Celine (26 page)

“Good. Then we'll be using the same transportation you afforded Mrs. Kirkland. I'm curious to know just what her conditions might have been.”

Trevor regarded Pierre with pure disgust. The perspiring little man withered under the burn of Trevor's glare. He moved forward, tapped a pointed finger on the terrified man's chest. “I already know you sent her upriver and with whom. You will cooperate, or for the rest of your life, you will wish you had.”

Pierre backed up, tripping and stumbling as he went, his head nodding vigorously.

Trevor's words came slowly, precisely. “You will locate the best scout there is, you sorry bastard. If you value one inch of that miserable hide of yours, you
will
cooperate every inch of the way.”

He stepped back, his fists and jaw clenched. Before he turned, he issued one last warning. “If you try to slip away, I will find you, you miserable little runt. Tell your contact to get the barge readied for horses, as well.”

Trevor was gripped by an emotion so overpowering, he couldn't even name it. He turned to Cameron as they left. “I'm stopping at Carlton Oaks for Panther and the bay. Deliver the weasel back to me, and then I'll see you in San Francisco.”

 

 

The Overland Trail treated everyone with the same harsh indifference. Sand, heat, and a dry wind parched wagons and split the lips of young and old alike, nearly causing Celine to faint twice this particular day.

She'd been walking steadily since early morning when they'd broken camp, and still nothing seemed to have moved. All around her, the monotony of the cloudless sky meeting endless plains of grass seemed to have stopped time and motion.

The wagon train had spread out to a hundred wide and one deep to avoid eating the dust of those ahead. It did her no good—dust collected in her nose and eyes. Parts of her body, rubbed raw from pulverized grit caught between fabric and skin, stung from the thin film of sweat that covered her. The grind of dirt against teeth in her clamped jaw echoed through her skull.

She stumbled, and then collected herself.

Katarina Olssen leaned out from the front of the wagon without slowing the oxen. “You all right?”

“Yes,” Celine mumbled.

“Need to rest a while?”

“No.” She knew Mrs. Olssen's turn on the ground meant Celine could collapse in the cramped, smelly bed inside the wagon. But it also meant waking Will for his driving shift. With his mother on the ground, his relentless insinuations would give Celine no rest. She simply could not tolerate him anymore.

Suddenly, she grew dizzy, and her heart began to pound furiously in her chest. An odd sense of panic welled up. Oh, wonderful. She'd forgotten to drink enough water again. Too late. This time, her knees buckled and the grass, grit, and heat closed in around her.

She never lost the sound of voices in the darkness, so she could not have gone far from consciousness. Moist cloths across her forehead and at the base of her neck revived her. Part of her fought coming back to stark reality.

Her eyelids fluttered. Cool metal touched her lips, and she parted them for the water wetting her dry tongue and sliding down her throat. She opened her eyes and looked around. How had she gotten inside the covered wagon?

Mrs. Olssen was still driving and Will was walking, while Sarah, the young bride from the adjacent wagon, had managed to squeeze into the minuscule space behind Celine's pallet. Blond, plain, and shy, Sarah worked silently, tending to Celine. The bed, nothing more than layers of quilts running the width of the wagon, lay directly behind the driver.

In the beginning, Celine had argued for the bed to be located at the rear to afford her some privacy, but Mrs. Olssen insisted it be up front in case the driver ran into trouble. The woman knew what she was doing. She didn't trust Will either.

Things were bad enough when Mrs. Olssen was taking her turn walking and her son was up front doing the driving. But how would it have been in the back, with Will on the ground, and nothing to restrict him?

While he was driving, attending to the wagon and oxen, uncertain pathways forced him to keep both hands and his concentration on the reins. Nonetheless, every now and then, he'd manage to shove a hand inside the wagon and grope. Celine had learned to fall asleep with her back to him, and whenever they came to a halt, she sat up, as far from him as possible. She shuddered at the thought of his touching her. Sarah ceased her ministrations.

“I'm fine now, Sarah, thank you,” Celine lied. She still felt queasy.

The young woman nodded, crawled over Celine, and sat next to Mrs. Olssen. “Ain't it Will's turn to drive?”

“I'm taking a double shift this time around,” Mrs. Olssen answered.

There was something odd in the way she spoke. Celine had a vague sense the woman had figured out why Celine chose to remain on the ground for so long. But if they switched around, that meant during her turn up front, Will would be directly behind her. She nearly groaned aloud.

Katarina Olssen resumed her flat monologue. “We'll be stopping for the night after that. I don't want Celine driving anymore.”

What? For the first time in weeks, a quiver of relief washed through her. But why? Katarina must be giving Celine some extra distance from Will.

“How long?” Sarah asked.

“Let's see, this is mid-July,” the older woman mused. “I figure about two or three months, at the most.”

Sarah hopped off the wagon without a good-bye.

The steady rocking, and the stifling interior, nauseated Celine once again. She rose on her elbows and saw that the rear flap of canvas was down, preventing a cross breeze. The pallet was too low to catch any fresh air. She was going to be sick.

With a lurch, she was up and hanging her head off the side of the wagon, vomiting in violent spasms. Katarina managed to hold the reins in one hand long enough to grab the wet cloth and lay it over the back of Celine's neck.

“Thank you.” The wave of sickness passed, and she managed to crawl up on the seat beside Katarina, who shouted at Will to roll up the back flap.

“Rinse your mouth out. You'll feel better,” she said to Celine. “Then drink plenty of water. Thank the heavens, we haven't been without.”

She shot a glance at Celine. “We'll rearrange the wagon tonight, wash the quilts so they're fresh. You'll have to sleep on the ground with the rest of us while they dry, but by morning they'll be ready. We can make the bed front to back so's you can stretch your legs out and catch a breeze. I'll put the foodstuffs to the rear.”

She was so matter of fact and to the point, Celine was taken aback by her sudden concern. “But . . . but I always sleep on the ground. We all do.” The cross breeze hit Celine, soothing her.

“Not any longer,” was all Katarina said.

They rode a long while in silence. Celine was achingly tired. The fatigue never seemed to leave her anymore. Neither did the soreness. Every muscle in her body screamed for relief. The grueling sun worked on her again, and she wiped the back of her neck with the cloth.

“Keep drinking water. Tiny sips. And chew on a piece of dry bread.”

Celine turned to crawl back into the wagon. “I think I'll pass on the bread just now, thank you. I need to lie down.”

“Eat the bread and force yourself to sit here until the quilts get washed and the wagon is aired out.” Katarina's voice was still flat, pragmatic, but it carried a quiet authority. “You'll just get sick again if you go back the way it is.”

Celine took a deep breath and released it in a long, irritated sigh. “Mrs. Olssen, I—”

“I've had seven children, Celine, and three grandchildren. I can tell when a woman's with child. And I know how sensitive a woman can be in the first months. I know what those rancid smells back there would have done to me.”

Celine couldn't breathe from the shock gripping her chest. “I . . . I can't be. It cannot be!” Her hand splayed across her chest, ran down her belly and back. She pressed here and there at all the sore spots on her body, wincing at her tender breasts, shaking her head from side to side.

“No, it ... it's not possible.” But she knew Katarina was right. How could she have missed the signs?

The answer came to her in a flash. She was out of touch with her own senses, and went to bed at night with every muscle in her body aching. Every ounce of energy was used for pure survival in this hostile environment, and since her accident, her courses had been erratic so she paid little attention to their onsets. Lord, did Trevor get her with child that night in the
garçonnière?
Or did it happen in New Orleans?

“It fools you the first time.” Neither Katarina's lackluster monotone nor her concentration on driving the team changed. “You'll recognize it quicker with each one.”

“But this is not ... I cannot—” Her hand slid to her belly. What she'd been about to reveal to Katarina would serve no purpose. Suddenly, the full impact of her physical state hit her.
Trevor's child grows within me!

And she was on a wagon train with no turning back. Another child. Another wagon. Oh, please don't let this one take a bad turn.

Oh, she wanted him—wanted desperately to share this with him. She should never have left New Orleans.

No longer was she dead inside. Every nerve in her body was alive, dancing in the realization that she carried a child—
his
child. She desperately needed to be alone now, to sort through her thoughts. She had a deep desire to bathe in the enduring memories of love, even if coming alive meant she might once again have to face passion's dark side—pain. To have felt nothing for so long had become her greatest, most excruciating pain of all. Now she held within her the seedling of a child. Trevor's child! Another thrill ran through her.

“How long have you suspected?” Celine's calm voice belied her erratic emotions.

“Hard to say. Time doesn't seem to have a marker out here. Probably a month.”

“That long? What made you think so?”

“Just a feeling at first. Something didn't sit right when you told that story back in Missouri. Figured maybe you ran off from a nasty husband who beat you the way you was acting. Weren't none of my business.”

Katarina shrugged her shoulders. “Then your moods started swinging back and forth, edgy one day, settled the next. And your body started changing with your moods. Started thinning out from all the walking, but your bosom kept getting fuller.”

She leaned forward, steadying her arms on her legs. Her gloved hands held tight to the reins, but her gaze reached over the heads of the oxen into the horizon. It was the first time Celine had seen the woman in anything resembling a pensive moment.

Katarina bent the kinks out of her neck, shot a quick glance at Celine, and then focused back on the oxen. “Then there's a kinda way a woman changes when she's got new life in her. Something that's in most every woman. Can't be put to words.”

She fought the reins as the team headed toward a shallow rift in the pathway. “Before your belly's out there big enough for everyone to see, you'd best have a story to tell that has some kinda reason to it. You're at the sick stage. That's how Sarah knew.”

Celine nodded slowly. Good God, how could she have been so blind? “So that's what she meant when she asked how long, and you told her two or three months. You two were discussing how far along I was.”

Celine leaned her weary head against the side of the wagon. The unforgiving edge dug into her shoulder and pushed the brim of her bonnet down over her forehead, hiding her face. She closed her eyes to the sun's glare, and left the jarring reality of the wagon behind while she turned her thoughts within.

“Whoa, whoa there.” Katarina's words eased the oxen to a halt for the day and snapped Celine back to the present. Katarina clamored off the wagon, rubbed at her arched back, and then headed for the other wagons for instructions. Will came around to the front to tend the oxen.

Celine felt slow and dull-witted—and utterly depressed. She'd wanted to spend the rest of the day on the wagon thinking of Trevor, to dream sweet dreams of her future, of mother and child, not come face to face with that odious creature leering at her from between the ears of an ox.

She stood in weary preparation to remove herself from the bench. Her dress, wet from perspiration, clung to the back of her hips, buttocks, and legs. She'd long ago dispensed with petticoats. She'd taken to wearing only a chemise under her dress to wick the sweat from her body after noticing the women around her had done the same. They told her to save her precious underclothing for the cold mountain nights.

When she turned to climb down, her back was toward the oxen team. She heard Will's snigger and knew his lips had already gone wet in lascivious response. Something flared in her, caught fire, and burned.

No more!

She continued her climb down, attempting to ignore Will, but he moved quickly from the front of the oxen toward her, his breathing ragged. She let go and jumped clear of the wagon. Landing on her feet with a soft thud, she turned and faced him with her feet planted apart, her hands curled in fists, ready to pound him into the earth if necessary.

He stopped in wary surprise. Hunching over, he turned sideways at her hard and fearless stare.

Their silent war had ended.

She had become the instinctive protector, the mother bear with her cub.

Chapter Twenty

When Trevor arrived in St. Joseph, Missouri, the midnight sky held no stars or moon to light the way. Jacques Pierre was nervous, extremely nervous. He'd checked out all of his contacts, searched everywhere, with Trevor shadowing his every move. Trevor had made Jacques Pierre's life a living hell, and it showed. The weasel was pale, drawn, and he'd acquired the recent habit of jumping with a yip at every sudden move.

Trevor's final warning hadn't been necessary—Jacques Pierre made it clear he would have licked Trevor's boots all the way to Missouri and back if it meant staying alive and in one piece. At present, he was sure to be a dead man unless Celine surfaced. Trevor told him the only thing keeping him breathing was the fact that she could still be out there. His fate was simple—if Celine was all right, Jacques Pierre could go free. If she had met with disaster, he would receive the same.

Trevor figured Jacques Pierre had no idea where Celine was, but he did know who could find her, if she was to be found. Trevor only prayed that she would surface safe and unharmed, and that the man beside him could locate the one tracker who could do the job.

Jacques Pierre pointed up the street on his left, toward a saloon with a few rooms above it. “We can try that hotel over there. The ground floor is a bar.” He started to walk ahead. “It's not the St. Anthony, but for St. Jo, it's not as bad as it might appear from the outside. It has a long bar.”

Trevor clamped hard onto Jacques Pierre's neck. The little man hopped to a halt with a startled chirp.

“Stop making that infernal noise,” Trevor growled. “I couldn't care less what the place looks like, you imbecile. Just who, or what, are you looking for in there? You have given me absolutely nothing these past three days, and I'm beginning to think this little charade is your way of buying time.”

Trevor squeezed the man's neck harder and pushed him forward. Jacques Pierre winced. He rose on his toes and peered over the swinging doors. He breathed a deep sigh. “He is inside, monsieur.”

Trevor peered in, sizing up the men bellied up to the bar. “
Who?
”

Jacques Pierre stood flat on his feet, the doors to the saloon reaching mid-forehead on him. “The tracker. They call him The Wolf, or just plain Wolf. He is
le meilleur,
monsieur, the very, very best in all the world. He is sure to find your lady.”

“Don't stretch it,” Trevor warned.

“Oh, no exaggeration, monsieur. The best, the very, very best, I promise you.”

“That skinny kid in the sagging buckskins?”

Jacques Pierre rose on the balls of his feet to peer in through the smoke and dust, then gaped at Trevor. “But . . . but, how did you know, monsieur?”

Trevor opened one of the swinging doors and stepped inside. “Keep your mouth shut unless you are spoken to. I'll handle things from here.” He led the way to a table near the rear, positioning himself with his back to the wall. “Get me a whiskey.”

Jacques Pierre jumped and, with a small squeak, hastened to the bar.

Trevor would have liked to strangle the little weasel, but not yet—he still needed the good-for-nothing.

Wolf was older than what Trevor had surmised from the street. Probably close to Cameron's age. What he'd taken for lankiness was illusion, as well. The man's frame was all firm, lean muscle beneath those loose buckskins and fringe. The seat of his pants and elbows of his shirt, sagging and dirty, hung looser than the rest of his apparel, which had given Trevor that first impression. Brown hair, as trail-worn and dusty as his buckskins and of the same color, brushed his shoulders. His face sported an unkempt beard. A worldly hardness emanated from him.

Wolf rested one arm on the bar, and one foot on the brass rail near the floor, but Trevor was keenly aware the casual stance was deceptive. His free arm draped the shoulder of a plumed and beaded barmaid who was feeding him straight shots of whiskey. Every third shot, Wolf downed a large glass of water.

Trevor studied them intently, fascinated by the underlying drama. Wolf let his arm slip ever so lightly from the woman's shoulder to trail slowly down her back in feathered strokes, then move gently across her hips, before picking up his glass. An almost imperceptible tremor shivered through the barmaid. Wolf held the woman's gaze over the glass, drinking her in as thirstily as he did the water.

Now wasn't that something? The man was seducing a whore as carefully as if she were a lady of breeding. Wolf, the ruthless tracker, was an interesting study, indeed.

Trevor continued his scrutiny through the mirror over the back of the bar. He raised the glass of whiskey to his lips, and he found himself studying Wolf directly once again.

With a quick flip of his head, Wolf stared at Trevor with hard eyes as blue as the sky. Then he turned back to the woman next to him and ignored Trevor completely. The eye contact had lasted only a heartbeat, but it nearly unnerved Trevor, so intense was Wolf's gaze.

Most curious to Trevor was something he'd noticed in the quick inventory he took when their eyes locked—a small object pierced Wolf's left earlobe. It was a woman's earring, finely made and of an early design, with either a ruby or garnet encased in gold at its center.

Trevor stood abruptly. “Time to leave, weasel.”

Jacques Pierre yipped breathlessly.

“
Mon Dieu,
would you cease that noise? If I decide to kill you, I'll tell you first.” He walked past Wolf without acknowledgment.

Jacques Pierre scurried behind, bewildered. “Monsieur?” he started as soon as they passed the double doors. He scurried sideways, shifting quick looks back and forth from Trevor to the saloon, pointing backward as he went. “Why are you walking away from
le meilleur?
The very best you can find—”

Trevor grabbed his captive by the neck and forced him down a narrow side street. “
Tais-toi
. And keep it shut until I say otherwise.”

They walked in silence down the dark street. Trevor held tight to Jacques Pierre's sweating neck. They walked through the town in random patterns, going nowhere in particular. They started up one street, doubled back, and crossed through alleys.

When Wolf didn't step out from the dark, Trevor headed for their hotel. They entered wordlessly, making their way up the stairs and down the hall to his room.

Trevor inserted his key into the door's lock. A knife whizzed past his right ear, so close he felt the air move. The huge hunting knife pierced the door and stuck, vibrating.

“Christ!” Jacques Pierre squealed and flung himself against the wall, trembling.

Trevor stood calm, his hand still poised at the lock. He'd figured Wolf would show.

An agile hand with long, tanned fingers reached over Trevor's shoulder and yanked the knife from its target.

Trevor calmly walked through the spacious sitting room, into the bedroom, and flopped onto the bed casually. The simpering Frenchman scooted in behind him. “My name is Trevor Andrews—”

“Doesn't mean a thing.” Wolf's voice was quiet, direct, yet carried lethal warning as he strolled in. He leaned against a washstand across from the bed and settled a stony glare on Trevor. “What do you want?”

A muscle clenched along Wolf's jawline, betraying his casual stance. The bone-handled knife lay by his side, within easy reach.

“I have a proposition for you—”

Wolf picked up his knife and turned to leave. “Just got off a job, ain't interested. Damn it, now I'm going to have to go another round to warm Violet up again.”

“How much would it take?”

Wolf paused. “Not interested.”

Trevor's chest tightened. He desperately needed this man. “I'm willing to give you an open-ended contract for the services of a personal detective. For the rest of your life if you need it.” He slowed the cadence of his voice, measured his words, his manner respectful. “And for however much money it might take to find whoever it was who murdered your mother.”

Wolf froze.

And then he turned.

Time moved in slow motion as he approached Trevor. His eyes, shards of murderous fury, held fast to Trevor's while his mouth narrowed into a grim slit.

An abrupt movement of Wolf's hand brought the flat side of his knife under Trevor's chin. He gave the sharp point just enough of a push to let Trevor know he meant business.

Wolf's voice came flat and hard, but a flash of agony pierced the hardness in his eyes. “How much do you know?”

“Not much.” Trevor nodded toward Wolf's left earlobe. “That woman's garnet earring you wear is of an older design. I figure there are only two reasons a man would wear something like that—either he murdered a lady for it and wears it as a trophy, or he wears it in honor of someone who was done in and he's still looking for whoever did it. Since I don't believe a man with your reputation would commit murder, I took a guess.”

The two men faced one another for what seemed to be an eternal silence.

“Jesus Christ.” Wolf sheathed his knife, letting his hand rest on the handle. “You may have made a hell of a good guess about me, mister. But damn, I don't have to guess about you at all.”

A chill snaked down Trevor's spine. He was about to put all his trust in someone who carried as much, if not more, pain than he did. He glanced over at the Frenchman. “You're excused.”

“But—”

“Now,” Trevor growled.

The little weasel gave a quick nod and scurried past Wolf.

When the door closed behind Jacques Pierre, Wolf took in a deep breath, then blew a stray lock of hair from his face as he exhaled. He spoke again, this time in a fast, low monotone. “Mister, you're going to have to come up with one hell of a good reason why I should even consider turning my tired ass out of bed once it hits the mattress, let alone give the likes of you some kind of fast action, because your offer of money and some damn fool detective I can run circles around in my sleep only irritates me.”

Trevor replied with simple honesty. He delivered a detailed account of how he'd managed to meet, fall in love with, and then drive away Celine. When he finished, he bent his head and studied the back of his hands.

Wolf's brows knit together. “Let me get this straight. You had a wedding arranged and you had the arrogance and audacity not to bother letting her know about it? Jesus, are all you Colonial French stupid, or is it just you? Maybe it's the heat down in N'awlins that cooks your brains.”

Trevor passed a hand over his eyes and swallowed an angry retort that could well send the man walking out the door. “I assumed she would say yes when placed in the right environment. I was a fool.”

Wolf sat down in a chair across from Trevor and studied him. Then he bent his head and clasped his hands in front of him. “Tell me what you want.”

 

 

Trevor would have walked right past Wolf the next morning on his way to retrieve Panther if it wasn't for those piercing blue eyes that stood out like the morning sun in a clear sky.

The man busy saddling his horse looked nothing like the Wolf he'd met the night before. Gone was the scruffy beard and dirty buckskins. Clean-shaven, he was handsome by even a man's measure. And his hair—clean and clubbed at the back of his neck, was blond and sun-streaked, a far cry from the disheveled brown mess Trevor had thought was its natural color.

“I suppose you won't go near a razor again until your return?”

“Nope.”

Wolf was bent over, tightening the cinch across his roan's belly, when Trevor emerged from the stable with Panther in tow. As Wolf straightened, his stunned gaze riveted on the dazzling horse dancing forward, its sleek coat shimmering blue-black in the rising sun.

Trevor wasn't surprised by Wolf's response. He got the same reaction whenever anyone on American soil caught sight of the rare and mighty warhorse of Europe, the very breed that had transported Friesian and German knights to the crusades centuries before.

Quivering, muscled flanks strained with brute strength barely held in check as the beast moved forward in the precise manner of its ancestors. A riot of knee-length curling mane tumbled about Panther's head as he pranced. With each strike of a thundering hoof, the earth rumbled.

“Easy, Panther. Easy, boy,” Trevor soothed as he brought the horse to a stop in front of Wolf. The huge stallion halted abruptly, then inclined its proud head, as if in noble deference, and waited patiently for Trevor to mount him.

Wolf swung himself onto his roan. “Where the hell did you manage to find a Friesian in N'awlins?”

Trevor mounted, pulled the slack up on the reins, adjusted his seat, and smiled mischievously at Wolf as he turned the horse west. “I didn't. I purchased him in Europe. I take him with me wherever I go.” He cocked a brow at Wolf. “Tell me, monsieur, how does a man such as yourself, living in the middle of nowhere, know of a horse such as this?”

Wolf's face went blank before he turned away from Trevor and urged his own horse forward.

As soon as they were out of town and on the road, Trevor said, “Monsieur, you are ignoring me. You have not answered my simple question. How do you know of my horse?”

“Damn, we aren't even out of town and you're already pestering me. I should've charged you double.”

A slow grin spread over Trevor's mouth. “I think you have many secrets, monsieur.”

Wolf stared straight ahead. “Why don't you cut the
monsieur
crap,
mon sewer.
And let's you and me make a little deal. I ask you questions, because that's how I know what I'm looking for, and you keep your questions about me inside your lip. You don't need to know anything about me other than that I can find your little darlin' for you. That way there won't be any additional charges. No entertainment fees.”