Liberty Hill (Western Tide Series) (26 page)

            “No, but you sorely tempt the lines of freedom. The only conspicuous signals you send are those of pursuit. You want nothing more than for me to chase you.”

            “Only with a destination in mind! Yet you give me no such satisfaction. I have waited for some resolution, Mr. Donnigan, yet you happily withhold it. I shall not indulge you further without the promise of honorable reciprocation, when both of us are free to court in the eyes of God and government.”

            “I am not bound by religion or country.”

            “Then you are an outlaw.”

            “Alluring, isn’t it?” Brock smiled crookedly. “There’s nothing keeping you from joining me.”

            “Until Lucius releases me,” Evelyn replied, “I am bound by word and propriety. I refuse to compromise my honor.”

            “You already have, love. There’s no going back now.”

            Evelyn shook her head.

            “If you truly cared for me, Mr. Donnigan, you would be the model of honor I wish to see in myself.”

            “And that would bring you happiness, would it?”

            “It would bring me peace.”

            “You ask much of me, Duchess.”

            “I deserve nothing less. I am a moral woman.”

“Nothing a little rum can’t fix.”

“I’ve learned my lesson.”

“And now you know who to come to when your upstanding behavior leaves you dull as a church pew.”

“Is that how you thought of me before I kissed you? I dare say you did nothing to allude to your indifference.”

“I knew you had some excitement in you. It was simply buried.”

“Well, pardon me if I bored you. I mistook your numerous impudent advances as interest.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t interested.”

“No, but you communicated well your lust for prospect over reality.”

“Often the two prove the same.”

“You say you gain no pleasure from dreams, but that is not true. You are just as bewitched as all the rest. I should have anticipated such doctrines from one who came around the world to dig after an elusive fantasy. Forgive me for believing you were any different from all the other mindless buffoons who proudly call themselves forty-niners.”

“You know I’m different, love; otherwise you would not pine for me the way you do. Don’t lie to yourself. You crave the freedom I offer.”

“No, I don’t! I crave stability, and love, and sacrifice. I crave prosperity, Mr. Donnigan. Not just the idea of it. I am sick to death of the idea, because it is that very thing that has me tossing and turning on this blasted soil. So don’t give me any more of your silly ideas. Give me something of substance, something I can hope for, something I can anticipate. I do not
pine
for you, just as I do not pine for the empty ambitions to which you are enslaved. I have waited for you to prove that you are something other than what you are, but you do
not
represent freedom. You are nothing more than a man who chases the unfruitful ghosts of greed and pleasure, and I will not be the one to fulfill that hollow and fleeting satisfaction.”

Brock was silent for a time, and Evelyn wondered if her heated speech fell on naught but sleeping ears. She listened to the silence, hearing only the hammering of her heart.

“I am sorry you think so lowly of me, Miss Brennan,” Brock finally spoke, “for it was my belief that I offered you only what you wanted. You cannot deny that you fought as hard for my affection as I did for your surrender.”  

“I had hopes, but they came to nothing. I will no longer be at your disposal. All of this ridiculous mooning has worn me thin, and I wish for it to stop this very instant. Please, from this moment on, leave me alone.”

He stared after her, but she shut her eyes with force as she resolved not to indulge him further.

As silence fell, Lucius took a deep breath and rolled over onto his side.  He grimaced and wondered if he would be able to sleep after everything he had just overheard.

Chapter Twenty-Two

In the morning, Evelyn awoke to a warm hand upon her shoulder. It was Josephine, greeting her with a smile.

Evelyn had only just fallen asleep. Her eyelids threatened to stick together and her head felt much heavier than it did the day before.

“What I wouldn’t give for a spot of coffee right now,” she grumbled to Josephine, voicing her most prominent thought.

Josephine’s smile grew, for she held a tin cup full of the steaming beverage. She lifted it up as an offering, much to Evelyn’s delight and amazement.

Evelyn held the coffee beneath her nose to inhale the rejuvenating aroma, her eyes closing in pleasure.

“Where did you get this?” she asked.

Josephine pointed to Lucius, who squatted near the fire, brewing another cup. Leave it to Lucius to come armed with the effects of coffee making, Evelyn thought. After the night he had surprised her with his violin, Evelyn wondered what other trinkets he might have brought along.

Lucius looked up in time to catch Evelyn’s gaze, to which she smiled and raised her cup in gratitude. He responded with a slight nod. Evelyn had always loved coffee, even when they were children, and after last night’s late conversation, he knew she would be appreciative. As for himself, this was the next best thing to a potent shot of brandy, though it was a far cry indeed. Something much stronger would have suited him better.

He did not hold her gaze for long, for his mind was consumed with the whisperings he had overheard in the night. He had learned many things, some of which he had expected, others he had not.

Brock Donnigan had kissed Evelyn Brennan.

The physical attraction was apparent, but the reality that it had been acted upon was alarming. He had not doubted Brock’s particular interest in Evelyn, but now he had no cause to doubt she had initially encouraged it.

Lucius felt he had no right to meddle in his old friend’s affairs, yet the knowledge of her actions left him feeling somewhat betrayed. He did not know if he could justify the feeling, exactly: after all, he had agreed to release her from the marriage. But her behavior towards Mr. Donnigan left him bewildered, as it had been contrary to her behavior towards all other men, himself included.

He had disappointed her in numerous ways throughout their lives, for which he was dreadfully sorry, but unable to change. As a victim of her disdain, he could not blame her, for God knew he had earned it. The rest of the male population, however, must have someone better to offer Evelyn Brennan than Brock Donnigan. Hell, Brock was no better than Lucius at his worst! How could it have taken so long for everyone to realize this? Brock was alluring with his good looks and ridiculous stories, but behind that pretty façade, he was the same sort of brigand one might find paying any madam in New York City. He was a mustang, a firebrand, a man with no principle, honor, or accountability. He was exactly the kind of man Lucius would be on the look for in the past, the kind of man who would beat him to offering Penelope a cigar, or taking that vacant seat beside the German woman at the bar. He was the scum of the earth, and therefore Lucius’ competition.

But now, after hearing the way Evelyn had stood up to a man who held her affection, a man who had no doubt disappointed her gravely, Lucius felt the heat of shame redden his face. For how was he, Lucius Flynn, any better than the outlaw? He was not. The two men were one and the same, and despite her many willful and stubborn faults, Evelyn deserved better. No woman who had willingly sat in the filth of a dying man could not.

* * *

As the company packed up camp, they were anything but cheerful. Adele kept to herself, as she had done since her husband’s death; Lucius moved about quietly, his mood pensive and his brow creased as though some great care weighed upon his mind; Brock was quick and intentional about his every move, his eyes dark and focused on the task at hand; Evelyn was sluggish, burdened by the acute emotional distance between herself and everyone else in the party. She had purposefully separated herself from Mr. Donnigan, was still at odds with Mr. Flynn, and could not penetrate her friend Mrs. Whitfield’s lofty wall of grief. Josephine was sensitive to the quiet drama unfolding around her and sought to remove Bartholomew from its midst, protecting the child from the pain which consumed the others. In consequence, everyone prepared to embark on the final twenty miles to Panama City feeling very isolated indeed.

Akin to their predicament in Chagres, though not quite as eventful, there were great numbers of travelers waiting for transportation to Panama City. Many were piling into the
bungos
to go to Los Cruces and then take an old overland highway from there, but fortune seemed to smile upon Brock and the others as several teams of porters had recently returned to Gorgona and were prepared to take new customers along the shorter moutain road. Brock, Lucius, Evelyn, and the Whitfield party hired a team immediately, and equipped with horses, pack mules, food, guides, porters, and personal effects, they embarked once more into the jungle.

The sky was heavy with impending rain. Before long, there was a tremendous downpour that soaked the party as if they had been plunged into the sea. The porters pressed on undaunted, for the rain was no stranger to them, while those in their charge slipped further into despondency. Evelyn consoled herself with the promise of a bed at the Washington Hotel, while the men began to question whether California was really worth the pain and suffering it took to get there. They had anticipated seasickness, unpredictable weather, even hunger, but the death of a friend, the demonic mosquitoes, and the effect of a particular woman went beyond their wildest expectations.

From the outpour of the sky, dark wells sprang forth from the earth, as the soil turned to mud and the animals struggled against slipping, sliding, and sinking. Brock led the party, followed by the women, with Lucius holding up the rear. The mud slickened, and all watched with growing dread as Brock’s horse whinnied and balked, growing more stubborn and uneasy as the rain continued. The poor creature could not have anticipated the current temperament of its rider, or else it might have made a greater effort to proceed without argument. As it was, Brock Donnigan’s patience wasted quickly, for he was in no mood to debate with a horse. He tore a switch from a tree and proceeded to whip the animal without restraint. The porters shouted curses against him, for the horse was their property, but, despite their vehement objections, Brock’s abuse continued.

The creature pressed on under the assault, each step the consequence of a lashing. He emitted cries of discomfort, growing angrier every time the whip came down.

The ground no longer held his attention, and his steps became more careless as his rider persisted to beat him. The mud gave way beneath him, and he slipped with alarming speed down a bank, taking a screaming Brock Donnigan with him. The two landed in a dense brown pond, and emerged covered in mud and slime from head to hoof.

The others watched in amazement, and though they sensed they should feel some sort of sympathy for the dirty pair, they felt nothing but glee for the victorious horse over its tormentor.

Evelyn stifled a giggle, for any man who could not control his temper over a helpless creature deserved nothing less than a thorough dip in the mud.

“Did you two sort out your differences?” she hollered down the embankment.

Brock did not respond with a glance, only a curt, “krikey.”

Lucius, ever ready to join the fun, added, “for all your wild encounters with the animal kingdom, Donnigan, it’s a shame you’ve been brought down by a horse.”

The others burst into laughter.

Brock removed his shirt, causing a new stir among the spectators, for athwart his dirty white skin were shining strips of black.

“Eh, Donnigan!” Lucius called again.

“Shut up, Flynn,” Brock replied.

“I just wanted to tell you not to worry about the mud,” Lucius persisted. “For between the rain and the leeches, I’m sure you’ll clean up like a dandy.”

There was a general silence as Brock stopped what he was doing to examine his torso and arms.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, pulling free the first of many thirsty parasites.

The road, a narrow and historical route used since the days of the Spanish conquest, began to climb, as did the apprehensions of those on its path. It wound steep and treacherous up the mountain, often dropping off to the side, where a long fall into a ravine waited to claim the souls of wayward travelers. Evelyn found her knuckles had gone white with how tightly she gripped the reins of her horse, and Lucius watched Josephine and Adele anxiously, calling out more than once to make sure they were all right. Adele remained silent and watchful, while Josephine used a steady finger to stroke Bartholomew’s cheek in comfort. Her method of assurance worked, for the child never once cried out in fear.

The morning waxed to afternoon and mercifully, the downpour ceased as quickly as it had begun. A harmonious sound of birds, insects, and creatures unknown, filled the air, a song of thanksgiving after the cleansing rain.

The sun chased away the clouds, bringing up moisture from the ground in waves of thick, warm steam. The party was entirely exposed to the intense heat, their wet clothes absorbing it before surrendering their heavily acquired dampness. Evelyn watched the steam rising from her horse’s dark hair and plugged her nose against the odor that rose with it.

It was going to be a long day.

* * *

 Eventually, the road wound away from the cliffs and returned to the thick overgrowth of the jungle. The travelers quietly rejoiced at the sight of foliage and shade, while their stomachs churned in hope of lunch.

The guides and porters led the animals and riders into a small clearing, where many had already gathered to devour their afternoon meal. The ground was still muddy, so they sat upon rocks and large palm fronds to eat and converse beneath the shade, sharing about the day’s events. Some complained about the stench of the animals, while others swore they had seen a python slithering into the bushes a mile back. One company had a porter who spoke English, and they related his stories about the previous expeditions he had led.