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  “I’ll pick up the trail in New Orleans. Colonel O’Brien, there is one more thing.”

  Fortune felt a prickle across the nape of his neck. Eisner’s expression was impassive, but there was a solemnity in his voice that made Fortune brace for bad news. “What’s that?”

  “Trevor Wenger canceled the contract with our agency. All he wants is the boy. He doesn’t care one whit for the woman.”

  “I can understand that.”

  “He’s hired Seeton Harwood, a man who’s been out West. Harwood is wanted in Fort Smith for killing a marshal. He’s supposed to have killed anywhere from six to fourteen men in gunfights. Harwood’s a fighter and, from what we’ve learned, a deadly shot who doesn’t hesitate to kill. We’re trying to locate the woman for her father before Harwood kills her. I don’t want to add to your worries, but I don’t think you’d want your son in the hands of this man. Of course, he’s being paid to bring the boy back unharmed.”

  “Dammit to hell!” Fortune snapped, slamming his knee with his palm. A hired killer after his son. Michael would be six years old now. A little boy. “Dammit, you let me know the instant you think you’ve picked up her trail.”

  “I’ll start on the case today,” Eisner said, closing the folder. As Fortune stood up, he extended his hand.

  “Thanks. Good luck. I hope to hear from you soon. Here’s where you can reach me,” he said, giving Eisner a folded piece of paper. “As soon as I’m out of the army, I’ll give you my new address. It’ll be an Atlanta hotel until I can build a home.”

  “You’ll settle in Atlanta as a civilian?”

  “Yes, I intend to go into business there.”

  Eisner nodded his head. “Then you and the grandfather will encounter each other.”

  “Yes. That’s why I’m settling there,” Fortune answered grimly. “We have a score to settle. And he’ll know when I finally bring Michael home.”

  The following week, back in his office in Atlanta, Fortune looked up as a tall, powerfully built black officer entered and saluted. Returning the salute, Fortune sat back. “At ease, Tobiah,” he said, remembering meeting Tobiah when he had visited his brother Caleb.

  “Colonel O’Brien—”

  “Close the door.”

  Tobiah closed it and turned around. Fortune waved his hand. “Sit down, Tobiah. And it’s Fortune. I know how close you are to Rafferty and Caleb.”

  “Yes, sir. I came to you because I want to get out of the army. I want to get home to my wife and baby.”

  “Where are they?”

  “In Chicago. I haven’t been home since the war started. My son is going to grow up without knowing me.” He placed a paper on the desk in front of Fortune, who picked it up and glanced over the letter requesting a release. “Also, I feel uncomfortable living in the South. There’s too many people in this town who’ve been hurt by the war, and they’re angry,” Tobiah continued. “I had my own business in Chicago, and I want to get home.”

  “I’ll do all I can to help. I don’t blame you.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tobiah said with a broad smile. “Thank you, Colonel. I hear you’re getting out.”

  “Yes. Within the month.”

  “Give my regards to your brothers.” Tobiah stood up and saluted, and Fortune returned the salute. Fortune leaned back and watched Tobiah stride through the door, his broad shoulders almost touching the jambs. His brother Rafferty had told him how Tobiah had saved his life after the ship went down carrying the O’Briens from Ireland. Fortune had vivid memories of that harrowing night, clinging to a wooden spar for hours and getting picked up by a steamer headed north. He had been fifteen when they sailed from Ireland after his father had gambled away everything and then died. Seventeen when he met Marilee. He looked out the window at the people going past. Where was the woman who had his son? He kept feeling an urge to go try to find her himself.

  Pushing back his chair, he crossed the room to buckle on his gun belt and grab his hat. He mounted his horse and headed for an area beyond town with scattered oaks and tall sweet gum trees. A jay flew past, and Fortune’s horse snorted faintly as it shied. Afternoon sunshine cast long shadows while he dismounted and shed his coat and hat. Withdrawing the revolver, he fired five shots and paused to reload.

  Twenty minutes later, he turned at the sound of hoofbeats. Alaric rode up and pushed his hat back on his head. “I thought I’d find you here,” he said, resting his hands on his thighs. “You need to relax. Let’s go find a poker game.”

  “Sounds fine to me.”

  “It should. You always win.”

  “No, I don’t,” Fortune said. “It’s just when I start losing, I stop gambling. That’s the secret of my success.”

  “The secret of your success,” Alaric said while Fortune mounted, “is bluffing the hell out of everyone else.”

  Fortune laughed. “Race you to the bridge,” he said, flicking the reins and pounding away.

  By two in the morning, he parted with Alaric, striding along Foster Street to his hotel, his pockets filled with his winnings. That was one legacy his father had left; he had taught his three oldest sons to play cards.

  At the next corner, he had stepped off the boardwalk onto the dusty street when he heard a noise behind him. He looked around as men emerged in several directions from the darkness, moving close to surround him. A rope dropped over his head and was yanked tight, pinning his arms to his sides.

  A group of men descended on him. Fortune kicked and heard a man grunt as he went down. Something slammed against his skull, and pain exploded inside his head. He staggered and another rope was dropped around his neck and tightened. Ropes went around his ankles, and he was thrown across a horse.

  He bounced on the horse, struggling to get free of his bonds. Twisting, he looked at the men, who had their faces covered. All were hooded, but he could guess who was behind the attack. He craned his head out to see the men riding in front of him. Trevor Wenger had to be the leader.

  Shortly outside the city, the procession stopped. Fortune was cut free from the horse and he toppled to the ground. He lashed out with his legs and knocked down one of his captors, but another kicked him in the side and Fortune doubled over.

  “Tie him up” came the voice he had expected to hear.

  “Wenger, you coward!” he yelled. “You couldn’t meet me face to face. Afraid?”

  “Tie the man! You dirty Irish bastard, you get out of town and don’t come back.”

  They stretched his arms out, tying them around the trunk of a tree. Then his ankles were tied around the trunk. Someone cut his coat and yanked away coat and shirt.

  “Wenger, you’re a cowardly bastard!”

  A lash whistled through the air and cut into Fortune’s back, making him gasp. Another blow came and another.

  Time blurred into white-hot, consuming agony. His head reeled as he gritted his teeth. The blows kept coming until he groaned with each one, sagging. Pain was making him dizzy, and he prayed he would lose consciousness.

  A blow fell that seemed to cut to his spine. He heard a dim cry and then oblivion swallowed him.

  When he stirred, he heard sharp groans, finally realizing he was making them. His face was pressed against rough bark. Throbbing with pain, his back felt as if knives had sliced into it. Agony washed over him in waves, and he closed his eyes, welcoming unconsciousness again.

  He roused, feeling hands, crying out as a searing pain shot up his arms and he fell. Voices were dim, men moving around him. He wanted to strike out, to defend himself, but he couldn’t move.

  “Bastard,” he tried to cry, the word coming out in a hoarse whisper. Someone jostled him, and he yelled in agony, losing consciousness once more. He floated in and out of awareness, feeling a jolt that sent more pain shooting through his body, realizing he was in a wagon. Next he was aware of a bed beneath him, something pouring on his back that felt like burning oil.

  “You’re home, Fortune,” Alaric said loudly beside him.

 
He clenched his fists, feeling helpless rage, on fire with the hurt.

  The next time he stirred, he blinked and raised his head. Every movement was agony, and he groaned.

  “Sir?”

  He turned slightly, looking across a small, plainly furnished room that had a hearth in one corner and a table and chairs. He gazed up at his friend. “Tobiah?”

  “Yes, sir. We’re taking turns watching you. I volunteered.”

  “How long—?”

  “Last night. Major Hampton found you this morning and brought you back here. The place belongs to some friend of his, and he said to keep you here. Sir, if you can sit up, I can feed you. You’ll get some strength back that way. You need some water.”

  “Damn.” Fortune gasped with pain as he tried to move. He felt hands on his forearms trying to help. Every tiny movement brought searing agony. “I’ll kill him.”

  “You know who did this?”

  “Trevor Wenger.”

  “I heard about your wife and baby. He’s a powerful man. Owns the ironworks and lots of land here.”

  “I’ll kill him,” Fortune said, shifting and letting Tobiah lower his legs over the side of the bed. His head swam and he clung to the edge of the bed. “Damn, it hurts.”

  “Here, let me feed you.”

  “If you’ll hold the bowl, I can manage,” Fortune said. As he lifted his arm, though, pain shot across his back. Tobiah took the spoon and began to feed him hot stew.

  By the next day, Fortune was more alert, sitting up without aid. It was Alaric’s shift at tending him, and he was stirring stew in a pot over the fire. His uniform sleeves were rolled high, his hair clinging damply to his face.

  “Alaric?”

  “Ahh, you’re sitting up. You’re doing better. I’ve got something here that you’ll like. More stew. My cooking is limited.”

  “Thank you. You and Tobiah, and Richard. I don’t know who else has been with me.”

  “Sometimes Edwin, sometimes Noah. This place belongs to Robert Horton. We couldn’t care for you as easily in your hotel room, and we didn’t feel you’d be as safe there.” He ladled steaming stew into a bowl and placed it on a tray along with a biscuit. Hooking a straight-back chair with his toe and scooting it close to the bed, Alaric sat down and placed the tray carefully in Fortune’s lap.

  As Fortune bit into a thick hunk of beef from the stew, Alaric regarded him solemnly. “Wenger has people who swear he was in a poker game with them when you received the beating.”

  Fortune looked up. “That’s to be expected. I won’t give him another chance at me. He should have finished the job.”

  “I think he thought he had. Edwin was with me, and he’s the best tracker the U.S. Cavalry has ever had. He’s the one who found you.”

  “Don’t know how the hell he did.”

  “You weren’t far out of town. Your fever’s gone and Doc Rosenkrantz looks at you every day.”

  “I’m exhausted. I’d give a lot for a cup of hot coffee.”

  “That’s a simple order to fill. Fortune, he meant to kill you. If we hadn’t found you when we did, and if you weren’t as stubborn and strong as you are, you’d be dead. When you get well, get out of town. And until you get your discharge, one of us will stay with you.”

  Fortune lowered the spoon to give Alaric a level look. “I’m not running from Trevor Wenger. I intend to kill him, if I have to walk into the Wenger Ironworks and shoot him in his office.”

  “You’re fuzzy from what’s happened. Think about it. You kill him like that and you’ll hang. He’s got powerful friends here. If you hang, you’ll never see that son of yours.”

  Fortune scowled but what Alaric said was true. Fortune mulled it over. If he killed Wenger in cold blood as he wanted to, he would hang.

  “You’ll never catch him alone and unprotected the way he caught you.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “I know I’m right. Tobiah and I’ve been following him, and he’s never alone on the street.”

  “Why have you two—stay out of my fight!” he snapped, feeling a rush of gratitude for his friends, but wanting to keep them out of danger. “Dammit, Tobiah Barr barely knows me and he has a young child. I don’t want either of you drawn into something that doesn’t involve you.”

  “The man shouldn’t escape without anything for what he did to you.”

  “You stay out of it, Alaric. I’ll talk to Tobiah,” Fortune said gruffly. “What you and the others have done for me means a lot.” He watched Alaric pour a cup of coffee and place it on the tray.

  “It’s too damned hot for coffee or stew, but both are good for you.”

  Fortune nodded and finished the stew and a cup of hot coffee. As soon as Alaric removed the tray, Fortune stood, clinging to furniture as he moved around, feeling stiff and feeble, his back still a constant pain. Once he was back in bed, he thought about all Alaric had told him. He would get revenge. Wenger wasn’t going to get away with what he had done.

  Fortune wanted to find his son, and he wasn’t going to jeopardize that by trying to get revenge. Where was the woman? he wondered. Was she good to Michael? That question tormented him the most. Why had she taken him? She was young and unmarried. Why had she wanted Michael when she could have married and had her own sons? To get the answers, he needed to find her before the hired killer did.

  Chapter 4

  Natchez, Mississippi

  May 1867

  Steamboats were docked at the foot of Silver Street at Natchez-Under-the-Hill. Across the road from the dark waters of the Mississippi River was a row of saloons. In one of them was a noisy smoke-filled room in which hard-looking men studied cards or studied the dancer on the narrow stage.

  Dressed in green satin and black stockings, holding up her skirt and petticoats, Claire Dryden swung her foot high. As a rule she stared over the heads of the men toward the back of the saloon, trying to ignore taunting calls to her and the lust-filled faces watching her. For a moment, though, she lowered her gaze, searching the crowd near the stage for one particular face.

  It didn’t take long to find him. He was a tall, lanky man wearing spectacles and sporting a thick black beard. He didn’t act like the others and he made her nervous. Was he interested in women? Or in her in particular? He did not act like other men who had followed her. He had caught her attention because he didn’t do anything except sip a drink. He didn’t applaud or yell or leer at her as the others did. He sat there as if he were listening to a speech and about to fall asleep. Yet behind the spectacles his dark eyes were alert. And for the past four nights, after Claire had finished singing and dancing, he had left the saloon.

  Claire felt the same cold certainty she had experienced before. Time to take Michael and move on. Don’t run a risk. Get out right now while you still can.

  Tossing her head so her brown hair swirled across her shoulders, she twirled the green skirt higher, letting her black-stockinged legs show to her thighs. The men went wild with cheers and stomping and clapping.

  Of all the jobs she’d had, dancing was the easiest, quickest way to make money. She danced to the edge of the stage, glancing down. A tall blond man seated in the front row was more the usual customer. Yet he too had been there every night for the past four. He watched her, but his looks were the same the other customers gave her, speculative and lustful.

  With a flounce and flip of her skirts she ran offstage.

  “Your turn,” she said to Stormy, who was the saloon’s bawdy singer.

  “You’ve got them ready, Pansy,” the singer said, grinning.

  Claire thought of all the names she had used: Pansy, Glory, Lizzie, Dawn, Rose, Emily, Gladys. In Natchez it was Pansy Crawford.

  Suddenly anxious to get away from the dark man in the front row, Claire hurried to the dressing room and changed to a pink gingham dress. Looking over her shoulder constantly, she slipped out of the noisy saloon and glanced down the street. Two sternwheelers were at the docks, and lights blazed from
saloons along the street. Moonlight glistened on the Mississippi, which looked deceptively still. Only the faint ripples in the center gave a hint of the fast-flowing current. In the street in the next block two men were fighting. Somewhere a bottle crashed. Natchez-Under-the-Hill at night was no place for a woman to wander alone.

  She rushed the short distance toward the dark end of the street to the small house she was renting with two other dancers. Situated at the bottom of a high bluff, the house was set apart, the last structure at the end of the street. She unlocked the door and stepped into the cabin’s one room, which had a hearth and two beds, three worn chairs, and a table and washstand. A kerosene lamp burned on the table.

  “Pansy? Michael’s asleep,” a woman called Tillie Mae said. Gathering up a black cloak, she threw it around her shoulders, fluffing her blond curls over it.

  “Thank you for staying with him.”

  “Thank you for making the dress for me,” Tillie Mae said. “Is anything wrong?”

  “No. Have you noticed a man who’s been there nearly every night this week? He has a long black beard?”

  Tillie Mae’s ruby lips curved into a broad smile as she shook her head. “That describes half the men in the saloon.”

  “I suppose it does.”

  “Why? Does he worry you?”

  “No. He’s just not like the others. He doesn’t yell or cheer or applaud. He’s different.”

  “Who can explain men?” Tillie Mae asked with a lift of her shoulders. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Thanks again,” Claire said, squeezing Tillie Mae’s arm. As soon as she locked the door, she tiptoed to look at Michael, who slept on a cot across from her iron bed. Even though it had only one room, it was the first house she had ever rented. Always before she had stayed in rented rooms or hotels, but Michael was six now and full of energy and needed more room to run and play.

  She leaned over him in his bed. In the soft glow of a lamp his dark lashes cast a shadow on his rosy cheeks. His skin was creamy, his nose straight. Thick locks of black hair curled in tangles over his forehead, and she brushed a curl back. He was a beautiful child, and her heart filled with love for him. She wanted to scoop him up and hold him close, but she would wait until she was ready to leave to wake him.