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  Copyright ©2005 by WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

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  ALLEGIANCE

  by

  Rosalie More

  WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

  www.whiskeycreekpress.com

  Published by

  WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

  Whiskey Creek Press

  PO Box 51052

  Casper, WY 82605-1052

  www.whiskeycreekpress.com

  Copyright ©

  2005 by Rosalie More

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  ISBN 1-59374-297-5

  Credits:

  Cover Artist: Rosalie More

  Editor: Bev Haynes

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To Romer Zane Grey, who believed in me. And to my wonderful husband for his unfailing support and encouragement, as well as to both my beautiful and independent daughters who serve as perfect models for my heroine.

  Chapter 1

  Louisiana

  May 1836

  Two male voices, charged with emotion, echoed along the shadowy aisles on the freight deck of the Missouri Belle. One sounded grim, demanding; the other shrill with protests. The whumpety-whump of the paddle wheels on the steamboat drowned out all but a few words and phrases.

  The sounds halted Amy Victoria Baker in her tracks. After following her brother this far and recognizing his voice, she glanced around for a place to hide, a place where she could listen without being seen. She abandoned the open daylight near the railing and darted into the dim maze of crates, hogsheads, barrels, and casks.

  How mysterious—her brother meeting a stranger in the midst of the cargo on the lower deck! A secret rendezvous? Who was he talking to? The hairs prickled on the back of Amy's neck as she crept forward stealthily.

  "Muskets?” Jeb Baker asked, plainly bewildered.

  "You heard me! And ammunition, too. Did you or did you not agree to deliver two hundred muskets? By God, I was counting on you!"

  Muskets? Ammunition? To Amy's knowledge, Jeb owned no more than a couple of pistols and a Kentucky long rifle. Where would he get two hundred of them?

  She hadn't set out deliberately to eavesdrop on Jeb. She'd meant only to waylay him and scold him for his failure to show up at breakfast. She hated eating alone in public; it made her feel conspicuous. None of the other female passengers ever appeared in the dining room unescorted. Why should she have to? After spotting Jeb leave the main salon—an area staked out exclusively as male territory—she'd followed him down to the freight deck, intending to confront him about his negligence. Unfortunately, it sounded as though someone had beat her to it.

  "You must be talkin’ about my pa, Royal Baker. I never promised to haul muskets."

  "I understood the two of you were in the deal. Never mind, just tell me where I can find this Royal."

  "He's dead, Major! My father is dead."

  For several seconds, only the throbbing of the engines and paddles broke the silence. “I'll be damned! When did that happen?"

  Jeb explained about the saloon brawl which had led to their father's death. The recollection brought a lump to Amy's throat.

  "You're certain it was an accident?” asked the stranger.

  "An accident is what they told me."

  A pause. “I wouldn't be too sure. What if someone discovered who he really worked for?"

  "Nobody else knew but me, Major. And I didn't tell."

  Major, Jeb called him. Could his companion be that young military officer she'd noticed in the dining room? The one who always sat at the captain's table wearing his impeccable uniform? It did sound like his authoritative voice—the northeastern twang resonated with culture and breeding. She could tell he hadn't grown up along the Mississippi River wading barefoot in muddy water spearing bullfrogs for supper. Who was he?

  When Amy had boarded the steamboat in St. Louis, heading for New Orleans with her brother to pay off their father's creditor, she hadn't expected to meet anyone they knew among the passengers. But this man knew Jeb, and what's more, he apparently expected something from him. She couldn't understand this talk about their father working for someone. Royal Baker had always prided himself on being his own man—a merchant trader on the Santa Fe Trail. He'd never called any man his boss. What did Jeb know about Papa that she didn't know?

  Amy inched closer, hoping for a glimpse of the stranger. The two men stood no more than ten feet away beyond some bales of smelly cow hides. Sure enough ... Through the narrow space between two barrels, she caught the flash of a blue military uniform and identified the strong features of the soldier from back East. She frowned, trying to make sense of it. What business would a well-bred officer have with a raw youth fresh off the frontier?

  Amy eased her head up to get a better look.

  The major must have been blessed with second sight, because he threw his head up like a stag smelling danger. As he glanced around, his gaze pierced the gloom to hone right in on her! His eyes narrowed, pinning her with his glare.

  Amy's heart leaped to her throat. For a long second, she crouched frozen, unable to break contact with those furious gray eyes. He moved abruptly, and she ducked, dropping to her knees.

  "Someone's there! Baker, you go that way. We'll cut him off."

  Amy scuttled away like a rat in a pantry, zigzagging through the freight containers, heading for the stairway. Off to her left, her brother shouted something, and his heavy boots kept pace with her in the next aisle. She dashed by several hogsheads reeking of preserved meat, grateful for their cover and the darkness that cloaked her movements. Rounding the end of the row, she didn't see the army officer until his brass buttons loomed inches from her face. She bounced off him and lost her balance. His arm broke her fall as it hooked her waist in a quick move.

  As easily as if she were a child's doll, he set her on her feet. “What in the hell—"

  She swayed, trying to collect her wits as his hands closed firmly on her shoulders. Reflexively, she braced her hands against his broad chest and shoved, but he stood firm as an oak tree.

  "What are you doing here? Who are you?” He gave her a shake.

  Speechless with dismay, she stared up at him. Humiliation burned a path up her neck to her face.

  He towered over her, his body hard and muscular judging by the solid impact of the collision. His wide shoulders tapered to narrow waist and hips—he had plenty of what the girls at school coyly referred to as stature. Dark gold hair curled behind his ears and brushed his collar; a deeper bronze shaded his mustache. He appeared to be twenty-five to thirty years old, but his eyes held an older, wiser look, as though he'd proven his manhood with years of battling life at slim odds. At the moment, those eyes flashed with anger—hard flint sparking off cold steel.

  His fingers bit into the flesh of her upp
er arms. “You're an unlikely looking spy."

  "Sir!” Every nerve in her body jangled a silent alarm as she strained to loosen his hold. “Unhand me at once!"

  Without releasing his hold, he set her back far enough to flick a hard gaze over her person, from the white lawn cap on her head to the flounce on the bottom of her narrow outmoded skirt which just cleared her scuffed prunella shoes. His perusal made her conscious of her homely well-worn attire.

  Jeb peered around from behind the officer, his face stretched in a huge grin. Didn't he just love seeing her make a fool of herself!

  Mortified, Amy writhed out of the man's grip, desiring nothing more than to slink out of sight up the stairway, but the major placed his fists on his hips, elbows jutting, and braced his legs in a wide stance. She was trapped in the passageway.

  Jeb's grin faded to a long-suffering look. “Amy, what are you doing here?"

  "You know her?” Without removing his gaze from her face, the major reached down and plucked his hat up off the floor. The shape was unusual—the right side of the brim folded up to the crown, attached by a pin with an insignia on it. The left side formed a proper right angle and nestled a plume next to the headband. It struck Amy suddenly that he was wearing his full-dress uniform, complete with sword and scabbard. She wondered why New Orleans warranted such a formal arrival.

  "Yeah, I know her.” Jeb's tone lacked enthusiasm. “This here's my younger sister, Amy Victoria. Amy, meet Major O'Donnell."

  The easterner's expression grew more fierce, if anything. “Well, that about caps it, Baker. Who else knows about our little arrangement?"

  She lifted her chin and looked the officer in the eye. No acknowledgment to the introduction? Even her untutored brother had better manners than this arrogant snob. Not for anything would she give him the satisfaction of knowing his rudeness bothered her one whit.

  Jeb shrugged. “What arrangement? That went up in smoke when Pa died—"

  "I beg to differ with you. The U.S. government isn't known for giving up as a strategy of choice.” Major O'Donnell's flinty gaze settled on Amy. “How much does she know?"

  Under the scrutiny of two pairs of eyes, Amy felt obliged to respond. “I know nothing of your business with my father, sir. He never mentioned you."

  The major snorted. “You still heard enough standing there to put my head in a noose.” He turned his dark scowl on Jeb. “Well, Baker, did your father by any chance entrust you with a report for me?"

  Jeb shook his head. “I haven't come across it among his things. I have no idea what—"

  "No report? Are you telling me we've waited a year for nothing?"

  "It wasn't my fault Pa was killed."

  Amy frowned in confusion. “What report?"

  The officer slanted her a look that would have silenced a more demure woman. He turned back to Jeb. “But you went with him to New Mexico, didn't you? You were there. You must be aware of everything he found out."

  Jeb hesitated. “Well, some, I guess. But I don't see the danged use. With Pa dead—"

  "You'll have to take over,” O'Donnell finished for him. “So, write a detailed account of the situation in New Mexico, as you observed it. Or as a result of inquiries you made there. Do it today, before we reach New Orleans. I'll dispatch it to Washington as soon as we arrive."

  "I can't."

  "What do you mean?"

  A flush darkened Jeb's cheeks. “I never learned to write."

  The mix of incredulity, impatience, and anger on Major O'Donnell's face made Amy cringe with embarrassment. She felt shame for her brother, followed by an immediate flare of resentment toward the condescending man who made her feel that way.

  Jeb's expression brightened. “But Amy now—she can write!"

  The major turned his dumbfounded look on her.

  "It's a fact,” Jeb continued. “Pa's had her at a boardin’ school for nigh onto six years."

  "Now, Jeb...” Please don't mention I was a laundry maid. Please ... Since the age of twelve, she'd gotten her room and board and some book learning in exchange for scrubbing linens for the pampered daughters of the well-to-do. Now, at eighteen, she could enjoy reading James Fennimore Cooper's books and keeping a daily journal. That still didn't mean she could pass as a scribe. And even if she could, she wasn't about to be pressed into service on behalf of some ill-tempered overbearing man.

  The army major heaved a sigh and raked his fingers through his thick gold hair. “Let her write it then, but get it to me soon."

  She frowned. “I beg your pardon, but—"

  "Jeb, you'll take over your father's obligations.” Major O'Donnell didn't acknowledge her protest with so much as a glance. “We're proceeding as planned, and I expect you to carry out your part."

  "What?” Jeb's scowl settled back in place. “You mean haul your muskets to New Mexico? I can't promise that. Everything's changed now. I don't even know if I'm goin’ west this summer."

  Not go to Santa Fe? Amy stared at her brother. What was he saying? The trade expedition was all he'd talked about for weeks! She'd been counting on the new life he'd promised her. She'd allowed herself to dream of having enough money for property, stylish clothes, respectability.

  "Oh, you're going.” The major's stern expression didn't invite contradiction. Clearly, he was running out of patience. “Our strategy depends on it."

  "But I can't afford trade goods,” Jeb muttered. “How can I—"

  "Mr. Baker! If you fail to live up to our agreement, you'll answer to the Secretary of War. And you—” The major turned and stabbed a finger in Amy's face. “Not a word of this to another soul, you understand? After you help your brother record his information, you forget everything you heard here."

  She opened her mouth to tell him what she thought of his orders, but snapped it shut when his narrowed eyes clashed with hers. He looked like a man who wouldn't hesitate to use brute force to bend her to his will. She straightened her spine. “I want to clarify one thing—two things actually. Since Papa died, I own half interest in the freight company, small as it is. Anything that involves that, involves me. And if I write out anything, it will be for my brother's sake and not yours."

  Her words made not a dent in the cold mask of his fury. He spoke through clenched teeth. “Fine. And while you're wet-nursing him, you might keep him away from that scoundrel at the poker table. Then maybe he would have enough money for his expedition."

  Her jaw dropped. Jeb gambling? Is that what her brother had been doing instead of taking his meals with her? Closeting himself in the men's salon to play poker? Losing all their money? Her heart sank into her shoes.

  Chapter 2

  Wrestling with angry frustration, Major Tyler O'Donnell took the stairs two at a time and headed down the promenade deck. The last thing he needed on a secret assignment was having to deal with pigheaded civilians. An important part of his well-laid plans threatened to fall apart if he failed to gain Jeb Baker's full cooperation. He didn't know where the hell the sister fit in.

  His arm tingled to the tips of his fingers recalling how Amy Baker had fallen into the crook of his arm. Her delicate ribcage and fluttering heart had reminded him of a wild bird he'd once caught. It had beat its wings against his hands as helpless as a moth before he'd set it free. Amy was spunky yet vulnerable like that bird. It insulted his sense of justice to think she had no one fit to watch over her.

  Too bad her rattlebrained brother had lost their money. Lord, the man's luck at the gaming table had been the worst! If Jeb was any indication of the Baker family's humble roots, his sister, at least, was making an effort to overcome them. She'd had schooling, apparently, while her brother was no doubt lucky if he could sign his name.

  At first, he'd taken the girl for a spy—she'd worn her shabby clothing with the air of a debutante. Then, noting her reticence and naiveté, he'd dismissed her as inconsequential in the scheme of things. Young and pretty, to be sure, with most of her blonde hair twisted up somehow under her bonnet, and
little curls dangling on each side of her delicate face. Her voice was low, he remembered—more the dove than the warbler. However, he'd judged her to be meek and empty-headed until he saw the fire in her blue eyes.

  He paused near the railing for a breath of cooler air but the mugginess lay everywhere like soggy cotton. Along the shore, bracken and tangled brush melted into marshland; eddies swirled and sucked at the mud banks below. The smell of mud and decaying vegetation thickened the sultry air.

  No sign of civilization.

  Exasperated, he swore under his breath. The small shabby steamboat, which hauled mostly freight and offered accommodations to no more than two dozen passengers, would have been in New Orleans by now if she hadn't hung up on every shoal and nosed up to every river town dock between Natchez and Baton Rouge. If he arrived late in New Orleans, every part of his plan would suffer.

  He turned and headed for the stairs to the hurricane deck, hoping the captain, at least, had done what he'd agreed to.

  * * * *

  Amy tightened her grip on the railing as the Missouri Belle wallowed past a small island in the Mississippi River. Dread knotted her stomach. The trip that had held such promise when she left St. Louis two weeks before had suddenly taken a bad turn.

  "Amy, don't worry! It's nothin'.” Jeb slouched against the railing beside her, chewing tobacco and directing sidelong glances at her face.

  She didn't answer. What was there to say? She'd thought he shared her hopes and dreams born the day poverty forced them off their dry Missouri farm. Their father had salvaged nothing, just packed up one day and abandoned the shriveled corn and stunted indigo. Her tears had left no trace in the swirling red dust. Thank goodness Mama had no longer been around to suffer it. The terrible loss had nearly crushed Papa's spirit; still he'd scrimped and saved for years afterwards, hoping to start over on land with fertile soil and lots of water.

  Now Jeb was throwing all the money away.

  She struggled to keep her voice calm. “He suckered you, didn't he, Jeb?"