Hawk's Prize Page 12

  “You’re not coming. I appreciate your support, but I don’t know the exact location of his family’s place, and I’m not sure how long it’ll take me. You have a reputation to consider. It won’t survive if you travel with me unchaperoned.”

  “If I was worried about my reputation, I wouldn’t have come home in the first place.”

  “That doesn’t mean you have to throw your reputation away.”

  Tricia’s reply was flat and unyielding. “I’m going with you.”

  Halting beside their mounts, Drew said harshly, “This is my job. Willie was my friend. You don’t have anything to do with what happened.”

  “Don’t I?” Tricia’s expression was adamant. “Maybe I didn’t know Willie as long as you did, and maybe I didn’t suffer through all the difficulties you shared together, but I truly liked him. There was an honesty about him, and an optimism that was rare, especially since he had gone through so much. To me, his death isn’t just another in a long line of losses like those I couldn’t do anything about during the war. It’s sadder because he did survive, because men like him are the South’s strongest hope for renewal, and because he came this far only to lose his . . .”

  Momentarily unable to continue, Tricia reined in her emotions and continued, “I need to be there when you tell his family, Drew. I need to let them know how I feel. It’s something I must do.”

  Drew looked deep into Tricia’s green eyes. Underneath the glaze of tears, he saw a sorrow that mirrored his own, as well as a determination that could not be denied.

  He responded gruffly, “I’m going to get some supplies for the trail first. I won’t wait for you if you’re not ready when I’m done.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  Drew swung Tricia up onto her horse. He turned his mount back toward the bordello with the realization that Tricia wouldn’t have accepted no for an answer even if he had tried.

  Colonel Clay Madison halted at the front door of Chantalle’s bawdyhouse. He turned toward the military detail behind him and said to the uniformed soldiers, “I’m going inside to speak to Madame Chantalle about the murder that was committed near her stables last night. Now, I don’t care how many times you may have visited this house on your own in the past, or how well you know any of the women here. That isn’t my concern. What is my concern is the fact that you have accompanied me here on an official, military investigation. You represent the United States of America, and in that capacity, I expect you to behave with the decorum befitting that position.” Glancing at Sergeant Walker, Clay instructed, “I expect you to oversee the actions of this detail however long I will be interviewing the persons involved, Sergeant.”

  Turning back toward the door without waiting for a reply, Clay entered the house. Minutes later, he was facing Chantalle in her office. Obviously affected by the murder, Chantalle was pale underneath the makeup of her trade as she said, “I have nothing to tell you that you don’t already know, Colonel. Willie Childers was on his way to the stables to doctor his horse. My stable hand, Will, discovered his body.”

  “What was Childers doing here?”

  Chantalle paused, and then said, “He and his friend came here for the usual purpose. His friend became ill after Willie left, and I had him taken upstairs, where a doctor could see him privately. Willie came back to check on his friend while he recuperated here.”

  “Mr. Childers was a former Confederate soldier?”

  “Yes. He was still wearing the pants and boots of his Confederate uniform.”

  “Did you see anyone take offense at that?”

  Chantalle almost smiled. “Here in Galveston? You’d have more cause to ask that question about someone wearing Federal blue.”

  “Believe me,” Clay responded, “I know.”

  “Is that the reason for the detail that’s waiting on my front doorstep right now?”

  Clay paused, and then replied, “You are aware of my situation here, Chantalle. This isn’t the first time I’ve come to you with an inquiry of this sort.”

  “It’s the first time you’ve come with a full military detail to back you up.”

  “The difference this time is that a former Confederate soldier has been murdered.”

  Chantalle’s expression stiffened. “The death of a prostitute didn’t warrant the same attention—is that what you’re trying to say?”

  “The death of a prostitute was as deep a concern as the death of this former Confederate soldier, but different measures are necessary to handle the situation. We intend to find the person responsible for Childers’s death, just as we found the man responsible for the other murders, but it’s necessary for the people of this city to know that the Adjutant General’s Office will give the same attention to Willie Childers’s murder that it would give to the death of a soldier wearing military blue.” He paused and added, “I hope you understand.”

  Chantalle raised her chin and said reluctantly, “I do, but that doesn’t change what I’ve already told you. I don’t know anything more than that Willie was dead when my stable hand found him.”

  “I’ll have to speak to the fellow. If you don’t mind, I’ll—”

  Turning at Chantalle’s response to an unexpected knock on the door, Clay frowned at the big man who opened the door and took a few steps into the room. “Is anything wrong, Chantalle?” he inquired.

  “No. The colonel is here to make an inquiry about Willie’s death.” She turned toward Clay to say, “Colonel Madison, this man is Drew Collins. He’s the fellow who was traveling with Willie—the man who Willie came back here to see.”

  Clay extended his hand in greeting. He did not react visibly when Collins did not accept his handshake. “I’d like to express my condolences. I understand your grief at the loss of your friend. To have endured so much during the war, and then to lose him on your way back home is . . . tragic beyond words. But I promise you that the Adjutant General’s Office will pursue this crime and make sure the perpetrator is punished. I, personally, give you my word on that.”

  Clay noted that Collins deliberately ignored his comments as he faced Chantalle and said, “I’d like to speak to you when you’re done here, Chantalle.”

  “Of course.”

  Clay watched as Collins left without speaking to him. He looked back at Chantalle, making no comment. Responding to his silence, she said, “Drew and Willie were close friends as well as fellow Confederates. As you can see, the war hasn’t ended yet for Drew.”

  Saddened, Clay nodded.

  “Drew is going to leave Galveston shortly to inform Willie’s folks about his death. If you don’t mind, Colonel, I’d like to talk to him before he goes.”

  “Of course.” About to depart, Clay turned back to say, “If your friend intends to inform Childers’s parents of his death, please make sure he tells them they’ll need to get permission from the Adjutant General’s Office before they take their son’s body home.”

  “Of course.”

  “One thing . . . do you think there could be any other reason than robbery for Childers’s death?” Chantalle shook her head. “Why would you ask that?”

  “It was just a question.”

  “No, I don’t think so. Willie was an affable young man. Everybody liked him, including me. I can’t think of anyone who would purposely want to hurt him.”

  The moisture that sprang into Chantalle’s eyes confirmed in Clay’s mind that she was telling the truth.

  He bade her a solemn good-bye. He could not help thinking as he did that the bright paint of Chantalle’s occupation hid a painful past that the sad circumstances of Willie’s death had somehow renewed in her mind. He had the feeling that if not for the vagaries of life, she might have been a far different woman.

  He was walking back down the staircase toward the front door when Chantalle emerged from her office and started hurriedly toward the room at the end of the hallway.

  She had said she needed to talk to Drew Collins.

  Clay frowned as the tall man�
��s image came back to mind. Collins obviously wore his Confederate pants and military boots proudly. He was a big man, dark-haired and light-eyed, a common enough description except for the fellow’s direct manner, which bespoke the cold determination of a military man accustomed to authority.

  Nagging at his mind also was the wariness in Collins’s eyes at the sight of Clay’s Federal uniform. He supposed wariness was to be expected; yet Collins’s intensity seemed extreme.

  Clay paused at the front door of the bordello. He hadn’t learned anything more than he already knew about Childers’s death by speaking to Chantalle, but the military presence at her front door had been noted. He had no doubt word would spread quickly that Childers’s murder was being thoroughly investigated—which it was.

  With a command to the waiting detail as he stepped out onto the doorstep, Clay turned toward the backyard.

  “The whole town’s talking about it, I’m telling you!” Bruce looked at his boss, inwardly quaking at the growing rage on Gault’s face. “I did what you told me. I took care of Childers just like you wanted. It was easy.” Bruce almost smiled. “Like I said, Childers wasn’t expecting anything. He even left his gun back in Collins’s room, so all I had to do was—”

  “Spare me a repetition of the gory details!”

  Bruce immediately stopped talking. He had shown up at the office early that morning with news that he’d thought the boss would appreciate. After all, he had taken care of Willie Childers just as he’d ordered. With Childers out of the way, it would be easy to slip into Collins’s room. It would be just as easy to make Collins’s death appear to be an accident. He was an expert at that kind of thing, after all.

  He had made his report to Gault, and he had basked in the glory of his boss’s faint praise, until—

  “How do you know all this?”

  Bruce adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses nervously as he replied, “Billy Thurman just came to deliver that bill of lading you were waiting for. He said it’s all over town that Colonel Madison showed up at Chantalle’s and stationed a military detail at her door while he questioned her about Willie’s death. He went back to the stables to question her stable hands, too.”

  Bruce stared at Gault as his boss appeared to swell with anger. His greatest fears confirmed, Bruce offered meekly, “Do you still want me to take care of Collins tonight, boss?”

  “Are you insane?” Bruce felt perspiration begin dotting his brow as Gault continued scathingly, “You are a fool if you think anyone would believe that Collins’s death was due to natural causes after all this.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll have to change my plans temporarily, that’s all. The excitement about Childers’s killing will die down, and when it does, you can take care of Collins.”

  “But what if he gets back on his feet before—”

  “I said I’ll have to bide my time, do you understand?”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “Neither of us can take the chance that an investigation will lead suspicion our way.”

  “There isn’t any chance of that, boss. I made sure of it.”

  “You had better.” Gault’s lifeless eyes studied Bruce coldly as he continued, “I’ll let you know when it’s safe to follow through with the rest of your assignment. But in the meantime, I expect you to keep your eyes and ears open.”

  “I sure will, boss.”

  Gault added subtly, “For your sake, as well as mine.”

  Bruce nodded and left Gault’s office. He stood unsteadily beside his chair in the outer office for a few moments, and then sat down abruptly. The boss was angry. Bruce didn’t like it when Gault was angry, because that was dangerous.

  Bruce took a breath as he silently added, dangerous for everybody . . . including him.

  Drew kept his horse to a steady pace along the narrow trail. Tricia and he had traveled in virtual silence as they passed through salt marshes, then moved on toward more stable ground. The area became heavily foliated with trees and plants indigenous to the semitropical area, and he experienced a strong sense of nostalgia. Willie had described the trail they were taking many times during lulls in action, when thoughts of home became more vivid. The pictures Willie had drawn as he rambled on were clear in Drew’s mind, almost as if those memories were his own. He recalled lamenting that he had not been able to speak of his own home. Those memories were uncertain to him—as indistinct as the images of his mother and father. All that he remembered clearly was the orphanage and the years of routine that his brother, sisters, and he had spent, waiting in vain for their father to return to claim them.

  Unfortunately, he remembered with relentless clarity the day he’d returned to the spot where the orphanage had stood and found only burned and blackened rubble. With his sisters dead and his elder brother lost to him, he’d had few memories that he cared to share.

  Drew attempted to ignore the pain and the growing stiffness in his leg. He glanced at Tricia. It occurred to him that there was far more to Tricia Lee Shepherd than he had ever imagined at first glance.

  At first glance . . . his angel.

  Tricia’s attire was nothing like the flowing, almost celestial garment she was wearing when he first saw her. The wide-brimmed hat she presently wore low on her forehead hid her fair hair except for the long braid that hung down her back. It shaded her heavily fringed, sea-green eyes and shielded her flawless complexion from the heat of the burning afternoon sun. She wore a simple shirtwaist tucked firmly into the brown split skirt that allowed her to ride astride as she kept hand-tooled boots resting firmly in her horse’s stirrups. Drew wondered absentmindedly how she had managed to come up with so efficient a Western riding outfit on the spur of the moment. But then, Tricia was Tricia. He had learned that she did exactly what she wanted to do.

  She obviously had done considerable riding, as was demonstrated by her easy control of her horse. It bothered him to think that she probably had not gone riding alone, and that any man with an ounce of blood in his veins, whether a Yankee or not, would take that opportunity to . . .

  Forcing that thought from his mind, Drew concentrated instead on the present. Dressed like an angel or not, Tricia was a formidable young woman. He could understand Chantalle’s pride in her, as well as the disapproval she had not hesitated to express when Tricia told her flatly that she would accompany him when he traveled to see Willie’s folks.

  Drew glanced again at Tricia. His leg was stiffening painfully, but he ignored it as thoughts of the night to come sprang to mind. He had been determined to leave Galveston to notify Willie’s family as soon as he was able. He had told himself that he would not allow Tricia’s presence to alter his plans, but the afternoon sun was rapidly dropping toward the horizon, and he was well aware that twilight was not long away. They would not arrive at Willie’s home before sunset, and they could not travel in the dark.

  Drew’s brows knitted with concern as he looked at Tricia. Whatever her background appeared to be, she had proved to him that she was a proper young woman. He did not want to spend the night with her on the trail.

  Responding to his glance, Tricia said, “It’s easy to see that whatever you’re thinking isn’t good—and that it’s directly related to me.” She hesitated, her gaze searching his face as she asked abruptly, “What’s the matter, Drew?”

  “It’s getting dark. We’re going to have to stop for the night.”

  “So?”

  “Even Chantalle realized what that fact will imply to others.”

  “I told you, I don’t care what other people think. Besides, it’s a little late to worry about that now.”

  Drew did not immediately answer her. She was right. He had been aware of the possibility of gossip when he’d agreed she could accompany him. So why . . . ?

  Drew’s mouth twitched with annoyance. He was only fooling himself. What people would think was only secondary in his mind. Foremost were his own thoughts of what the night could bring.

  Damn, as if things weren
’t difficult enough.

  But he had made his bed. He would have to lie in it.

  Belatedly wincing at his unwitting double entendre, Drew directed his mind elsewhere.

  Tricia moved quietly around the makeshift camp that Drew had set up for the night. When she had questioned him about their progress, he had responded simply that they’d probably reach Willie’s family sometime the next day. She hadn’t pressed him any further, aware of just how difficult that meeting would be.

  Tricia watched as Drew hobbled their horses a distance from the fire and limped back toward her.

  Limped . . .

  Tricia said abruptly, “Your leg is bothering you, isn’t it, Drew?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t have to lie to me, you know.”

  “I wouldn’t bother to lie.”

  “Why are you limping, then?”

  Drew’s strong features were tightly drawn when he turned back toward her and said, “My leg isn’t my biggest concern right now, understand?”

  “I do . . . and I don’t.” As adamant as he, Tricia pressed, “You have a painful mission to accomplish, but I saw what your leg looked like when you collapsed. I don’t want to take the chance that’ll happen again because of neglect.”

  “What difference does that make to you?”

  “What diff—”

  Tricia went silent as Drew pinned her with his gaze. She needed to be honest or he would see right through her, but how could she respond?

  Could she confess that she was attracted to him in so many ways she could not explain; that because of him, she had begun feeling things she had never felt before; that her concern for him was no longer limited simply to the altruism that had driven her to remain at his side through those long first nights when his leg and his life were threatened?

  Lastly, could she tell him that Willie’s death had affected her deeply, not only because of her affection for the young man whose endearing smile had touched her, but because she suffered Drew’s torment as well as her own; that she wanted—no, she needed desperately to lessen his feelings of loss whatever way she could?

  She couldn’t, because she knew his next question would be, Why?