Adella's Enemy (11 page)

“You’ve never done this,” he continued. “And I don’t want to hur—”

She thrust herself against him, taking him to the hilt. The stab of pain startled her. She cried out. So did
he.

He hovered over her, inside her.
Motionless. Then he shuddered as if in pain as well. “I’ve hurt you. From the moment I saw you, I worried I would. I’m sorry.” He gathered her close. His heart raced in time with hers. “But I’m not sorry about what comes next.”

“What comes next?”

“When you’re ready, you’ll see.”

“How long will that be?” She shifted against him, trying to get comfortable. Unexpected pleasure streaked through her. A groan rumbled deep in his chest and his hips rocked hers. Another all too fleeting burst of desire left her undulating with need.

Cormac moved with her, setting a pace she eagerly followed. Her need swelled, rising in surges, like waves on an ocean with no end in sight. Then her hunger spiked, sudden and overpowering as Cormac sent her over the edge and followed. She soared in weightless wonder, then drifted free of thought or care.

A lump of bed sheet irritated her spine. She hadn’t thought she’d moved, but
Cormac released her and rolled onto his side. Reaching beneath her, she pulled free his linen shirt.

A blush heated her cheeks as she recalled his words:
You’d make my oldest shirt look breathtaking.
What must he think of her now?

His fingers brushed her hand. “You want me to leave?”

She clutched the garment to her chest and turned away, employing her body as a shield. “The nights are still chilly. I hoped I might wear your shirt.”

“Save it for the morning.” He drew the covers over them. His torso and thighs formed a warm arc around her backside. “Tonight, I’m loath to allow anything to come between us.” His arm curled around her, pulling her close again. “Thank you for finally deciding to share everything with me.”

But she hadn’t. Not everything. She hadn’t told him about Helga and her dynamite, and Fergal and his plan to kill Parsons.

Fear, like a double-edged sword, prevented her from relaxing into
Cormac’s embrace. One edge of the blade held the old dread: if she told him everything, he might walk away from her in disappointment. But the other edge promised an even great terror: if she didn’t speak now, she might lose him in the most painful way possible.

Cormac
might die. He might die because of her.

She rolled to face him. “This afternoon when you asked what Helga said to me…”

“Aye?” He rubbed her back with a reassuring patience.

“She’s decided that blowing up the track will help her keep her farm. She had dynamite in her basket.”

A long silence elapsed before he replied. “The closest source of dynamite is the Katy’s stockpile.”

“Yes, she said her supplier was—”

“Fergal.”

Feeling like a traitor, she lowered her gaze. “She wouldn’t give me a name.”

“But you suspected Fergal. You went straight to him.” His embrace tightened, then relaxed. Not completely though. A tenseness, that hadn’t been there before, remained. “Why seek him out?”

“I thought he might be one of the Irish outlaws who derailed the train.”

Cormac released an extended breath and his stiffness vanished. “
To tyrants we’ll not yield.”

She nodded. “It’s from the Confederacy’s
Battle Cry of Freedom
.” Her words poured out like stones, once freed, falling fast down a mountain. “Fergal told me that when Parsons arrives on the next train, he plans to kill him.” Pulling out of Cormac’s arms, she sat up. “I need to stop him and Helga too. If something happens because I didn’t—”

He sat up beside her and hushed her worries with his lips. His kiss stole her breath and filled her heart with only one thing—the promise of love. “Nothing will happen,” he whispered, resting his forehead against hers, “because we’re united now. I can’t lose with a partner like you on my side.”

His lopsided smile tore at her heartstrings. She wasn’t sure she felt the same way. With Cormac beside her, she had so much more to lose.

Chapter 9

Adella
woke, warm and sated and content. An unusual feeling. A wonderful feeling. A feeling made possible because Cormac filled her bed and her thoughts.

Rolling over, she reached for him. Her arms found…emptiness. She bolted upright. Her gaze scoured her hotel room. Empty as well. Her happiness died as swiftly as a spring flower in a snowstorm.

Cormac had left her.

A flash of white atop her dresser caught her eye.
A piece of paper? A letter! Scrambling free of the bedcovers, she tore across the room. Bold handwriting slanted across the page.
 

You are just as beautiful asleep as awake.

Could not bear to wake you. Gone to find Fergal and Helga.

Stay safe. STAY in this room where I can find you.

Will return as soon as I can.

Cormac

Relief made her wilt against the dresser. He hadn’t left her. Hard on the heels of her respite, alarm snapped her spine straight. Cormac didn’t run from troubles or squander time sleeping in. He’d gone out to face their troubles head-on.

Snatching her dress from the floor, she donned the garment with fumbling fingers. The tiny enamel buttons thwarted her. The black bombazine mocked her. Widow’s weeds for a lover she might never marry.

More than a lover. A loved one. If anything happened to Cormac— Her thoughts splintered, their razor-sharp edges left her gasping.

She forced herself to draw in a deep breath. Now more than ever she must not falter. She must find
Cormac. She couldn’t lose him like Declan. She wouldn’t let him die.
To my very last breath, I pledge to keep you safe.

She jerked on her drawers and boots. Too impatient to do more, she raced out of the room and down the stairs. Her unbound hair bounced on her back with each step. Her footfalls pounded out a drum roll.
Faster. Faster. Hurry. Hurry.

At the bottom, stock-still behind his counter, the hotel clerk’s wide-eyed stare confirmed her crazy appearance. She sprinted across the lobby. Outside, she slammed to a halt on the front porch, wrapping an arm around a post for support.

Where to search first? If she chose wrong, it might mean the difference between life and death. Fergal was intent on killing Parsons. Would he hurt Cormac if he stood in his way? And Helga, would she care if anyone got in her way when she blew up the track?

The usual wave of people and wagons flowed by, as if nothing were different. Today, everything was different.

Down the far end of the nearest footpath, the uneven gait of a man snagged her attention. The man limped and leaned on a cane. Fergal.

Adella
chased after him, side-stepping approaching pedestrians, darting around those heading in the same direction. She bumped elbows, trod on toes, apologized, but continued pushing forward. Three strides—and one pudgy storekeeper—away from reaching Fergal, a butcher in a stained apron halted to address the storekeeper. The two men stood with hands clasped, blocking the entire footpath.

She leapt into the mud. The sticky earth rendered it a monumental task to take a single step let alone hurry. She pinned her gaze on Fergal’s back while he limped farther and farther away. Fergal paused at a corner, turned right and disappeared.

Finally clear of the men, she clambered back onto the footpath. With a prayer lodged in her throat, she sprinted forward and around the corner, Fergal stood not twenty paces away talking intently to a big blonde woman. Adella sprang back behind the nearest clapboard wall. Pressing her chest against the rough timbers, she stole a peak at her quarry.

Thank Dixie.
She’d found both Fergal and Helga. And they hadn’t seen her.

Unfortunately, the distance between her and them made it impossible for
Adella to hear their conversation. At least Helga didn’t have her basket. Relief, followed swiftly by anxiety, crashed over her like rogue waves. If Helga didn’t have her dynamite, where was it? And where was Cormac?

Part of her hoped he was far away, at the worksite or even farther away with the survey team. Another part yearned for his stalwart presence and steadfast help. Once again, she was alone. And, although she couldn’t hear anything Fergal and Helga said, the tension in their gestures spoke volumes.

Today was the day, the day someone died because of her failure to act. Just like with Declan. She couldn’t wait for Cormac or for anyone else. She must do whatever it took. Right now.

Shoving away from her hiding place, she strode toward Fergal and Helga. A rumbling filled her ears. Suddenly, she was being jostled and pushed. A parade of dirty railroad workers and cleaner townsfolk surged past her, both on the footpath and in the mud. Their noise sharpened into individual chatter and footfalls.

Why weren’t the workmen at the worksite? Why were the townsfolk on the street with them? It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that their intrusion made it difficult to keep Fergal and Helga in sight. She mustn’t lose them. She pushed through the crowd.

Fergal and Helga were moving as well now. Fergal had turned down another street, while Helga continued on with the crowd.
Adella halted at the juncture separating the two, her gaze jumping between them. Who should she follow? Her decision might mean the difference between Parsons’ life and death, or any number of the people around her.

“
Adella,” a familiar voice said behind her.

Turning, she found Kate Parsons gazing at her intently.

“I’m so glad I found you.” Kate moved closer. “I need your help.”

Her help?
Adella needed to
get
help not give it. Could she ask Kate to watch Helga or Fergal? No, not Fergal. What if he decided to hurt Kate to get back at her father?

“Can you bring your camera to the station?” Kate glanced at the crowd and smiled. “I’m organizing a—”

“Kate,” Adella said, laying her palm on Kate’s arm to gain her full attention. “I know this may sound peculiar, but I need you to follow Helga.”

Kate shook her head so vigorously that several vibrant curls fell free of her tight coiffure. “I can’t. Not now. I’m organizing a welcome reception for my father and an investor. They’re arriving on the next train.”

“The train?” Dread grayed the corners of Adella’s vision. Under her hand, Kate’s arm was a blessing, keeping her upright. “When does the train arrive?”

“In a few minutes.
Adella… You don’t look well. What’s wrong?”

“I need you to keep Helga away from the station. She’s planning to—” How could she explain without incriminating Fergal? She didn’t want anyone hurt, including Fergal. She needed to stop him without getting him jailed. He wouldn’t survive another prison. Not after what he’d suffered while incarcerated in Camp Douglas alongside Declan.

Fergal continued limping away, but Helga had halted. Adella hadn’t lost track of either one. She still had time. But only minutes. The blasted train—

Helga had drawn a small knot of women around her. She towered over them, her face set in hard lines, her lips moving quickly.

“Dear lord,” Kate breathed out. “Is Helga staging another protest? I can’t let her do that. Not today.” She strode toward the group.

“Kate, wait! I need to tell you—”

With a swift step and a steadfast gaze, Kate bore down on her target. Adella glanced in Fergal’s direction. His silhouette was small and distant. What if he ducked down another pathway and she lost him for good?

She chased after him. Worry for Kate pricked her conscience, but she also felt a sense of relief. If anyone could stop Helga, it would be Parsons’ determined daughter. And
Adella had enlisted Kate’s help without incriminating Fergal. Her luck was improving.

With the additional blessing of a footpath and street now vacant of people, she eliminated the gap between her and Fergal. Just behind him, she slowed to a walk and touched his sleeve. “Fergal—”

He spun around, the cane in his hand an arcing blur. She jumped back. Not soon enough. Pain exploded in her shoulder. She fell sideways, landing on her knees in the soft mud.

Fergal’s narrowed eyes and pinched lips instantly opened wide with shock. “Del,” he gasped in hoarse voice. Then he flung away his cane and leapt down to kneel beside her. “I’m sorry.” He bowed his head and lifted her hands to his lips. “You’re the last person I wanted to hurt.”

Hope muted the pain in her arm to a dull ache. This was the Fergal she knew. She could save him. And if she did, she would save Parsons and everyone else.

A forlorn whistle called.
Thin and drawn out. An approaching train whistle.

Fergal raised his head, tilting it toward the sound. “Don’t follow me again.” His voice was hard and low. “Stay out of this. Only one of us need sacrifice their future to avenge the past.” He released her abruptly, and none too gently, and stood.

Her hope shriveled.

“Fergal!”
The shout, a fierce but still feminine reprimand, had come from the footpath.

Eden stood there, fists on hips, glaring at Fergal. “Why are you abusing Miss Willows in such a fashion? That’s not like you.”

Fergal backed away from them. His cane lay in the mud, forgotten. So was his limp. “Return to your saloon, Eden, and take Adella with you,” he said and then ran toward the station.

Bending down, Eden reached past the shoulder Fergal had struck to grasp
Adella’s other arm and help her onto the footpath. “How badly are you hurt?”

Adella
avoided Eden’s searching gaze. “Fergal didn’t mean to hit me.”

“Miss Willows,” Eden replied in a tight voice. “Violent behavior such as that cannot be excused.”

The train whistle came again. Shriller. Louder. Closer.

Adella
swallowed hard. “You’re right. The time for excuses is long gone. Can you find Cormac or the McGrady Gang?”

Eden’s brows arched, but she nodded. “There’s no time to waste I expect.”

“There isn’t.”

“Where shall I instruct them to find you?”

“The station.” Adella made a beeline for that destination.

Kate’s welcome reception clogged the station’s stairs, rendering it impossible to reach the platform.
Adella only gained the second step. The boards vibrated beneath her feet as they’d done that first day in New Chicago when Cormac bounded up to rally his new recruits. Today, Kate, still dressed in her military jacket and trouser skirt, had assembled her own recruits—a group of civilians about to be blown apart by Fergal and Helga.

Suddenly, a handful of the
McGrady Gang were behind her, then rallying around her.

“I need to reach the train,” she told them.

With silent nods, they pushed through the throng, forging a path for her to follow. Above the heads of the crowd, the engine’s stack appeared, belching acrid smoke as it led the train into the station. The McGrady Gang guided her to a prime spot where a private railcar—even more extravagant than Stevens’—halted in front of Fergal. Her mouth went dry and fear choked her.

At least Helga was nowhere in sight. Time remained to stop the violence. But now, rather than minutes,
Adella only had seconds. The McGrady Gang withdrew a pace, giving her room while shielding her from the crowd. Stevens strode out of the throng and climbed the railcar’s stairs. He reached for the door.

Dread sharpened her thoughts to one word.
“Stop!” She took the final step and stood on the platform’s edge beside Fergal.

An enthusiastic brass band struck up a tune and drowned her out. Stevens opened the door. A short, small-boned man with gray hair stepped through. Levi Parsons’ eyes, as bright blue and determined as his daughter’s, surveyed the crowd. Their clapping amplified the din. Parsons raised a hand in acknowledgment. Stevens stood behind him, smiling,
his hand still on the door.

“You shouldn’t have followed me here.” Fergal kept his gaze fixed on the men on the train.

“You don’t want to hurt Parsons.”

“No, I don’t.”

Adella blinked, startled to have won his capitulation so easily.

“I want to hurt him.” Fergal jabbed his finger at a second man who squeezed his hefty frame through the railcar door. The silver in his mutton-chop whiskers flashed as he straightened.

“Senator Moreton?” Adella shook her head. “He’s not the one. He’s a middleman. He gave me—” Dismay coiled around her heart. The senator had given her exactly what she’d asked for: knowledge in the form of irrefutable evidence. He’d given her Parsons’ name on a Camp Douglas rations supply form. And after five years of searching she’d been too eager to question how easily Senator Moreton had produced the document.

“Tell me, Fergal. Tell me what you know.”

Fergal tilted his head toward her and pitched his voice low. “At first, it wasn’t uncommon for Camp Douglas’ supply wagons to arrive late. But after a while, they stopped arriving at all. Moreton came in their stead and slipped a fat envelope into the warden’s eager hand. When the war ended, Moreton began a well-funded life in politics. A life built on the deaths of hundreds of expendable men, including Dec.”