When The Heart Beckons (41 page)

Johnson eased open the stable door and
stepped inside, tightly gripping his gold-handled cane. One small
torch in a bracket upon the far wall blazed out a flickering light.
It dimly illuminated the horse stalls and the tack room and the
large open area before him with its benches and tools and sacks of
feed. The ornately appointed family carriage stood against the
farthest wall, and even in the dimness it shone with elegance and
style.

But Johnson was far more interested in the
owner of that carriage: Ross McCallum, who sat bound and gagged on
the nearest wooden bench and who was staring at him as if he were
seeing a ghost.

“Yes, my friend,” Johnson said softly as he
closed the stable door and trod across the floor to confront his
former employer. He immensely enjoyed the irony that he had once
been McCallum’s man of business, as Derrickson was now, and they
had both outwitted him.

“We meet again, Mr. McCallum. Did you ever
doubt it? You knew me as Frank Boxer, but I have returned as a much
more powerful person. Lucas Johnson, sir, at your service.”

His low bow toward the gray-haired man
glaring at him was full of mockery. “You tried to rid yourself of
me forever, but as you can see, you failed. Your life has been one
long failure, McCallum. And mine has been one of triumph.”

He tapped his prisoner none too gently on
the shoulder with his cane. “Tonight will be the greatest triumph
of all—the night I watch you die.”

The gaunt, gray-bearded giant before him
looked as if at any moment sheer rage would burst the bonds that
held him, but Johnson could see that Bartholomew and the two men
hired to help him overpower the victim had done their jobs well—the
ropes were cruelly tight and most secure.

This was true for McCallum’s companion as
well. Beside him on the bench, Everett Stevenson II glared like a
fierce pirate about to be forced down the plank, and Johnson threw
back his head and laughed.

“Don’t look so furious, Stevenson. If you
hadn’t come around poking your nose into what doesn’t concern you,
you would never be in this fix. As it is, you’ve given me no choice
but to kill you too. Of course, your death will coincide splendidly
with my plans—it will look as if your employer, Mr. McCallum,
killed you in a rage after you brought him news of his son’s
probable death, a death your agent out West should have prevented.
Alas, it could not be so. Ah, Mr. McCallum, you wish to speak. Of
course, let me first see if you have been behaving yourself.”

He turned coolly to Bartholomew, who had
been lounging on an opposite bench, sipping at his flask of brandy
and playing a game of solitaire.

“Well,” Johnson asked, stroking his brown
mustache as the thin little man regarded him from behind his
spectacles. “Has our prisoner exhibited good behavior?”

“Well, when I take the gag from his mouth so
he can eat, he lets loose with a string of oaths that would turn
your ears red, sir,” Bartholomew offered with a shrug.

Johnson chuckled. “Does he?”

“Yes. And then, between bites of bread, he
tries to bribe me, but of course, I pay no attention to him.”

“Really ... bribery. Why doesn’t that
surprise me? Perhaps,” Johnson continued in a silky tone that
barely masked the rage throbbing beneath it, “it is because I know
exactly how far you will go to defeat your enemy, my dear Mr.
McCallum. After all, in this very stable you did have me
overpowered, bound, gagged, imprisoned, and then shipped off to be
a slave for life ... shanghaied, as they call it. You will stoop to
anything to achieve your ends, but so then, he said, smiling, “will
I. Do you wish to hear all that I have accomplished? Do you wish to
hear how thoroughly I have ruined your life, the whole dismal tale
of your failures? The world will see it clearly when Derrickson is
forced to reveal the disasters that led you to take your own life.
Oh, yes, that is what you are going to do, you know,” he nodded as
he spoke. “Just as your poor wife Livinia did so many years
ago.”

Ross McCallum had gone very still. Even
bound and gagged he was a formidable man, and if his eyes could
have killed, Boxer would have been dead on the spot.

“Remove the gag,” Johnson commanded, and
Bartholomew sauntered obediently forward and whisked it off.

“You were a dirty little coward before and
you’re a dirty little coward now,” Ross McCallum roared, his tone
containing rage enough to fill a concert hall. “If I had but one
hand loose, I’d show you a thing or two about taking a life!”

“Ah, but you do not. As
I
did not
that day long ago when you had me shipped out of here so
ignominiously. But we won’t speak of that tonight. Tonight we are
speaking of you—of all the unfortunate accidents that have befallen
you and your miserable pathetic business empire.”

“You have been responsible all along for
every last one of them, haven’t you!” It was not a question at all,
but a ferocious statement of fact that McCallum spat out with
venom.

“Yes, of course. The fires, the accidents,
the missing funds ... Under the guise of Lucas Johnson I have been
trying to buy your precious Ruby Palace Hotel, the gem of your
empire. And I succeeded, though you didn’t know it. You signed the
deed over to me recently—though I believe it escaped your notice.
You were ill at the time, not your usual self, and you didn’t
happen to notice that one of the many papers Derrickson offered for
your signature was the deed to your precious hotel.”

“Derrickson!”

Johnson raised his brows. “Oh, I have many
allies. The gunslinger, Red Cobb, is another. In fact, I’ve been
waiting to hear from him, waiting for official confirmation of your
son’s death. Or rather, my son’s death,” he added slyly. “The boy
simply would not cooperate—apparently he felt his loyalty to you
was more important than his blood kinship with me. Well, Cobb
should have finished the job by now ... or he will very shortly,
but I cannot wait any longer.”

“Why not?” McCallum taunted, for his eagle
eyes, though weary, had not missed the slight wavering of his
enemy’s gaze. “You know Brett is alive, don’t you? The boy probably
killed your man Cobb, and you know it, don’t you?”

Johnson glowered at him. He hadn’t heard a
word from Cobb in quite a while now, and this concerned him more
than he was letting on. Had something gone wrong? It seemed
unlikely. How difficult could it be to corner an arrogant young
greenhorn into a fight? “I know nothing of the sort,” he retorted,
stroking at the ends of his mustache, “but I am tired of waiting.
It doesn’t really matter, because I have prepared a report, which
Mr. Stevenson will sign, stating that Brett McCallum has
disappeared and is believed to be dead.”

“And you think any sane person will believe
that I would kill the man for that? And then take my own life?”

Johnson edged closer, tapping his cane
absently upon the floor. He smiled delightedly. “But there are so
many other reasons as well why you should feel utterly despondent.
This is just the last straw—you see, your failing business empire
and the discovery that your former partner, Herbert Ervin, is going
to bring charges against you will also have weighed with you.”

Ross McCallum leaned back heavily against
the wall. “What’s this about Ervin?” he rasped in a more subdued
tone.

Bartholomew and Johnson exchanged pleased
smiles. “As I told you, you signed numerous documents while you
were ill—an illness due to a certain drug Derrickson put into your
coffee or brandy each day, I might add. Among the documents you
signed while in this condition were papers which prove that you
have been improperly withdrawing funds from the McCallum and Ervin
Steel Company—embezzling, if you will, in order to shore up your
other failing businesses. Derrickson met with Ervin today—his
conscience having got the better of him when he discovered your
treachery, you see—and Ervin was most properly outraged. He may
already have gone to the authorities for all I know. Why, if you do
not end your life tonight, you will be facing trial, and a certain
prison term.”

“You’re an insane bastard.” McCallum drew a
deep shaky breath. In the flickering torchlight, the dark shadows
beneath his prune-colored eyes seemed to grow even darker, and more
sickly. “I should have killed you twelve years ago when I had the
chance.”

“Yes, you should have,” Johnson murmured.
“Because now I am going to kill you. But first, we must rid
ourselves of Mr. Stevenson. Bartholomew?”

The bespectacled man reached into his suit
pocket and pulled out a pistol. “Do you want to do the honors, sir,
or should I?” he inquired, as if asking who should be the one to
pour a glass of sherry.

“Oh, I most certainly wish to do the
honors.” Johnson’s fire blue eyes shone as he accepted the gun from
his underling. He raised it and pointed it at the private
investigator, still bound and gagged. “Let this be a lesson about
what happens to those who interfere in the affairs of their
betters. Good-bye, you nosy old fool.”

“No!” McCallum thundered, but his words were
drowned out by the roar of the gun.

* * *

Darkness shrouded the grounds of the
McCallum mansion on Maplegrove Street as the hired carriage pulled
up at the gate. Only faint misty starlight revealed the ghostly
shapes of the tall oaks and maples which shaded the winding
walkways and gardens that surrounded the house. But there was one
light gleaming from inside the mansion as the occupants of the
carriage alighted. It shone from Ross McCallum’s study.

Annabel regarded it uneasily as Cade helped
her down the carriage steps. They had come directly from the train
station without delay, and still carried their traveling bags. As
they hurried up the wide stone walk, no one spoke. But Annabel
could sense the tension that permeated the thick summer night, and
she knew that it would only be broken when his sons had found Ross
McCallum safe and sound, and at last had the opportunity to talk
with him.

Surely Everett Stevenson had interceded and
warned Ross McCallum of the danger surrounding him after he’d
received her latest wire, sent before boarding the train. It had
been brief, but clear enough:

Brett is safe. Derrickson and others believed to be
plotting against R. McCallum. Warn him at once. Am returning
immediately by train.

Yet as she stared at the darkened house,
with only that one window ablaze, some instinct deep inside told
her that something was wrong.

“Maybe he’s just sitting up—waiting for us
to return,” she suggested in a low tone to Cade and Brett, striding
along on either side of her as they neared the steps.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Brett
muttered back, and there was fear in his voice. But it was not fear
for himself, Annabel knew. It was fear for his father, the man who
had raised him, which rattled through him like the ghastly bones of
a skeleton.

Cade rapped on the door, his face set grimly
in the light of the moon. It seemed an eternity before the heavy
door was thrown open.

Charles Derrickson gaped at them from the
dim cave of the hall.

“You ...! Master Brett ... you’re ...
back.”

“Clever of you to notice,” Brett
growled.

Cade jerked his thumb toward the pale man
with the thinning hairline and the bony white wrists and hands.
“Don’t tell me this is Derrickson?” he asked his brother.

“In the flesh.”

“Well, well.” Cade shouldered his way into
the hall, ignoring the other man’s whimper of protest. He grasped
Derrickson by the arm and yanked him along. Brett and Annabel
dashed after them.

“Where is my father?” Cade demanded. It was
his Roy Steele voice, Annabel noted, and if she wasn’t so filled
with loathing for Derrickson, she almost would have felt sorry for
the man.

Derrickson’s already pale skin turned the
exact color of chalk. “Your ...
father
? You ... can’t be
... Master Cade.”

“The man’s a genius,” Cade bit out to Brett.
“He has all the intelligence of a prairie dog.”

“Yes, he is Cade McCallum,” Annabel said
impatiently. “And I’m sure you remember me, Mr. Derrickson, don’t
you? Annabel Brannigan—I used to live here. Now that all the
introductions are completed, I think you’d best tell us where Mr.
McCallum is right away.” She stepped forward and jabbed him with
two fingers in the chest. “His sons are most anxious to find him
and let me just warn you that they are not the kind of men you wish
to keep waiting.”

From the expression on Derrickson’s face it
was obvious that he had already reached that exact conclusion. One
look at the brawny black-haired man in the blue silk shirt and
Stetson, a gun holster fitted with two serious-looking Colt .45’s
buckled onto his dark trousers, made him tremble from his pointed
chin down to his knobby toes, and a glance at the much-changed
Brett did nothing to reassure him. The former young scion of the
McCallum family had changed from an affable young gentleman to a
... a desperado. He was wearing the same style of western garb as
his brother, only his hat and shirt were gray, and his expression
even nastier.

Even the woman looked formidable. Annabel
Brannigan still looked as charmingly feminine as ever, but the
pert, lively expression he usually associated with her was nowhere
to be seen; the woman who watched him so shrewdly looked as if she
could shoot him dead as soon as sit down to dinner with him, and
the very real possibility that this trio might well do just that if
they found out what was afoot made him blanch as Cade McCallum
shoved him unceremoniously into the study.

A fire burned cozily in the grate. The desk
was neat, the lamp atop it glowed pleasantly, and there was a
steaming cup of tea beside a sheaf of papers. But Charles
Derrickson had obviously been working in here, not Ross
McCallum.