Atlanta Page 8

  Chapter 7

  Claire stirred, her arms feeling stiff. Groggy, she shifted and opened her eyes. For a moment disjointed thoughts swirled in mind while she tried to think, remember what town she was in. She started to stretch and felt her wrist jerked back.

  Her memory returned instantly. She raised her head, yanking at her wrists, recalling the wild night, Michael and his father. Twisting, she looked at her hands tied to the brass rails of the bed. She turned her head, her gaze sweeping the room, stopping at the image in the mirror as she looked into Fortune O’Brien’s eyes. He was bare-chested still, his jaw lathered, a razor in his hand as he shaved. He seemed intensely masculine and overwhelming.

  “I’ll be out of here in a few minutes and you can dress. I’ll take Michael downstairs and we’ll have lunch. He’s still asleep.”

  “What are you going to do with us?”

  “Take you with me. We have to lose Harwood first.”

  The razor slid down his jaw, and she felt her cheeks heat with embarrassment. She had never been around men, and it seemed incredibly personal to be tied to a bed and watch him shave. If it disturbed him to have an audience, he gave no indication. Calmly he performed the ritual of running the razor over his jaw, then dipping the razor into the washbowl. She looked away, but in seconds was curious enough to watch again. He wiped his jaw clean and dropped the cloth. For a second time she noticed the gold-link bracelet circling his wrist and wondered about it.

  He dried his hands and crossed the room to her. As his gaze swept over the length of her, for the first time she became aware of her disheveled state. Her hair was down, her dress hem up over one bare knee. She eased her leg back beneath the covers and looked up modestly at him.

  She saw the smoldering anger in him while sparks crackled between them. She wanted to scream at him that she didn’t want him to take Michael from her. Instead she clamped her lips closed and watching him, wondering what he intended. He continued to watch her carefully as he reached out to untie her right hand. She was conscious of his warm fingers brushing her wrist, of his nearness, his bare chest and slim hips so close to her. His physical presence made her acutely aware of him and of herself. As he leaned across her, she looked up at the curly black hair spread across his chest. Intrigued with him in spite of her fear, she drew a deep breath.

  “Why did you take him from the orphanage?” he asked in a low, tight voice as he straightened and looked down at her.

  “Your wife asked me to take care of him,” she replied and saw a flash of pain cross his features. In spite of everything else, she felt a moment of compassion for him, because he must have loved Marilee.

  “Why had she run away from you?”

  “She didn’t,” he said, his hands resting on his hips. “Her father didn’t want us to be married, and he took her and Michael from me. He was on his way back to Atlanta and their plantation when she got away from him.” Colonel O’Brien looked out the window, and a muscle worked in his jaw. He looked as if he hurt badly, and Claire felt a strange mixture of emotions. She didn’t want to feel sorry for the man who would take Michael from her. Suddenly she wished they weren’t discussing what had happened so long ago, because she had a feeling that with every word she was losing Michael. She couldn’t take him from a father who loved him deeply. She tried to stop thinking about it, to hold back her tears. They would mean nothing to this man who was so angry with her for taking his child.

  He turned back around and stiffened. “Why are you crying?”

  “Why do you think?” she exclaimed. “You’ll take Michael from me.”

  “He’s my son. He’s not your child and he never was,” Colonel O’Brien said with the hardness of steel. “Marilee didn’t ask you to keep him from me.”

  “She asked me to keep him from someone. I don’t know if she was trying to say ‘Fortune’ or ‘father.’ ”

  His chest expanded as he inhaled deeply, and she was conscious of how close he stood, of her helplessness, and his anger.

  “She was trying to say father. We loved each other,” O’Brien snapped. Irritated, he reached down to untie her other wrist.

  As soon as she was freed of her bonds, the colonel moved away. While she sat up in bed and rubbed her wrists, he picked up his shirt and yanked it over his head, buttoning the neck. Sucking in his breath, he tucked the tail into his trousers. She felt a blush creep up as she watched him dress and knew she should look away. She turned her head to stare out the window, listening to him move around the room.

  “I’ll take Michael downstairs to eat. At any sign of trouble, meet us at the livery stable,” he said, crossing the room to her as she sat on the side of the bed. He tilted her face up, his fingers lightly touching her jaw as his blue eyes seemed to bore into her. “Just remember, Harwood wants Michael. He’ll take you and use you if he can, but he doesn’t really care what happens to you. And he wants me dead.”

  Fortune leaned closer to her, his fingers still under her chin. “Harwood is a hired killer. He was hired by Marilee’s father. I don’t want my son with a man like Harwood, and Michael is not going back to that bastard Wenger.”

  She nodded, relieved they were on the same side at least on this issue.

  “Don’t let him take you hostage. I’ll sacrifice you for Michael.”

  She drew a deep breath, looking into eyes as cold as a frozen lake in winter. “I believe you,” she snapped, jerking her chin away.

  “You better join us in eating, because we’ll have a hard ride ahead of us.”

  He picked up his gun belt and buckled it around his waist. The leather was cracked in several places, as if it had seen hard use, and she wondered about his years in the war. She could imagine him on a battleground and suspected he had been a courageous leader. “I’ll have Michael. Don’t try anything because it won’t do you any good and it’ll only hurt Michael.”

  “You wouldn’t hurt him—”

  “Of course not, but I don’t think it will help him to see me hurt you,” he said bluntly.

  The strain of the past hours suddenly came to a head. Without stopping to think, she lunged at him, her fingers curled, hitting him in the temple. Catching him by surprise, she sent him staggering back.

  She came at him, but the moment she grabbed the revolver from his holster, he shoved her back, throwing his weight against her. He pushed her onto the bed, his weight holding her down while he pinned her arms over her head.

  “Don’t fire it! You’ll only frighten him, and you’re not going to hurt me.”

  She wriggled, struggling to get away, enraged with him. “Damn you!”

  He scooted up, straddling her with his knees. In a flash he released her left hand and yanked the revolver from her.

  As he climbed off the bed, she came up, wanting to rush past him, refusing to give in to tears in front of him. He caught her arm and spun her around. “Tears?”

  “You’ll take Michael from me!”

  “You took him from me a long time ago,” he said harshly, both of them breathing raggedly.

  He released her and jammed his revolver back in the holster. Striding across the room, he didn’t glance back as he opened the door and closed it behind him. She could hear his deep voice as he talked to Michael. She covered her face with her hands and cried quietly, feeling desolate, knowing that all too soon she would lose Michael forever.

  Finally she moved to the pitcher, tossing out the water he left and pouring some fresh water into the washbowl. She dampened a cloth and washed her face to clean and get ready for the day.

  At the entrance to the hotel dining room, she gazed about the dark wooden tables set on a white tile floor until she found the colonel and Michael near the window. The two sat facing each other, and Michael was laughing at something his father was telling him. Fortune was a strange name, and as she studied him, he smiled at Michael. When he did, his features softened and he looked handsome and appealing. And she could imagine that someday when he was grown, Michael would look ver
y much like him.

  Her heart seemed to lurch against her ribs at the realization that now she wouldn’t see Michael grow up. How permanently would Fortune O’Brien separate her from Michael? Would she ever be allowed to see him? When Michael learned the truth about what she had done, would he forgive her?

  Shoving aside the questions and worries, she forced a smile for Michael’s sake. She was aware of her rumpled appearance in the wrinkled blue calico she had slept in, but the pink gingham was torn, so she had little choice. As soon as Michael looked up at her, Fortune O’Brien turned and pushed back his chair and stood up.

  “Good morning,” he said, motioning to a waiter and holding a chair for her.

  “We’ve ordered and I was telling Michael about army life.” She sat down as a waiter appeared and handed her a menu.

  “Order a hearty lunch because we’ll be traveling a long time today, and the fare may not be as good,” the colonel said pleasantly. He was courteous and polite, and she recognized that he was being careful in front of Michael.

  “Mama, Mr. O’Brien is Colonel O’Brien in the United States Army.”

  “I know, Michael.”

  “He’s a Yankee.”

  “I’ve tried to explain to him that Yankees aren’t always bad,” Fortune said lightly.

  “We’re from southern families, so Michael has been raised to favor a southern view.”

  “Now he’s expanding his understanding of the conflict—if anyone can understand it.”

  “Mama, Colonel O’Brien had a mule he had to ride in one battle, and he said the mule didn’t like to hear the guns fire, so he kept running away. Colonel O’Brien said he finally gave up and fought on foot.”

  She smiled at Michael, whose eyes sparkled, and glanced at O’Brien, who was watching his son with an expression of warmth that would melt ice. The pang she experienced was quick and stabbing. When a waiter came to take her order, she suddenly had no appetite.

  Her meal had hardly been served when Colonel O’Brien said quietly, “Let’s go. Michael, we need to leave now.” He was looking outside and she followed his gaze. She drew a sharp breath. Across the street, with his arm in a sling, Harwood stood outside a saloon. Gazing up and down the street, he looked at the hotel. He stepped off the boardwalk and started across the street.

  Colonel O’Brien and Michael were already hurrying toward the counter, where he paid for lunch. Frightened all over again, she joined them at the door, and they hurried across the lobby and climbed the stairs. At the top she glanced down at the empty lobby, feeling the old familiar panic at having to run. Just then, though, her gaze swung around to the colonel. This man, this battle-hardened colonel, was going to protect them this time.

  Hurrying to their suite, they gathered their few belongings swiftly.

  “There are back stairs. Let’s go that way.” O’Brien took her arm and Michael walked beside them, carrying his small satchel.

  They rushed outside into the dusty alley. Turning a corner, they paused outside a general store while the colonel went inside to send a telegram to Pinkerton’s to inform them about Eisner’s death. As soon as he finished, they hurried to the livery stable where they had left the bay and the wagon. Colonel O’Brien talked to the owner, and shortly she realized he was buying two horses.

  “Take what you need from the wagon. We’re leaving it here.”

  “You can’t leave my wagon!” she snapped. “Do you know what that cost me?”

  “We can travel faster on horseback, and we’ll be able to avoid Harwood more easily if we’re mounted. The wagon stays.”

  “You can’t do that!”

  “I’m doing it,” he said, his blue eyes implacable.

  “That wagon cost me months of work.”

  He eyed her severely before turning abruptly to find the owner again. In minutes he was back. “Mount up. Take just what you need. I paid a deposit and told him you’d be back for your damned wagon.”

  She lifted her chin, refusing to thank him for something she didn’t want to do in the first place. In a few minutes they had the satchels attached and their bedrolls fastened, all the gear they could easily take secured, and they mounted. She longed for a riding outfit and hooked her knee over the saddle horn, knowing as soon as they got out of town she would ride astride, because she didn’t care how unladylike she looked.

  “You’re heading south?” she said as the horses turned onto the street.

  “I want to try to throw Harwood off the trail. We’ll ride south and then turn east. I may not be able to lose him permanently, but I can shake him off for a while.”

  She rubbed her upper arms and looked at Michael, who was looking up eagerly at the sky, his eyes sparkling and eager for adventure.

  All that afternoon they rode hard, and she was proud of Michael for keeping up. At times she forgot all the terrible things hanging over her and enjoyed the beautiful day. Michael was brimming with enthusiasm about the sights they passed. Together they spotted two foxes, a deer, and two small brown bears when they stopped once to drink from a stream. When they slowed, sometimes Colonel O’Brien rode beside Michael and spun another tale. Michael’s laughter sounded marvelous in the stillness of the countryside. As she watched man and boy together, she knew that even if she had the chance, she shouldn’t take Michael from his father. Fortune O’Brien was good with the child, patiently answering his questions, taking time to point things out to him, laughing in tune with him. It hurt to watch them together because she knew Michael belonged with him, and she wouldn’t be able to change or stop what was happening.

  When they camped for the night, they built a fire, and Fortune took Michael to hunt something for dinner. She heard two blasts of his gun and they returned with rabbits. She watched as he carefully showed Michael how to skin them and get them ready to cook on a spit. At first Michael’s brow furrowed, and she expected him to refuse to watch, but he glanced up at Colonel O’Brien’s intent face and then down. In another moment he was nodding and paying attention to what he was told.

  The man’s regard did not extend to her. As she cooked the rabbits, she looked up to catch Colonel O’Brien staring at her. The hardness in his glacial blue eyes sent a chill down her spine. It occurred to her that out here in the wilds, he could easily kill her when Michael was asleep and he would solve his problems. The boy would grieve, but time would heal the loss.

  Dinner was as delicious as the repast at the hotel, yet she couldn’t eat a bite. While the fire burned low, O’Brien showed Michael his pistol, holding it in his strong hands, telling the child how to load and fire, finally handing it over. As Michael’s small hands turned the big revolver, her dislike for guns filled her with disgust. Yet at the same time, she knew he might be better off knowing how to kill and skin animals. She watched their two heads bent together, father and son who looked so much alike that only a small boy like Michael didn’t notice it.

  By the light of the fire she sewed a patch on Michael’s shirtsleeve. The night became misty and cool, and she was aware of the darkness surrounding them. If Colonel O’Brien was worried, he gave no indication. He talked easily to Michael. He hobbled the horses while they each got their bedrolls. When Michael had to relieve himself, though, Colonel O’Brien did go into the woods with him. He was not taking any chances, no matter how slight.

  Finally Michael was curled in his bedroll, sleeping across the dying fire from her. Her uneasiness increased because the more time that passed, the more likely that Colonel O’Brien would get rid of her. Anxious, she sat on her bedroll with her knees drawn up, a blanket around her shoulders. She watched the colonel kneel by the fire, poking it with a stick. When he moved back, he sat down beside her, leaning back against a tree, one leg bent at the knee. She studied him, thinking he looked relaxed.

  “Don’t you worry about Harwood slipping up on us?”

  “No. We’ve ridden hard all day. We’re well off the road, and he can’t track us tonight. I think we’re safe.”

  She
glanced into the darkness and rubbed her arms. “I don’t feel safe.”

  He stared into the fire, and they fell silent. A small log broke and fell, sending a shower of orange sparks drifting skyward. The faint smell of woodsmoke tinged the air. She glanced at the dark pines and hackberry trees surrounding them. The blackness beyond the small ring of light from the fire would hide anyone or anything.

  “Tell me about that night and Marilee,” he said quietly, and she turned her head to look at him.

  “I found her in a stall in the barn. I had gone out to check on my horse and heard her—” She broke off, remembering she had heard Marilee moaning. She took a deep breath. “I looked in the empty stall—”

  He leaned forward, his blue eyes compelling. “What did you hear? You started to say something and you stopped.”

  She bit her lip, knowing if he had really loved Marilee, a description of that night would hurt him. Yet why should she care? He was a hard, tough man who was going to hurt her more than anyone ever had or ever would.

  “She was moaning,” Claire answered quietly. He stood abruptly and turned away, striding to the edge of the circle of light. As he stood with his back to her, she realized he couldn’t control his emotions about his wife.

  Once again, in spite of all else she felt a wave of sympathy for him. He must have loved his wife and baby terribly to agonize like this after all this time. Yet her gaze came to rest on the revolver on his hip. What would he do once he had pumped her for what she knew about his dead wife? Would he then proceed to kill her?

  Without thinking it out, Claire rose to her feet. She rushed across the distance to grab his revolver. Her fingers had just touched the grip when he spun around.

  Her fingers closed around the revolver, yanking it from the holster. He pushed her, his hand closed like iron around her wrist and shaking the revolver free as he rushed her back into the trunk of a tree. He pushed up against her, his one hand holding her wrist, his other pinning her arm to her side.