Deep as the Rivers (Santa Fe Trilogy) (8 page)

   
“As always, Liza had everyone eating out of the palm of her hand,” he said to Santiago. “Postmaster Easton and Mr. Charles, the editor of the
Gazette
, had very definite opinions about the danger of having Indians live so near the city.”

   
“Somehow I never thought a leading citizen such as James Rogers a menace. And I can’t imagine his white wife scalping anyone,” Santiago replied, his eyes hooded as he studied Shelby.

   
“Jamie Rogers is a Shawnee and they’ve lived peacefully with Missouri settlers for a generation and have become completely ‘civilized’,” Elise interjected, knowing her husband was merely baiting her brother.

   
“Not at all like his fellow Shawnee to the north, Tecumseh,” Shelby replied with equanimity. Quinn was heir to an old Spanish title which he spurned, preferring the unlikely appellation given him the length of the Santa Fe Trail—White Apache. He had spent his youth living among the Lipan Apaches and trusted no white government, not even his wife’s.

   
“Yes, Tecumseh is hostile now, but he was not always. Your government’s broken promises and land-greedy settlers drove him to hate the United States,” Santiago replied.

   
“I’ll grant that he had justification, but I suspect there was also just a bit of encouragement for his anti-American sentiments from our British neighbors to the north,” Shelby replied dryly, not wanting to be drawn into an argument.

   
Elise grew thoughtful as she weighed the evidence that there would soon be war not only at sea, but here on America’s frontier as well. “I’m certain that young War Hawk William Henry Harrison is eager to deal with all the northern tribes who ally with Britain.”

   
“That’s his problem. Mine is trying to find out who’s supplying whiskey and weapons to the Indians in the Missouri and Mississippi valleys. If all the tribes in the region ally with Britain, these rivers will run red with blood. Manuel Lisa seems to think a Scot called the Red Head could be the agitator,” Shelby said, studying Quinn’s reaction.

   
Knowing the man to whom Samuel referred, Quinn replied, “Robert Dickson is a British agent, but I’ve never heard that he comes as far south as this. He pretty much keeps to Prairie du Chien and environs. I know the Osage have had no dealings with him. So does Lisa. After all, he’s been appointed a special agent by Washington, just to keep them in line.”

   
“And so he has—he and our most gracious host’s brother Pierre,” Elise said, looking across the room at the elegant and ever genial Auguste Chouteau.

   
“The Osage are the most powerful tribe in the region. If they desert us, the Sauks, Foxes, Sioux and Kaws will certainly follow suit,” Shelby replied with a worried frown. “Since your traders travel through their territory, you should be concerned.”

   
“So should you after investing your life savings in my trading company,” Santiago said with an arrogant grin.

   
“The Osage nations have been our most loyal friends,” Elise interjected. Her husband was especially friendly with those Indians. “Chief Pawhuska pledged himself loyal to the American government,” she added as if that settled the matter.

   
But for Shelby, it didn’t. “He’s getting older now. What about the young hotheads I’ve been hearing about—Bad Temper and Man Whipper?” His eyes moved from his sister to Santiago.

   
Quinn shrugged. “Keep your settlers off their land and don’t let any of the white men start taking potshots at Indian women picking berries. Then tribal leadership will be able to keep peace.”

   
Shelby looked dubious as Elise continued to oil the waters between them.

   
Across the room, Olivia St. Etienne gnawed her lip as she watched the beautiful raven-haired woman place her hand proprietarily on Samuel Shelby’s arm. She recognized the other tall man engaged in conversation with them, Santiago Quinn, a trader from Santa Fe who was in partnership with a fellow Spaniard, Manuel Lisa, one of St. Louis’s leading merchants. But she had never seen the stunning female before. Whatever her relationship with the handsome colonel, it was obvious they were on very friendly terms!

   
Olivia had waited impatiently for weeks, watching every time the crude long rafts ferried travelers across the turbulent Mississippi, hoping Samuel would be aboard. Finally she had all but despaired, thinking he had perhaps only teased a love-struck girl with promises to see her again.

   
Last week she had abandoned haunting the hill overlooking the landing at the bottom of Market Street. The riverfront was rough, filled with odoriferous fur warehouses and loud taverns inhabited by foul-mouthed Kaintucks, bold French voyageurs, and even painted red Indians. Of course, no one recognized her for she wore a disguise in such a neighborhood, but it was nevertheless a foolhardy place for a woman alone. She had believed her watch in vain. Perhaps it still was.

   
“You are wondering who the handsome young American is, are you not?” a gravelly voice whispered in French with a conspiratorial chuckle.

   
Olivia turned from her shockingly unladylike perusal of Samuel to confront the social arbiter and first lady of the city, Madame Chouteau, Auguste’s mother. The elderly woman’s small black eyes were surrounded by crinkling skin darkened by the hot Missouri sun. All her long life Madame had been an avid gardener and beekeeper, a wealthy woman unafraid to do unconventional things. “I know who he is,” Olivia confessed. “Colonel Shelby and I met while I was in Washington with my guardian.”

   
A broad smile pursed Madam’s lips, stretching the thin skin until it was drawn tight, revealing several missing teeth. Her shrewd eyes took on a speculative gleam. “Ah, then it is the woman with Count Aranda you wish to know about!”

   
Madame Chouteau used Santiago Quinn’s Spanish title. The Santa Fe trader was mysterious and much whispered about in St. Louis, but Olivia was not interested in him. “Is she Spanish then?”

   
“No. She is American as is her brother, although her French is flawless as your own. She is Elise Quinn, Aranda’s wife...the colonel’s sister.”

   
“His sister.” Olivia tried to tamp down the delight in her voice but knew she failed when Madame’s raspy chuckle tickled her ear.

   
“True, his sister. The colonel is a fine figure of a man, young, strong and quite devilishly handsome. I found him most charming.” A sly smile played about the old lady’s mouth as she regarded Olivia, then Samuel.

   
Madame Chouteau had always been a bold and self-possessed woman. Married off at fifteen to a man three times her age, she had found him so uncongenial that she did the unheard of in eighteenth-century New Orleans society. She took their young son Auguste and returned to the convent where she had been raised, although she did not languish there long. She fell in love with a dashing young adventurer named Pierre Laclede, the founder of St. Louis. Madame lived openly with him as his wife, for there was no divorce recognized among French Creoles. She had borne Laclede four children and followed him upriver to settle the raw frontier at the confluence of the Missouri and Mississippi rivers.

   
Upon learning the older woman’s background, Olivia had immediately felt a kinship with her. They both lived unconventional lives. “How long has he been in the city? I had hoped...” Her voice faded away as she realized she might well be making a fool of herself over a man who cared nothing for her.

   
Madame Chouteau was swift to reassure her. “I am given to understand he only arrived yesterday. I think in light of your previous acquaintance that you should welcome him to our city,” she said, giving Olivia a gentle shove toward Samuel, who had just excused himself from Elise and Santiago.

   
Well, why not? The worst he could do was cut her cold as he had done at the Phelps gala back in Washington. Summoning her courage, Olivia walked straight across the crowded room toward him. As if by magic the laughing chattering guests seemed to melt away, clearing a path between them until he turned and saw her. At once those stormy blue eyes lit with recognition, but he stood stock-still in the center of the floor, watching her with an unnervingly magnetic smile on his lips.

   
Did he welcome her or scorn her impulsive boldness? There was only one way to find out. Olivia’s chin raised another notch as she sailed across the glassy floor with her heart ready to fly from her chest. Could Samuel hear it beat?

Chapter Five

   
Samuel watched her make her way across the floor toward him. Her bold walk held none of the sly, subtle nuances of the belle but rather was incredibly self-confident and forthright. Whatever she might be, Olivia St. Etienne was nothing like his soon-to-be ex-wife. Tish’s vapid blond beauty paled by comparison to the fiery freshness of the young Frenchwoman.

   
His eyes were not the only ones fastened upon her as she approached. Not a man in the room was immune. She was a vision of spring in pure yellow, a difficult color for many women. The vibrant sheer muslin whispered around her slender curves and set off her lightly sun kissed complexion. In contrast her hair, piled in bouncing curls atop her head, seemed as dark and bright as living flames. Her only adornments were the tiny pearls woven artfully through her coiffure, and embroidered across the neckline of her gown. The effect was exquisite yet virginal.

   
He desired her with a schoolboy intensity that appalled him. His eyes swept up the long-legged contours of her delectable body, past the set of that determined little chin to pause for an instant at the lushness of her slightly parted lips, then moved on to her exotically slanted cat’s eyes. The senator had given Tish an emerald necklace and earrings. The heavy deep green stones had overpowered her pallor, but he could envision them caressing Olivia’s sun kissed throat, dripping from her tiny ears, matching the dark fires in those incredible eyes. He could imagine her wearing the emeralds and nothing else.
Stop it! Fool.
What was it about this chit that so affected his lusty fancies?

   
As she approached him, Olivia watched those stormy blue eyes assess her with frank male appetite, but he made no attempt to meet her halfway. Rather, he stood arrogantly in the center of the floor, tall and splendid looking in the perfectly fitted blue uniform, waiting for her. Did he find her as beautiful as the sophisticated women he must have known in Washington? Could he see how she wore her heart on her sleeve? Before courage deserted her, she stopped directly in front of him and smiled, praying her voice would not crack.

   
“We meet once again, Monsieur Colonel. I warned you I would track you down.”

   
A small smile touched his generous mouth. “And you proved yourself an able huntress, but I thought we’d agreed to dispense with titles, Olivia.”

   
Just then the musicians resumed playing. Without thinking she raised her right hand and asked, “Would you do a lady the honor of dancing with her, Samuel?”

   
His smile was a dazzling white slash now as he took her hand and swept his other arm around her waist, pulling her closer to him than was strictly proper, even in such a scandalous new dance as the waltz. They glided across the polished walnut floor to the lilt of violin strings, a striking couple moving with grace and verve.

   
“You are an exceptional dancer, Samuel,” Olivia murmured, positive he could feel the frantic tattoo of her heart keeping rhythm with the music.

   
“As are you. St. Louis is quite a surprise. No one back east would have imagined waltzing in the wilderness.”

   
“Last year a dance master from New Orleans set out an advertisement to teach the waltz and other of the latest dances from Europe. We’re not so backward as you Easterners believe,” she replied gaily, giddy with the magic of being held in his arms and whirled around the dance floor.

   
“Not backward at all but quite unconventionally forward,” he could not resist teasing.

   
She felt the blush begin at her throat and rise to the roots of her hair. “Do you find me too forward?” she asked, then instantly wished she could call back the impulsive question when an enigmatic expression passed fleetingly across his face.

   
Then he smiled again. “And here I thought it was only American women who are so earnest and outspoken.”

   
“I am American—or at least, I am becoming American. I have lived in this country since I was fifteen, a mere slip of a girl.”

   
“And that, of course, was ages ago,” he replied gravely.

   
“At times it seems that way,” she said, thinking of her parents’ laughing faces, now gone forever.

   
He looked down at the thick dark red brushes of her lashes that shielded her intense emerald eyes. What made her so suddenly pensive? The French were ever mercurial in temperament. “And do you never repine for your old home?”