Allegiance Page 3

  Amy restrained herself from hitting him alongside the head with her reticule. Could he really be so dense? “Jeb! We'll just have to find others who want cargo hauled. We still have a few weeks.” A grim thought struck her. “If we're out of money, how are we going to pay Henri Dubois? He expects a return on the investment he made with Papa last year."

  "I guess he can have the Mexican silver we brought back from Santa Fe."

  "Show it to me.” She rose from her chair.

  With a dispirited air, he slowly got to his knees and unlocked the hefty padlock on the brass-bound chest beside the bed.

  Amy pried up the lid. “Is that everything?"

  "Every last chalice, platter and filigree necklace we brought back from Santa Fe. I haven't touched it. Henri should be happy with that."

  "He's expecting currency, though, right? Isn't that what Papa promised him?” Full of misgivings, she sat on the edge of the bed, marveling at how differently blood relatives could look at things. Especially those who had been separated awhile. She hadn't much to offer Jeb except trust, and he'd stomped a mud hole in that as though it meant nothing. Now he planned to do the same to Dubois.

  "He'll understand. Henri's a good fellow."

  "Well, I hope you will understand.” Amy closed the lid and snapped the padlock closed. “I'm taking charge of this chest. I'll ask the captain to safeguard it until I go ashore. I won't stand by and watch you shortchange Papa's old friend by gambling this away, too."

  He gave her an injured look. “Go ahead, if it makes you happy.” He settled his back against the wall and pulled his hat low over his features. After a moment, he peered up at her with a tentative smile. “You know, I really believe I could win at poker today. I feel different—like fortune's smilin’ on me again. Them cards will naturally fall right if I give ‘em another chance. Jackrabbit, he'd treat me fair."

  She stared at him without answering. He just didn't get it! How he reminded her of Papa with his dreams and his cocky belief in himself. Except Papa was smart. Jeb, on the other hand, always needed someone to tell him what to do. Now that Papa was gone, he seemed lost.

  She prayed for patience. “We cannot rely on luck. It's a matter of survival.” It came to her suddenly—Mama had said the same thing once, long ago. To Papa. She'd also said, “At least we have one another.” Too late for her parents to make their dreams come true: Papa was dead and buried beside Mama down on Willow Creek.

  Amy jerked off her bonnet and dropped it on the bed. “No, we have to get our money back some other way. Soon, before we get to New Orleans."

  "That's easy for you to say. Since you been to school, maybe you can tell me how."

  A bitter laugh caught in her throat. As if boarding at Miss Ruby Sheffield's School for Young Women had prepared her for this. It certainly wasn't skill in filigree wax work that would help her outsmart a cheat. “At least the swindler has two of us to contend with now. I think I know how we can turn the tables on him. We'll set a trap, and you can spring it. I'll be there to back you up."

  "Right-ho! Then we'll come back here, and you can teach me how to tat doilies!"

  "Jeb, you're all the family I've got.” She reached out to touch his arm. “Please don't shut me out. Let me help."

  At least we have one another.

  His gaze wavered. “I got us into this, and I'll get us out."

  "No. We're both in trouble. You need me."

  He regarded her in silence a few moments, until a sheepish smile twisted his lips. She took it as agreement. “Good. Now, here's what we do.” She paced the narrow room. “We'll catch this Jackrabbit Jones in the act of cheating, and we'll press charges. If he's dishonest, he'll go to jail. We'll get our money back and go on about our business."

  He shook his head stubbornly. “If Jackrabbit cheated me—which he didn't—the manly thing would be to call him out.” He jerked a long-bladed knife from its sheath and waved it in the air. “Knives or pistols—his choice."

  She paused in her nervous motion. “No, Jeb. Not that. Just get in the poker game as usual, but this time keep your eyes open for once. I'll watch."

  "That's your plan?” He snorted in disgust. “What makes you think you can spot a cheater if I can't?"

  She sighed, exasperated. How could she make herself useful as long as he saw her as nothing more than a helpless little sister, a mere woman? She kept her tone even. “I'll talk to the captain—no, hear me out! He can probably tell me what a person should watch for. He's in authority here, so he's a necessary part of this. When we've got the evidence, he'll make the arrest."

  "I don't like it. You don't know Jackrabbit Jones. You think he'd just grin and say, ‘Shucks, you caught me—here's your money'? Not likely."

  "But the man must pay for his wickedness.” The ominous feeling that Jeb might have a point prodded her to think of insurance. Her gaze landed on the tiny pistol Jeb had taken from his boot and laid on the writing table. How like him to defy the captain's rule about carrying firearms.

  She picked it up. The rounded ivory handle fit snug in her palm with the barrel clearing her knuckle by no more than an inch or so. It was the smallest pistol she'd ever seen. “How quaint this is!"

  "Put that down!” Jeb glowered at her. “Be careful, now, it's loaded."

  "Can I borrow it?"

  "Hell, no! What would you do with it?"

  "Don't worry, I wouldn't shoot anyone. I might need it to get someone's attention, though.” She wondered where she could conceal it on her person. No high-top boots. No pockets. The sleeves on her frock fit snugly from wrist to upper arm.

  "Give it here.” Jeb held out his hand.

  The enormity of her plan daunted her, but only for a moment. Only until her father's image loomed in her mind—the boldest, most courageous man she'd ever hope to know. What would he think of the mess Jeb had gotten them into? He'd never for a minute allow anyone to push him around. And if his own kin was wronged, he'd defend them to the last drop of his blood.

  But, he wasn't here.

  They had to stick up for one another.

  "Amy? Listen to me. You're not gettin’ away with this."

  "Why not?” She dropped the little pistol down the neck of her bodice. The cool metal slid across her hot skin until it found a resting place in the hollow between her breasts. “I'll carry it where a gentleman would never find it.” She grinned at his horrified expression.

  "Dang it, Amy! What am I gonna do with you?"

  * * * *

  Alone in his room at last, Jeb sailed his hat onto the bed, then struggled out of the heavy leather tunic. His sister was right, though it rankled him to admit it—Pa would have wanted him to dress nice for New Orleans.

  He scratched his ribs and opened his portmanteau without enthusiasm. He had let her take the chest of silver—that was fine. Maybe if he indulged her, she'd grant him a little quarter.

  He sighed, pawing through the wadded clothing. She sure fooled a person with her spindling figure in a shapeless dress and her big eyes peeking out from under her bonnet. Who'd guess she had a core of iron? Barely eighteen and she knew exactly what she wanted. Headstrong. It wouldn't do no more good to stand in her way than to jump in front of a team of runaway horses.

  Wishful thinking, that's what it was, if she believed he'd agreed to take her on as a partner in the freight business. Why was she always planting words in his mouth like that? And save up for a farm? He didn't know as he wanted to break his back farming again. He'd tried to tell her, but would she listen? Not so's you'd notice. His only defense was to agree with her, then turn around and do what he wanted.

  He hadn't been cheated, and he'd prove it. Nor had he ruined his last chance to haul freight on the Santa Fe Trail, for that matter. He'd rather put his own money in trade goods than haul everybody else's cargo, anyway. That's where the money was, after all, though he couldn't expect Amy to understand.

  He gave a snort of disgust just thinking about her prissy attitude. After she'd gotten the
chest and the porters lined out in the hall, she'd paused in the doorway to tie her bonnet strings. Her stern look would have given credit to a cranky schoolmarm. “Why don't you change into that nice suit of Papa's I brought along?” she'd asked. “Remember how he said people treat you like a gentleman if you look the part? Well, I want you to fool everybody, hear?” And without waiting for an answer, she'd hurried away.

  Fool everybody. Hah! As if there was anything to being a gentleman besides dressing like one. Unless it also meant having pockets stuffed with money. His were nearly empty now, but he'd soon remedy that.

  He pulled out the blue cloth coat and checkered nankeen trousers. Catching a whiff of Pa's sweet pipe tobacco brought a whole sortie of memories rushing at him: Pa and him floating down river together on a steamboat, the two of them making the rounds of the French Quarter in New Orleans, visiting Henri Dubois to repay double his investment and to share his spicy Cajun meal.

  Jeb shucked his homespun trousers and climbed into the suit. The fit was comfortable enough. Groping again in the heavy leather bag, he located his horse-pistol. Never mind the captain's rules about carrying a sidearm aboard the boat—Jeb might as well be naked without it. If there was trouble, he wanted to be ready. He dug out his flask and poured a measure of black powder down the barrel, followed that with a patch-wrapped lead ball, and crammed the greasy wad home with the ramrod. A percussion cap on the nipple under the hammer completed the loading.

  He hefted the pistol in his hand, admiring the clean line of the barrel. Something in the way the worn metal gleamed as he scrubbed his sleeve over it, the way the carved wooden handle snugged into his palm and the neat fit of the trigger under his finger satisfied some lusty urge in his belly. It was more than just a pistol. Target practice had made it a deadly weapon. Standing between him and his enemies made it a best friend—a guardian angel.

  He settled it into its homemade holster and slipped that onto the leather belt around his waist. In front of the mirror, he turned this way and that, adjusting Pa's narrow-brimmed felt hat and checking the slight bulge under the skirt of the coat where the pistol hung against his hip. Not bad. A handsome devil, if he did say so.

  Suddenly, a tight feeling in his throat made him swallow. Add a couple of decades or so to the man gazing back at him and he'd be looking at Pa. He blinked and leaned closer. Very much the same, only the eyes lacked something—that veil of sorrow through which Pa viewed the world. The faded light of a defeated spirit was missing, but little else.

  Jeb shook off the chill that crawled up his spine and spun away from the ghostly reflection. Pa had made a fatal mistake turning his back on brawling riverboat men. But he wasn't Pa, and he would never make that mistake.

  * * * *

  Amy entered the salon with a casual air she didn't feel, pretending to be unaware of her intrusion on male territory, and strolled toward the card tables at the far end. Her tiny pistol nestled in her bodice, a hard lump between her breasts. She prayed she wouldn't need it.

  She paused, glancing around. To her relief, the salon was nearly vacant—perhaps the passengers, anticipating arrival at New Orleans, had gone to their rooms to pack. Jeb sat at a table with three other men, intent on his poker game. Except for a quick glance, he paid her no mind.

  Wandering closer, she made a show of ogling the bright cluster of oil lamps suspended from the ceiling, the gilded frames on the large mirrors, and the red plush-draped walls. She played the travel-weary girl with time on her hands. Arriving eventually at the only occupied gaming table, she paused behind Jeb's chair to watch the card game in progress.

  Going to Captain Stott for advice had been a waste of time. He'd made it clear he wouldn't interfere with Jones without solid evidence the games were dishonest. Somehow, she'd expected more from a man in charge. At least he'd promised to keep her chest of silver safe until she went ashore. She had managed, also, to badger him into describing how a person could recognize a crooked game. The card sharp's basic methods, he'd confided reluctantly, included a stacked deck, invisible marks or trimmed cards and dealing the sucker a decent hand to bet on so there'd be money in the pot.

  A blue fog of cigar smoke hovered over the players’ heads. A momentary hush settled, broken only by the soft slap of cards on the table and the ting! of Jeb's tobacco juice as it hit the brass spittoon.

  Jackrabbit Jones clenched a black cigar between his long teeth and leaned over his fat belly to shuffle the cards with a ripple and a snap. He sported a silver watch, a showy brass watch-chain, and lots of hair oil. Such vanity! These, plus a pile of money in front of him, seemed enough to snare unwary victims. He puffed on his cigar, then laid it on a tray. A plume of smoke from the strong Louisiana Perique tobacco drifted past Amy's face, burning her nose. Heavy-lidded eyes shifted toward her, probing, guarded, calculating as a spider.

  The thin man on the left cut the deck, and Jackrabbit dealt with a flourish.

  As her brother scooped up his cards, Amy took a peek—two queens.

  "What the devil!” Jeb complained. “I keep gettin’ the same dang cards!"

  He seemed to be none the wiser. Amy wondered how he could have missed seeing that his cards had come off the bottom of the deck. How could the other players have missed it, unless they were too busy watching her face for an unconscious clue as to what her brother held in his hand? As if she'd reveal anything by so much as the flicker of an eyelash!

  Another round of cards flipped out around the table—face up. Jeb gasped when he got another queen.

  She retreated a few feet from the table and stood with her back to the players, trembling with excitement. She should say something. Now. Call a showdown. Outrage and victory and a crazy feeling of satisfaction made her want to shriek with laughter. Or shout oaths.

  Hadn't she tried to tell Jeb? She hadn't been certain until now. Who else had seen it? If she was the only witness, it might be too soon to make accusations.

  Behind her, Jeb's voice rang out in sudden profanity. She whirled. Her brother pointed an accusing finger at Jones. “You miserable slick-fingered cheat!"

  Clearly visible from where she stood, the gambler's hand concealed a pistol under the table. The butt of it rested on his thigh with his finger curled around the trigger. The barrel aimed straight at Jeb's belly.

  She couldn't move. The scene had the unreal drama of a stage play, a stark tragedy, moving relentlessly toward its finale. And she stood frozen off-stage, helpless and dumb. No! Jeb, watch out!

  Reality jolted back, and with it free motion. She reached for her hidden pistol. It seemed a natural part of her nightmare that it settled deeper as she groped for it. With both hands, she ripped the threadbare fabric, closed her fingers around the ivory handle, and fumbled the pistol into position. Aim. Fire!

  Jackrabbit bucked in his chair as another shot echoed hers. Chairs toppled and thudded to the carpet as two men scrambled away. Jackrabbit's chair teetered for a moment on two legs, then went down with a crash.

  Jeb leaned half-crouched over the table, grasping the edge with one hand as though to steady himself. The specter of death shrouded Amy's mind until she realized her brother stood under his own power, clutching a smoking gun. Relief drained the strength from her legs.

  Jackrabbit thrashed on the floor, clutching his bloodied right hand and squealing like a pig. The other two men emerged from cover, goggle-eyed and pale. The acrid smell of burnt powder hung in the air.

  Jeb backed across the room, his head whipping from side to side as he threw glances toward every corner.

  "Wait, Jeb!” Her heart thumped like a barrel rolling downstairs. “They'll come for us! Lock us up! What shall we do?"

  Jeb's wild-eyed gaze swept back to her. “No! It was all square. The bastard drew first but never got off a shot. We got witnesses.” In his hand, the gun trembled.

  "I shot him!” Her shallow, rapid breathing didn't provide enough air. “He was going to kill you, so I shot him."

  "Naw, you didn't. Your sh
ot went high. But you rattled him and gave me the edge. He took my lead. He'll live, though. If I'd meant to, he'd be dead. Come on, let's go."

  "Wait a minute! Our money!” She ripped off her bonnet and raked Jackrabbit's pile of bills into it, every scrap and coin.

  "Hold it right there, ma'am!” One of the poker players reached a shaky hand toward her, but stood as rigid as if his boots were nailed down. “You can't do that."

  Jeb held one of the doors open. “Come on, Amy! Now!"

  She wadded the fabric around her booty and swiveled away from the table.

  "Stop!” The thin man waved his pistol. “I'll shoot, so help me God!"

  She dashed for the door, chills prickling her vulnerable back. Jeb couldn't protect her now—his weapon was as empty as hers. The salon stretched ahead of her like a long tunnel. She scrunched her shoulders and ran.

  Chapter 4

  As Amy raced across the salon toward the door, she half-expected a lead ball to bury itself between her shoulder blades. The explosion and stunning impact never came. Behind her, a man cursed. Sounds of pursuit urged her on.

  Major O'Donnell stood outside the door. He grabbed her by the arm and shoved her behind him. “Jeb, take her to the foredeck and wait for me!"

  A pistol shot sent a ball whizzing past the major's head. He flinched, then stepped into the doorway with all the authority of the U.S. Army. “I beg your pardon, gentlemen. I understand there's been some trouble."

  Jeb tugged at her arm, and she stumbled after him in a daze. Nothing seemed real. The sun burned the stark deck with a cruel and unfamiliar light. It was no longer a safe place from which to watch the unwinding river and shoreline. It had become a place of danger, a battleground.

  Her brother herded her into the shelter of a stairway, recharging his pistol with a speed and efficiency that amazed her. Was he expecting a showdown?