Hunter's Prize (11 page)

“I’m not so sure anymore.”

“Then I’ll be sure for you,” Mother insisted. “This is your chosen vocation, Adelina. All your work with children up to this point was to prepare you for this position. You won’t tuck tail and run when it counts the most.”

Tears spilled down Addie’s cheeks. “You have entirely too much faith in me, and I fear it’s misplaced.” She met the familiar brown eyes, seeking comfort in their depths. “I’m frightened, Mama.”

“Of course you are. We’re all afraid when confronted by our destiny.” Reaching beneath her high-buttoned collar, Mother’s searching fingers emerged with the beaded necklace she wore so often it seemed a part of her. Pulling it over her head, she slipped it around Addie’s neck and patted the speckled stone dangling at the end. “There now.”

Addie gripped the polished bloodstone. “What are you doing? Not your mother’s jasper necklace. I couldn’t.”

“Hush, now. They don’t belong to you yet. That privilege comes on your wedding day.” She squeezed the hand that held the pendant. “Just wear it for courage until I see you again. When you feel the weight against your heart, think of your grandmother. She was the bravest woman I’ve ever known.”

Lifting damp lashes, Addie searched her face. “Are you sure?”

“I’ll feel better knowing you have it.”

With a ragged sigh, Addie shook her head. “I haven’t decided to stay.”

Mother gave her hands a final squeeze then stood and walked to the door. “I want you to pray before you make up your mind. That’s all I ask. If you feel you should leave on the afternoon train, I’ll help you pack.”

Addie gave her a grudging nod and watched the door close at her back. Mother had best be ready to help because she’d already made up her mind. She just hadn’t the nerve to say so.

Grinning like a fisherman with a bobbing cork, Mr. Robb’s head wagged. “Why, sure I have time to talk to these young fellows about Catfish John.” The twinkle in his eyes deepening, he motioned toward the door. “If you don’t mind waiting whilst I make a quick purchase, we’ll sit outside and chat a spell. These old bones can’t abide the chill in here for long.”

“Very good, sir,” Pearson said. “We’ll wait for you there.” He opened the door to the accompanying overhead jingle then followed Theo out of Weisman’s into the warm sunlight.

Theo braced his hands on his hips and stared down the street. “You suppose that old coot knows anything?”

Pearson shrugged. “We’ll have to take our chances, won’t we? Right now he’s our only lead.”

Theo pivoted toward the door. “I think they’re playing us for ninnies.” He pointed. “Listen at them in there. They’re laughing at us.”

Pearson pulled a wood-slatted chair around and took a seat. “Let them laugh. As long as Mr. Robb steers us in the right direction, I don’t care.”

“Well, I just might,” Theo groused, straddling the chair beside him.

A rowdy group of young men crossed the street and hurried along the storefront, talking loud and jostling for position with their elbows. Two men in tall hats and pretentious suits strolled from the other direction, lost in a hushed conversation. A flirtatious couple rounded the corner of the building, the giggly girl blushing at being caught by Pearson’s gaze, the boy intent on grasping for her hand.

The boisterous commotion in the street hadn’t faded since they’d been inside the store. The denizens of Marshall hustled past in droves, oblivious to strangers in their midst, hatching a plan to snatch a prize from under their noses.

Pearson nodded at the milling throng. “Don’t you wonder why they’re not looking for the
Mittie?
Why they haven’t already found her? She can’t be hidden that well, can she? Finding a great hulking thing at the bottom of a lake is not like searching the ocean floor.”

Theo nodded. “It would be something, wouldn’t it? If we came allthe way from Galveston and pulled up a fortune in gold, when all the time these folks were sitting right on top of it?”

Pearson leaned forward and laced his fingers. “I’ve wondered the same about Lafitte’s gold. Why aren’t there leagues of men contending with me for it? How could a man hear of a lost bounty and lack the heart to search?” He shook his head. “It’s not in me, Theo. I’m not made that way.”

Theo nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose most people are busy chasing the fire in their own chests. Just because a man works for years baking bread for someone else doesn’t mean he’s not burning inside to own the bakery.”

Pearson bit his lip and nodded.

“Look at Rosie,” Theo continued. “For years she served slop up and down the Strand, saving every penny she earned. Now she has a little place of her own. It took most of her life, but she chased her treasure and found it.” He nudged Pearson’s arm. “It’s just that your idea of treasure is a tad more literal than most.”

Grinning, Pearson sat back and crossed his arms. “So what about you? What hidden riches do you covet?”

Before Theo could answer, a bevy of young women sashayed toward them, their sweeping skirts, mounded curls, and brightly colored parasols crowding the boardwalk. Tittering and cooing, they danced past, lovely preening birds on display.

His attention snared, Theo tipped his cap at each smiling girl as she went by. Only when their retreating backs turned the corner did he pull his gaze around to Pearson. “I’m sorry. What did you ask me?”

Shaking his head, Pearson laughed. “Never mind, paisan. I think I have my answer.”

Mr. Robb tottered out of Weisman’s, paused by the door to summon his best offering for the spittoon, then joined them with a broad smile.

Pearson stood and offered the old man his seat, stepping over Theo’s long legs to slide into the chair opposite him.

“Turning into a mighty fine day, ain’t it?” Mr. Robb said.

Pearson leaned to nod at him. “It surely is. And Marshall’s a real nice town.”

Mr. Robb raised his chin. “Yes indeed. Thanks to Mr. Gould and cotton.”

Frowning, Pearson glanced at Theo and shrugged. “Come again, sir?”

“Jay Gould, president of T&P Railroad. He moved his operation to Marshall in the ‘70s. The town grew rich overnight. Before long, we were one of the South’s largest markets in cotton.”

Theo smiled. “Jay Gould and cotton. I get it now.”

Mr. Robb leaned over and nudged him. “Speaking of money and cotton, I could use your strong backs and nimble fingers on my farm. I’d pay you a fair picker’s wage.” Grinning, he lowered his voice. “You’ll get rich a lot quicker that way than looking for sunken gold.”

Theo slapped his knee. “The clerk told you. I knew it!”

Grinning, Mr. Robb patted his back. “He did, but he didn’t have to. Why else would two strangers come asking for Catfish John?”

Pearson scooted his chair so he could see the man better. “Well then? Now that our secret’s out, can you tell us where to find him?”

His unruly brows rose to peaks. “Mind you, catching up with Catfish John could be as hard as raising the
Mittie.”

Pearson shot him a slant-eyed challenge. “Try me. I’m fairly skilled at finding things.” Theo cleared his throat, and Pearson scowled. “Most things, that is.”

“Well, all right,” Mr. Robb said, settling his back against the slats of his chair. “He lives on an island out on the lake—no one knows exactly where. He only comes to shore to sell fish and store up supplies. You could wait around one of the landings until he comes off the lake with a stringer of catfish. Otherwise, the chance of running across him is slim.”

“I’ll take that chance,” Pearson said.

Mr. Robb shook his head. “You’re on a fool’s quest, you know, one even John can’t help you with. Many a man has scoured the Caddo looking for that ship, men who’ve lived their lives working the steamboats. They know the routes, some even lived on the lake, but none of them has ever found her. What makes you think you can?”

“To be honest, sir”—Pearson winked—”I’m more determined.”

Mr. Robb blinked, his jaw going slack. Sudden laughter bubbled up his throat, first as a wheezing sound then tumbling from his mouth in belly-shaking glee.

Theo joined in, draping one arm around his shoulders and patting him.

Except for the hint of a smile, one he quickly bit back, Pearson fought to stay sober lest the old man doubt his sincerity.

When Mr. Robb finally caught his breath, he clutched his knees with both hands and swiveled toward Pearson. “Son, you’ve given me the best laugh I’ve had all year. For that, and because I admire your gumption, I’m going to tell you what you want to know. You take the Port Caddo road, the Old Stagecoach Road they call it, heading east out of town. It’s a good long ride. Go to old Port Caddo or the old Uncertain Landing and talk to some of the dockhands who used to work with the steamboats, loading and unloading goods. Those that are left are commercial fishermen now, guides and so forth.”

He paused. “Who knows … you might find a leftover Caddo Indian still lurking in the woods. Then you’d have a bona fide tracker.” He snorted. “You’ll need one to find that ol’
Mittie.”

Theo’s big eyes held a question. “Did you say you were uncertain about which landing? Because if you don’t know, how can we hope to find it?”

Mr. Robb’s shoulders shook again. “No, son. Uncertain is the name. The old steamboat captains had the dickens of a time mooring their vessels there, so it became known as Uncertain Landing.” Beaming, he tilted his head. “Come to think on it, it’s right comical that you two are headed out there seeking an uncertain treasure on the wreckage of a ship whose location is the most uncertain part of all.”

Standing, the old man stretched then scratched his midsection. “If I can help you boys with anything else you’re uncertain about, come out to the house and see me.” The twinkle had returned to his eyes. “It’s not too late to change your minds, you know. My offer to pick cotton still holds.”

Smiling despite himself, Pearson stood and offered his hand. “I’m pleased you find our plight so entertaining, Mr. Robb. I’ve enjoyed meeting you, sir, and thank you for the information. I guess we’ll pass on your generous offer, though.”

“Suit yourself, young fella. You all be careful, you hear?” With a jaunty salute, Mr. Robb shuffled away, still chuckling as he turned the corner.

B
reakfast passed in an uncomfortable blur. Every word Miss Whitfield said, every topic broached, held the erroneous assumption that Addie would stay. Her own mother behaved the same way.

Watching them, Addie squirmed in discomfort. How would she break the news to the two gaily chatting women that her clothes were already tucked inside the trunk waiting just inside her bedroom door? Resisting the urge to sit on her wringing hands, Addie stole a glance at the tall clock in the corner. Would it ever be time to leave for the station?

Miss Whitfield leaned to touch her arm. “I see you’re quite fascinated by the longcase clock, Addie. It was a gift to my parents from Alfred, the Duke of Edinburgh.”

She stared wistfully at the old timepiece as if remembering grander days. “Did you know they’re becoming known as grandfather clocks?”

She smiled. “And all because of a song penned in 1876 by Henry Clay Work. As the story goes, there was an inn down in Piercebridge on the border of Yorkshire and County Durham called the George Hotel. Mr. Work visited this establishment and learned the legend of the elderly Jenkins brothers who once owned it. The lobby of the inn had a longcase clock that kept perfect time until one of the gentlemen died—at which point it began to falter. When the other brother joined him in death, the old clock stopped for good.” “How fascinating,” Mother said.

“Henry Clay Work went home and set the story to music.” She inclined her head toward the ceiling. “If you’ll indulge me, it’s a quaint little ditty that goes like this:

“My grandfather’s clock Was too large for the shelf, So it stood ninety years on the floor;

It was taller by half Than the old man himself, Though it weighed not a pennyweight more.

“It was bought on the morn Of the day that he was born, And was always his treasure and pride;

But it stopped short, Never to go again, When the old man died.”

Mother beamed over the top of her cup. “You have a wonderful voice, Miss Whitfield.”

The blushing lady busied herself with the delicate lace bordering her place mat. “Oh heavens, not really, but thank you. And please … call me Priscilla.”

“I will, if you’ll call me Mariah.”

“I’d be honored.”

Mother glanced toward the window. “I stepped out onto the porch earlier. It’s a lovely morning.”

Miss Whitfield smiled. “Texas weather is as fickle as a debutante, so don’t forget the whereabouts of your wrap. In all possibility, we could wake up tomorrow to a cold front.” She laughed. “Then face a heat wave by Tuesday. We endure a hot summer here in Marshall once it sets in. Enjoy the cool while it lasts.”

With a dainty clink, Mother set her teacup in the matching saucer. “Doesn’t Cedric join you for meals? I noticed his absence last night at supper and again this morning.”

Miss Whitfield lowered her chin and shook her head. “It’s not possible, I’m afraid. Ceddy is far too disruptive. He takes his meals in the kitchen with Delilah.” She raised her head and smiled. “I join them occasionally … when he’s feeling calm.”

Delilah slipped quietly into the room, collecting Miss Whitfield’s empty plate with one hand while sliding a platter of rounded cakes onto the table with the other.

“What’s this?” the elder woman asked. “Scones?”

“Buttermilk scones,” Delilah said proudly. “Dotted with currants and slathered with peach jelly.”

“Oh, how lovely.” Miss Whitfield reached for one then paused, her cheeks ripening to apples again. “I know what you two are thinking. We eat entirely too many sweets around this house.”

Giving in to temptation, she fumbled for a scone then jabbed her knife into a pat of butter. “I blame it all on Delilah. She’s the best cook in town. I count myself lucky to have her”—she chuckled merrily—”until I consider the girth of my hips.” She took a bite then swooned. “Light as a cloud.” Picking up the platter, she held it out to Mother. “Where on earth are my manners? I should serve you first. Go on, have one, Mariah. You won’t be sorry.”