Only in My Arms (51 page)

The clerks never noticed he was looking at papers different from the ones Mary perused. On one occasion they found him in the wrong area of the records room, but it didn't raise their suspicions. Thinking he was lost, they simply turned him around and shooed him in the direction of the right stacks. Their manner was solicitous but vaguely condescending, and Ryder abided it only because it served his purpose.

Mary scribbled notes as she read. Except for the things Ryder asked her to take down most of them were nonsensical. She would have preferred to read the same accounts as he, but she knew her role was to divert suspicion and she had to be satisfied with that.

On the way out she made a point of thanking everyone who had been so kind to her. She was particularly gracious to the clerks, calling them by name. When Ryder began to make impatient noises about leaving, she apologized for him but allowed that it had been a long afternoon and had dredged up many memories.

Outside the War Office, Mary heaved a sigh of relief. "This is one widow they won't forget anytime soon. That's good, don't you think?"

"Very good.
You
were very good."

"Don't kiss me," she said quickly, looking up at him. "At least not the way I think you want to."

"It shows, does it?"

She nodded, glad that it did. It boded well for the future when he really was an old man. Taking his arm, Mary led him down the stone steps. "Let's walk awhile," she said. "An afternoon of sitting in close quarters has done me in. I'm as stiff as you're supposed to be."

Feeling the need to stretch his own legs, Ryder agreed.

"Well?" she asked when they had gone only a few feet. "You're going to tell me, aren't you? What did you learn? Certainly nothing I read was of any help."

"And it wasn't supposed to be," he said. "Do you really want to know now? I'll only have to repeat myself when we get to my uncle's."

* * *

Wilson Stillwell's Washington home was a large white clapboard Victorian house with blue shutters and gingerbread molding. Unlike Senator Hamilton's fenced-in property, this senator's grounds were separated from his neighbors on either side by a low, neatly trimmed hedge. There was no circular drive at the front of the residence. Carriages would deposit their passengers on the street and guests would follow the walk to the front door. The view from the street was cheerful and bespoke a comfortable and unfussy elegance.

The interior was much the same. Mary and Ryder were shown to the front parlor to wait as the senator was not home when they arrived. Rather than return later they elected to stay. Once the housekeeper left them alone, Mary wandered about the room, trying to learn something of the man from his furnishings.

"The housekeeper didn't see through your disguise," she said, picking up a delicate jade figurine. There were a number of Oriental carvings in the room, most of them jade, a few ivory, all of them quite exquisite.

Ryder stretched out in a mauve brocade wing chair. "She's never seen me before," he said. "That's why."

Mary glanced at the mantel that was crowded with photographs. "I don't know about that," she said. She replaced the figurine and went over to the mantel. Picking up an ornate, gilded frame, she studied the photo within for several moments. "This is you as a West Point cadet."

Ryder nodded. "It's all for appearances, Mary. It's what he thinks makes the best impression on his constituency. He wants to show good taste but not to excess. He would abhor Hamilton's mansion."

Sighing, Mary replaced the photograph and looked at the others. She recognized Ryder as young boy in a family picture with his mother and father. His sister Molly was still a babe in arms. Ryder's appearance, a blend of his father's hard profile and his mother's coloring, was very solemn as he stared at the camera. She could imagine even at that early age he had had no trouble remaining still. There was a wedding photograph of Wilson and his wife, another of Ryder's parents. The last frame didn't hold a picture at all but a lock of baby-fine golden hair. "His daughter's?" Mary asked, holding it up for Ryder to see.

"That's right. A poignant touch, isn't it?"

Mary gave him a sour look. "This sarcasm of yours is not becoming. I can't think of one reason your uncle would be moved to help us if you continue to act in such a manner."

Ryder drew in a breath and let it out slowly. "I'll do better," he said quietly.

The housekeeper chose that moment to return. She carried a tray with tea for Mary and wine for Ryder. She served both, waited for their approval, and then left as silently as she had come.

Mary eyed Ryder's wine glass suspiciously. "You don't drink," she said. "Why did you choose that?" Ryder had specifically asked for Montrachet and had even noted the year he wanted. Mary thought it a strange jest on his part until the housekeeper appeared with the bottle.

"My uncle's secret vice," he said, raising his glass. "His wine cellar is where you can find the excess that appears nowhere else in this house. In the short time I lived here he had it expanded twice to accommodate his growing collection. He's very particular about the temperature and the light down there, and he has one servant who's responsible for seeing that the bottles are uniformly and regularly turned. Do you want to see it?"

"I'll let him show me," she said. "You wouldn't do it justice."

Ryder sipped his wine. "It's a remarkable vintage."

"And completely wasted on you," Mary said. "You asked for that to be spiteful."

He couldn't disagree. Recalling that he'd promised to do better, he put the glass aside. Petty revenge really did have a bitter taste, he decided. Getting to his feet, he went to the fireplace and laid a log on the meager fire the housekeeper had laid. After brushing off his hands he began removing the mustache, side-whiskers, and hairpiece that Mary had carefully applied. He gave them to her to put in her reticule, then took out a handkerchief and began to wipe away the face paint and grease pencil lines.

The front door opened and closed, and there was a hushed exchange in the hall before the pocket doors to the parlor were parted. The housekeeper gaped when she saw Ryder standing at the mantel, removing the lines from his face, and Mary on the settee critically eyeing a helmet of hair on the end of her fist.

"It's all right, Mrs. Shanahan," Wilson Stillwell said. "I know these people." He gave her his hat and coat. "Nothing to drink for me," he said when he saw the bottle of wine Ryder had ordered. "Just bring a glass. I can see my nephew has already made a good choice." He stepped inside and closed the pocket doors behind him. "Ryder," he said shortly, nodding once. "Unexpected hardly describes your presence here."

"Wilson," Ryder said with equal terseness. He finished removing the face paint and stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket. "This is Mary McKay."

Mary made quick work of thrusting her chestnut wig into her reticule. Her cheeks were flushed as Wilson Stillwell made a stiff bow in her direction. "Senator," she said, injecting warmth into her voice. "I'm pleased to meet you."

"McKay?" Stillwell said, not returning her sentiment. "I understood you were one of Jay Mac Worth's..." There was a slight pause. "Daughters," he finished.

Mary's eyes narrowed, and she raised her chin a notch. She understood that hesitation because she had heard it before when people wanted to make certain she knew that they knew she was a bastard.

"She's my
wife,"
Ryder interjected.

"Wife? When did this happen?" Wilson Stillwell had a sternly grave face that darkened slightly with displeasure. In spite of that, his austere visage was handsomely molded and his blue eyes glittered like ice chips.

"It doesn't matter," Mary said, coming to her feet. "We haven't come for your blessing or even your approval. We've come for your help. If you can't offer that, then we've already wasted too much time. Yours and ours."

The senator seared Mary with his brilliant blue eyes for a moment, studying her stiff back and proud stance. He raked his hair back in a gesture that was reminiscent of one Ryder frequently made and nodded slowly, appreciatively. "You have a lot of your father in you," he said in the manner of giving a compliment. "Go on. Sit down. If I've offended, then I apologize." He glanced behind him. "Where's Mrs. Shanahan with my glass?" he asked of no one in particular He pointed to the unfinished glass of wine on the tray. "Are you going to drink that, Ryder?"

Ryder shook his head. "Help yourself."

"Indeed," Wilson Stillwell said deeply. "You certainly did." He sat in the chair that Ryder had recently occupied and looked from his nephew to Mary and back again. "I was at the fort when you made your escape," he said. "I even stayed a week to see if they would apprehend you. When it became clear Gardner's men weren't up to it, I left. I told the general you wouldn't stay in the territory, but even I couldn't have predicted this." He raised his glass to his sternly set mouth. "An explanation seems in order."

Mary held her breath, wondering if Ryder would comply. The request was reasonable. Something in the way it was stated made it seem less so. Jay Mac had never suffered fools gladly, and Mary suspected the same was true of the senator, yet there was a distinction in their manner that widely separated the two men. Jay Mac did not shy from confrontation, neither was he deliberately provoking. She wasn't certain the same could be said for Wilson Stillwell.

Mary listened with half an ear as Ryder gave his uncle a review of the events that had led to their visit. She watched the senator take in the information while revealing little of his thoughts. When the housekeeper arrived with the glass, he sent her out with a dismissive wave of his hand, never taking his eyes from Ryder, for all appearances mesmerized but reserving judgment.

She could not recall ever having seen a political cartoon of the senator. His handsome, even features did not lend themselves well to caricature. There was no single attribute that could be easily emphasized except perhaps the eyes, and it would be difficult to capture their piercing brilliance in a black-and-white line drawing.

Wilson Stillwell was a little better than average height, his posture and demeanor adding inches in the perception of others if not in fact. His hair was brown and would have been nondescript if it weren't for the threads of iron gray at his brow and temples. His mustache and side-whiskers were both neatly cropped. As Ryder had noted, his uncle was not given to any excess the public could see. Although his build was on the lean side, his shoulders were broad, and they gave him the effect of sturdiness and dependability. He asked sharp, incisive questions of Ryder. Mary had no trouble imagining that the senator could hold his own in a debate.

"So you've been in Washington a little more than twenty-four hours," he said. He reached for the black lacquered cigar box on the table at his side and removed a cigar. He drew it under his nose once, more out of habit than to appreciate the aroma, then cut off the tip and lit it. "And you're only now getting here." He drew on the cigar deeply and then exhaled slowly, with obvious relish. "Are you going to tell me what caused the delay?"

Certain that Ryder would say he wasn't convinced he should have come at all, Mary did not allow him to answer. "We were gathering evidence to present you," she said. "It was important to us that you know Ryder's innocent."

"I think I know something about my nephew's character."

Which, Mary realized, was neither an endorsement nor an indictment. She did not take issue with the statement, preferring to get to the heart of their findings at the War Office. "We're convinced we know who orchestrated the raid at Colter Canyon," she said with quiet confidence. "Your help now could be invaluable."

One of the senator's brows rose. He looked through a haze of blue-gray smoke at Ryder. "Is that right?" he asked. "You know? And that's why you've come here?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well?" Stillwell's eyes narrowed fractionally. "Let's hear it. And for God's sake, sit down."

Ryder hesitated. He had no liking for the command or the tone. It was only when he saw the gentle encouragement in Mary's eyes that he left the fireplace and sat in the chair opposite his uncle. "Mary and I spent most of the day at the War Office," he said. "I was interested in the records of assignments, transfers, and discharges for Fort Union and we—"

"Why?" asked Stillwell.

"Because the short time we've been in town we've already seen two men who escorted the gold wagons through Colter Canyon." There was a slight indication of surprise on the senator's part as he exhaled sharply. Ryder continued. "It made me curious as to who else might be around."

"And?"

"I can't say with any certainty that they're here in Washington," said Ryder. "But to a man, they've received transfers from Fort Union or were discharged from the Army."

The senator's brows pulled together as he squinted at Ryder. He lowered his cigar slowly. "You're saying," he said deeply, almost growling, "that no soldier who survived the Colter Canyon massacre is still stationed at the fort. Is that right?"

Ryder and Mary nodded in unison. Mary's look was more expectant than Ryder's.

"Well," Stillwell said impatiently, "what's so blasted unusual about that? The Army thought they could be more useful elsewhere after their experience. Hell, I'd have put in for a transfer myself."