Allegiance Read online

  Where was Jeb, anyway? He'd promised to come back and help with the wagons. An ominous premonition nagged Tyler like a sore tooth. More than anything, he wanted to get away from this place before anything else went wrong.

  He measured the board with care, then sawed along the line he'd drawn. The work proved tedious with such primitive tools, but he dared not hire a real artisan and risk exposing his project. He still wasn't comfortable with the idea of smuggling muskets across the border, notwithstanding the president's sanction. Unethical under ordinary circumstances, the operation had approval from the highest level of government. When this assignment was finished, he'd definitely rest easier at night.

  The board fell in two. He fit the longer section into place, allowing a few inches of space above the floor of the wagon, and picked up his hammer. What bothered him was that although Houston hadn't come right out and asked him to foment rebellion among the Mexican citizens, the implication had been clear. Tyler had no idea what to expect once he arrived in Santa Fe. There were too many unknowns. Just the sort of situation that would make any military leader cringe. Dangerous was putting it mildly. How he wished Amy understood that! If she did, she wouldn't be holding a grudge against him like this. Her involvement had been a source of misgivings to him from the beginning.

  Damn Houston for encouraging her!

  One of the front doors creaked open, and Tyler glanced up from his work. Amy! Where had she come from? Judging by her somber expression, her disposition hadn't improved. He would have thought her imminent marriage to Henri would have cheered her up.

  "Tyler, I have a bad feeling."

  "What now?"

  "I'm worried. Jeb should have returned long ago. I've been waiting out here for an hour! He was supposed to bring the third wagon with all the supplies."

  Tyler suppressed his exasperation. “What do you want me to do?"

  "Help me find him."

  A smothering powerlessness descended on him, as it had in New Orleans when she'd refused to leave town without seeing her brother one last time. He struggled to contain his impatience. “Amy, I don't have time for another crisis. Jeb's a grown man. He'll be here."

  She stared down at her hands in silence.

  Tyler kicked himself, wishing he could manage to communicate with her just once without feeling like he was grinding a wildflower under his boot. “Where's Henri? Can't he go with you?"

  "He left."

  Tyler straightened from his work. “I thought you were going with him."

  She hesitated so long that he thought she wasn't going to answer. Then she lifted her chin. “I turned down his proposal. He's not the right man for me."

  Tyler gazed into her vivid blue eyes, and his breath snagged. Something deep inside him went still.

  Her gaze held steady.

  What did it mean? That he still had a chance? Bombarded with feelings, intense and confusing, he ached to grab her and kiss her until she hung slack in his arms, purring with happiness. But after that, what? Where could it lead? He could not offer her marriage and all that went with it: Home and hearth, and a husband who came to bed at night. Not for a long time, he couldn't. Not until he'd gotten his career back on track.

  Reality tasted of bitter gall. Abruptly, he turned away. “We'll give Jeb another hour."

  * * * *

  Jeb finished his drink and departed the Red Boar Grog Shop feeling a lot more like his normal self. The oxen had settled down considerably, tethered to the stoutest post along the street, and the freight wagon appeared undisturbed.

  He felt a twinge of guilt over letting Tyler down, but it would have been a shame to leave St. Louis without drinking at least one round with old friends. Personally, he couldn't see any call for Tyler's ceaseless toil and haste anyway—it was one thing for a man to be steadfast in his duty, and another to drive himself to a lather. And all for what? They'd be ten or twelve weeks on the trail—give or take a few—and fate had a way of throwing every possible obstacle in the path of merchant caravans, so it didn't matter how hard they tried to meet a deadline: they got there when they got there.

  Jeb took a short cut through an alley heading toward the wharf; there wasn't much light, but he knew where he was going. If only he was as sure about his direction in life. There were too many hard choices to make. For instance, he didn't expect much out of this trip to New Mexico—he had nothing to sell when he got there. Oh, Henri's trade goods would bring a little commission, and Amy counted on him selling her fabrics and gowns for her. But without a little cash-money of his own to invest—something beyond the few dollars Amy had begrudged him—Jeb had little more chance of coming out ahead than a one-legged man at a rat stomp.

  Of course, he had no choice but to go. With the law after him, he was forced to keep moving. If nothing else, Mexico offered a haven for outlaws.

  He found the road he wanted, guided by the glow from the warehouse windows. At the gate, he unhitched the oxen and turn them into the yard. He'd leave the wagon outside—Tyler had said he wouldn't need to overhaul all three.

  A sound like a boot scraping the ground brought Jeb's head up, every sense alert. On the air floated the stink of a cigar. The row of warehouses across the road, usually deserted after sundown, formed a black silhouette against the charcoal sky. In the deep shadows below, a shifting movement caught his eye.

  "Who's there?” When Jeb got no reply, the hair stood up on his neck. He placed his hand on the butt of his pistol, drawing comfort from the weight of the weapon against his hip.

  The click of metal against metal sent Jeb into a crouch. A loud report shattered the silence. Jeb pulled his own pistol and fired back, aiming for the spot where he'd seen a tongue of flame.

  Someone broke from cover and charged forward, boots clomping loudly on the hard-packed road. Jeb drew his knife and waited. When the obscure shape dodged behind the wagon, Jeb rolled underneath and belly-crawled between the wheels. A second pistol shot missed him by inches, and he blessed the dark. Immediately, he lunged out and sank the hilt of his long blade into warm quivering flesh. A mortal cry rent the night.

  The doors of the warehouse swung outward, spilling light across the yard. Amy made a dash out of the glare to take cover near the fence. Behind her, Tyler shouted her name.

  Silence descended.

  "Jeb? Where are you?” The gate squealed loudly as Amy pushed it open, peeking through. The Conestoga wagon loomed against the sky.

  "I'm here.” Jeb appeared out of the darkness.

  "Are you hurt? I feared—"

  "No, but somebody is."

  Tyler crossed the yard carrying a lantern. Beyond the gate, he held it high like a beacon. The circle of light caught Jeb hunkering over the figure of a man lying on the ground.

  "Who is it?” Hesitantly, Amy followed Tyler into the road and gazed down at the lifeless form—Jackrabbit Jones!

  Chapter 14

  Jeb prodded the corpse with the toe of his boot. “He was laying in wait for me across the road. Him and another man. Gimme the light—I'll take a look."

  "My God—” Amy couldn't get enough air.

  As her knees buckled, Tyler's arm came around her. Holding her upright, he handed the lantern to Jeb, then used both arms to lend support.

  She clung to him, absorbing his strength. “There's been too much blood!"

  "I know. You're right about that."

  Jeb returned dragging another body by the coat collar. “I was right. Didn't think I could have missed him."

  "Captain Stott?” Tyler's expression went blank for a moment, then tightened into angry lines. “Dammit, Jackson said the man could be trusted! He swore by him! Said he's been carrying important messages for years—Goddammit! He was Calhoun's man all the time."

  Blood stained the front of the captain's shirt. Glazed-eyed and slack-jawed, he bore little resemblance to his former lively self. Amy clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from retching. Tyler swiveled her away from the grisly sight.

  "You s'
pose they followed me?” Jeb asked. “I shouldn't have paraded myself around town so long. If I hadn't been drinkin'..."

  Anger surged through Amy, and she bit her tongue to keep from telling him what she thought of his carelessness.

  Jeb's voice took on a humble tone she hadn't heard before. “I put the mission in danger, didn't I?"

  Tyler glanced at him reproachfully. “Not to mention your sister's life."

  "I'm truly sorry, Major. I'll make it up to you, I swear. So help me, if I ever touch another drop of whisky, you can string me up by my thumbs!"

  "This is the sort of thing I wanted to spare her, Jeb.” Tyler cupped the side of Amy's face with his broad warm hand, pressing her head against his breast. “I thought we could leave her in St. Louis, and she'd be safe. Now I don't know. Who else is closing in, do you suppose, waiting for a chance to ambush us?"

  Amy burrowed closer, seeking refuge in Tyler's arms and trying to blot out the horror.

  Jeb glanced over his shoulder quickly, then lifted the lantern and blew out the flame. “Like I keep sayin'—it's risky livin’ in the settlements. I, for one, can't afford to bide here long. I defend myself from the likes of these galoots, and you watch, the law will hang me for it."

  Tyler showed no inclination to let Amy go, and she yearned to stay in the circle of his arms forever. However, the faint smell of leather and gun oil reminded her of who he was: Major O'Donnell in charge of an important mission.

  She lifted her head. “You must leave, right now, tonight. Both of you. I'll tell the constable that Jeb set out upriver alone."

  Tyler set her back a step, maintaining contact only by his hands on her shoulders. Chilly air filled the void where his body had shared its warmth with her. “And leave you to answer for all this? An investigation now will lead directly here to the warehouse and to you. No, we haven't a choice now—you have to go with us. Lord knows how Indian Territory could be more perilous than this place!"

  "You mean it? I can go?” Amy stared at him.

  "If you promise to do what I tell you."

  She flung her arms around his neck and gave a whoop of joy.

  His arms went around her in a quick squeeze, then released her. Sensing his restraint, she remembered her proper place and stepped away.

  Jeb scratched in his beard. “It would help if there were no dead bodies. The river swallowed up our mistakes before."

  Tyler grinned. “Right you are! You take care of that while I nail down the last few boards. We've got to roll!"

  His grip on Amy's arm kept her from stumbling in the dark as he led her toward the warehouse. She could hardly believe she was going to Santa Fe after all!

  "Tyler, you won't be sorry. I'll do everything I can to see that this succeeds."

  "I don't doubt that at all.” His warm smile thawed the last ice crystals in her heart. “How about lending me a hand in here? You can dole out nails and hold the lantern."

  "My pleasure.” She squared her shoulders and entered the warehouse with a firm and eager tread.

  * * * *

  Amy woke up stiff and sore, sprawled across one of her brother's old buffalo robes on the hard ground. Under the layers of petticoats, her chemise had twisted into a clammy wad in the heat.

  She squinted into the slanting rays of the sun, forgetting for the moment where she lay. The bars she peered through were not set into the jailhouse window of her nightmare, but rather made up the spokes of a huge wooden wheel. Overhead, the blue paint of the wagon bed was not the real sky. Nearby, an ox lay with his legs tucked under him, flopping his hairy ears at flies.

  Memory swept back in a rush: the mad flight from St. Louis before dawn. The twelve grueling hours on the trail. The incessant crack of Jeb's bullwhip. Somehow, he'd kept the lead wagon rumbling at the head of the small caravan until long after the darkness had faded into day and a fiery orb climbed the sky.

  Amy massaged her aching right shoulder. She'd done her best to drive the second wagon, but under the feeble lashes of her short whip, her six yokes of oxen had dropped behind, holding up Tyler's wagon in the rear. She wondered how long it would take to build enough muscle to hold her own.

  She rolled over, following the patch of shade that had inched away during the hot afternoon hours. Before she could doze off again, however, the sound of stomping hooves invaded her groggy brain. She lifted her head and looked around. Two oxen challenged each other under a big oak tree. One made a bluff of hooking the other in the ribs with his horns. The animals had revived, apparently, and were ready to go again.

  Remembering that the men planned to put more miles behind them before dark, she crawled out from cover on her hands and knees. In the shade of another wagon, Tyler lay sleeping on his new Mackinaw blanket. In deference to the heat, he'd removed his homespun shirt, revealing sculptured muscles which thickened his arms, broadened his shoulders, and added depth to his chest. His torso tapered to lean hips; bare skin glowed with perspiration. Body hair was limited to soft russet-gold tufts in the hollows beneath his arms and a sprinkling of golden hairs above his belt buckle. The lightweight fabric of his trousers molded his muscular thighs.

  Amy averted her gaze from his half-naked form, then sneaked another glance. What a marvelous creature! God must be justifiably proud of his handiwork.

  She drew closer, knelt down, and touched his shoulder. Sleep had relaxed the usual sternness in his face, revealing a defenselessness even the stubble of his new beard couldn't hide. “Tyler?"

  A frown appeared between his brows first, then he jerked awake. His gray eyes widened with alarm. “What's wrong?"

  "You asked me to wake you."

  He groaned and closed his eyes again. “How long did I sleep?"

  "It's late afternoon now. Four or five hours, I guess."

  "Feels like I just lay down.” He yawned and stretched, arching his back. He propped himself up on one elbow. “Can you hand me my canteen beside you?” He took it from her, uncapped it, and drank deeply, then sloshed water over his head. Trail dust muddied the rivulets that trickled down his neck. He glanced at her as he mopped his face with a blue patterned bandana. “What are you looking at? Don't I pass as a bullwhacker?"

  She glanced away, embarrassed to be caught staring. “You look like a wild man who has never set foot east of the Mississippi."

  "Good. That's what I want.” He reached for his shirt and pulled it on over his head.

  "If you get the hang of the frontier lingo, you can pass as a renegade bootlegger.” She tucked her feet beneath her skirt and settled down on a corner of his blanket.

  "Might as well fit the part.” He smiled, then gazed thoughtfully into space. “Let's see ... I ain't never had no book larnin'. How's that?"

  She shuddered. “I used to speak that way before I went to work at Miss Ruby's School For Women.” She took the bandana from his hand and swabbed his dripping hair. It struck her that although she'd met him a month ago, she'd spent most of that time in a huff. It seemed prudent now to let bygones be bygones.

  "I really ... complicated your plans, didn't I?” She gazed down at her hands, twisting the fabric between her fingers.

  "What makes you say that? If I remember correctly, you're the one that tracked down muskets when I couldn't find any."

  "But you never wanted me to make this journey, did you?"

  When he didn't answer, she glanced up and caught his gaze wandering leisurely over her face and hair. It settled on her mouth, reminding her of the kisses they'd shared. Heat suffused her face. “I figured you didn't like me much."

  "You're way off the mark there.” He smiled.

  Feeling suddenly shy and awkward as a child, she didn't probe further. The warmth in his eyes disturbed the rhythm of her heart. Abruptly, she thrust his bandana at him, preparing to withdraw, but he caught her hand. She went still, confused, yet full of longing. He removed the cotton scarf and unfolded her fingers to stroke her palm. Her heart fluttered like a hummingbird's wing.

  He frown
ed. “You've got blisters.” His feathery touch sent tingles up her arm and throughout her body.

  "I—I'm not used to handling a bullwhip."

  "Don't you have gloves?"

  "Thin cotton ones."

  His eyes lifted to hers. “Better put ointment on these."

  She nodded mutely. He could hold her hand all day if he wanted to, she thought. Meeting his gaze left her breathless and shaken.

  "I hope you don't regret coming with us. You're too genteel for this life."

  "Genteel?” She choked out a laugh. “How little you know! I come from common stock, believe me."

  From a distance, Jeb shouted at them to get cracking.

  Amy grimaced at her brother's bossy tone. “Don't mind him. He's getting too big for his britches."

  "No, he's in charge of this stage of our journey, and rightly so.” Tyler rolled out from under the wagon and reached his hand down toward Amy. “I've found that most people have their own brand of knowledge, and things generally work more smoothly if you let them use it."

  His large hand made hers feel dainty as she rose to stand beside him.

  "You're no exception, Amy. I'm counting on your determination and good sense to carry us through. You're a remarkable woman."

  Her cheeks burned hotter at his praise. “I hope I don't disappoint you."

  "You won't. I probably ought to put you in charge of the mission.” Smiling, he slowly released her hand.

  She walked away, tripping on air. Genteel. If only she deserved that description. Perhaps her years under the tutelage of the straitlaced Ruby Sheffield counted for something after all. It counted for a lot if she'd fooled Major Tyler O'Donnell.

  Glancing down at the full skirts of her gown, she wondered what people would think to see a woman traveling in fashionable dress with two common bullwhackers. Maybe she should try to fit in a little better herself. Until they crossed the Missouri border, they'd be passing several villages and farms; it wouldn't pay to be conspicuous.