben shook his head and the room swam crazily before righting itself. He was getting a little drunk. Not dreadful drunk. Just a trifle. It felt good to let go, and relax, and the old man was a fine companion, for all that he was hovering near death’s door. “No companions. Companions are for lesser men. I’m alone, and I like it that way.”

“You have been gone a long time from home? Your wife, this witchy bitch, she must be most anxious for your return, eh?” Henri chuckled, and Eben burst out laughing.

“Witchy, bitchy wifey—that’s a good one, Henry. I thought we were through this already. I don’t have a woman, or a wife

—bitchy or witchy, or waif-like—and I don’t want one.” Eben put a finger to his lips, though it took him two tries to find them. The brandy had loosened his tongue at both ends, and he didn’t give a flying frig. Damned if he didn’t like Henry, who was a fine drinking companion, for all that the Devil had him by the elbow. “I’m a man about to build a breeding empire.

This empire is gonna be—well, empire-like. Impressive by any standards. But, it’ll take some doing. A lot of concentrated effort. I can’t afford to be distracted for even a minute.

Therefore, women, witchy, bitchy, or even angelic—should there be such a thing on the face of this Earth—are not a good idea.”

“Ah, but you can’t build this empire until you reach your destination, is that not true?”

“No. I suppose not.”

“And such an empire will require funding, will it not?” “It will, if I am to do it right and properly, within a

reasonable amount of time.”

“And—since you can’t begin this concentrated effort until you reach your home, and you will need money to accomplish your goals, then it would surely not hurt to add to the funds you have set aside, by say—doing a small favor for an old man who is not long for this world?”

“Ah, ha!” Eben said. “Henry, you sneaky old bastard, I knew you were after something! Plying me with brandy!”

“You are far too smart for me, my fine friend,” Henri admitted. “I do have a proposal to lay before you, that if you but agree, will aid you in achieving your dreams of empire- building.”

“Go on,” Eben said, stroking his chin, and thinking he needed a shave. “I am listening.”

“You have seen my predicament. I have little time left to me, and when I am gone, my Raven will be left all alone. She has no family, except for me, and no one to care for her. This

world is cruel, my friend. I do not wish to leave my child to the mercy of the wolves. She will need a protector—but only for a short time. Someone to look after her and keep her safe until she can be settled in the East.”

Eben tipped back his tawny head and howled his mirth at the ceiling. When he’d finished laughing, he wiped the tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand. “Not only are you dying, Henry—you are also quite insane. I am no one’s nursemaid.”

“No one expects you to be. My Raven is quite self- sufficient. A good hand with making medicines, potions, and elixirs. She can catch a fish with her bare hands, and she is fast as lightning on her feet.”

“I’m sorry for your predicament, Henry, but no must mean no. I’m a man on a mission. I need to travel fast. Besides that, there are at least a hundred reasons why this is a bad idea, beginning with the fact that she is female, and females are trouble.”

“She needs someone strong and courageous. Someone formidable to protect and guide her. Come now, my dear old friend, what is it? A few days? A week? Surely, you can pretend she is just an effeminate boy for so short a period of time?”

“You do not know what you are asking,” Eben insisted. “One week, Eben? Just one? Surely you can withstand the

hellish inconvenience for, shall we say, the sake of a thousand dollars?”

Eben had been staring at the toes of his old worn-out boots.

Now, his head came up. “Say again?”

“One thousand dollars. To take my little girl to Pittsburgh, and to see her settled. All she needs is decent lodging.

Someone to look in on her from time to time. To make sure she makes the right choices. In a few years, when she reaches the age of majority, she can marry. It is all I ask from this life

—to know she is in safe, strong hands.”

Eben was imagining how he would cope with a weeping, swooning creature that succumbed to tears and tantrums at the drop of a hat and insisted in indulging in the vapors every five minutes. It was a nightmare scenario, weighed hard against the prospect of a thousand dollars. “This is a bad idea, Henry.

Very bad.”

“Then, I have your word on it? You will protect my Raven from harm? Keep her safe? And see that she is settled in the East?”

“It goes against my grain,” Eben said with a long-suffering sigh. “But aye, I’ll take the chit to civilization and find a niche for her, so that you may die in peace.”

“I’ll have your hand on it, then.”

Henri thrust his bone-filled sack into Eben’s large, strong hand, and gripped hard. “It is done. May God bless you and keep you, my friend.”

Eben smiled a grim smile. “May God have mercy on my soul.”