The Cavalier, page 9
Disgusted with himself, he started down the street, cursing under his breath. What sort of a fool am I? I couldn’t have fouled that up any worse unless I’d come in with pistols blazing.
Emily Ashley had not been what he had expected. She was more refined and much more capable than the poor little thing that he had imagined; the helpless girl who needed his protection from Dillon Sinclaire. Maybe I’ll just leave her to her own devices, then. The lashing that her tongue had given him was still very fresh, and he grumbled under its sting.
To be fair, he had been completely disarmed by the sight of her. It took only a few blocks for him to realize that, as well as recognize that he had been ill-prepared for the beautiful woman who had so quickly taken away all of his better sense. A few more blocks were spent being tortured by the memory of her smile and the sparkle in her eyes before it all turned to stone. I wish I’d handled that better.
He hailed a passing taxi and was taken quickly to the telegraph office. His attention to duty, for the moment, saved him from any further torture as he stepped forward, scribbled out the message for Brewster back in Philadelphia, and passed it to the clerk:
In San Francisco. STOP
Emily Ashley found. STOP
Please Advise. STOP
After having sent the brief message, Noah left instructions with the clerk to have the reply brought to the boardinghouse and started down the street. In spite of the fact that he had blundered so badly, he had completed his first task. For the most part, he was finished. He had located Emily Ashley as ordered, but he would wait until someone advised him further before assuming his task was finished.
From his preliminary investigation and his own imagination, he had created the picture of a scared little girl with no one left in the world; someone who would need his protection. With the new image that he carried of Emily Ashley in his head, he had a completely different outlook altogether. He’d made a complete fool of himself. Even while he upbraided himself for being so clumsy, he was trying to work out a way to see her again.
Chapter Thirteen
Though the encounter had been a disaster, Emily had seen something in the strong and steady eyes of Noah MacLean the moment they met. She had been amused by the fact that he had been speechless at the sight of her, and it had been charming.
The southern accent, though she had grown accustomed to it from Thomas, had initially sent a thrill through her, but the question he had posed to her and the tone that he had taken with her had turned her away from him instantly. His business may have been legitimate, and they had simply gotten off on the wrong foot, but the fact that he was asking about her past caught her off guard. She had not faced any questions concerning her past since she had arrived in San Francisco, believing it was all behind her. The sudden, blunt inquiry into her past by a rough man who seemed to be leering at her struck a nerve and unraveled her carefully contained composure.
People had accepted her credentials from the London Finishing School for Young Ladies and had not looked deeper into her background or upbringing. Of course, Thomas Gordon had given her plenty of instant credibility as well when he had begun showing her around San Francisco, especially at society functions. When he had announced his intentions to make her his wife, no one had objections; after all, they were the perfect match.
Though it seemed a bit backward to her, Thomas followed his announcement with his marriage proposal. She had accepted, recognizing that sometimes things did not have to be in the exact order, though the headmistress at the finishing school would have disagreed sharply. However, since she was not here, her opinion was not necessary.
After a couple of months, “the perfect match” was beginning to bother her. Thomas, alone, had seemed to be a dream come true for someone like her, but when she added Hillary Gordon, his mother, into the picture, she began to see things in a different light. Emily braced herself for being able to handle her, soon to be, mother in law, realizing that every woman had to face the changes that came about when marrying into another family, but the burden of it was beginning to make her question her sanity.
The first test of her sanity came almost immediately upon the heels of the formal announcement Thomas made at a social gathering held in their elegant home. From that moment forward, things rapidly began to change between her and Hillary Gordon, strangely enough, perhaps inevitably so, they also began to change between her and Thomas.
“We certainly must get in touch with your family back east and let them know that you are engaged to be married.” Hillary’s shrill, fake society voice was capable of cutting through the thickest San Francisco fog, while at the same time, bringing an arctic chill crawling up one’s back.
Emily had been prepared for the question about her background with a ready, believable, and acceptable answer. “There is no one back east for me to send word to, I’m afraid.”
She produced the requisite, weak smile that went along with delivering bad news, even as she felt the cold fear of being found out creep up her spine. “Our home was destroyed during the war, and my father lost his life attempting to protect it. My mother never recovered from the shock of it all and died before I returned from London.”
“You poor dear.” For a moment, Hillary had even seemed to have compassion for her. “Those of us out here have no true understanding of what horrors were endured during that wretched war. My husband’s family also suffered great losses. It was good that you were away in London. There is no telling what sort of devastating effects such horror might have had upon you as well.”
That brief encounter with the compassion of Hillary Gordon had proven to be the last. Emily began to discover that there was a doting mother, a gossip, and a horribly ugly streak toward vengeance inside the woman that was wholly unconquerable.
Hillary Gordon was held in high esteem because of the long-standing shipping business that had established Thomas Gordon the second as an influential member, and subsequently, Thomas Gordon the third as a pillar of the community. Though the transcontinental railroad would severely damage their business, which relied on a substantial fleet passing around Cape Horn and was known for its reliability, their investments in the railroad and a number of mining ventures had caused little more than a ripple in their wealth and status on the Gold Coast.
The society ladies spoke well of Hillary, not because of any particular admiration for her, in reality, they found her to be rather fastidious to be around, but because they all knew her to be particularly ruthless when it came to getting even. They avoided getting on her bad side and chose their words carefully when talking to or about her.
Her iron fist among the society ladies was just as powerful when it came to dealing with the affairs of her son, though she used other, more subtle means of getting her way where Thomas Gordon the third was concerned. Emily observed her manipulations and saw them for what they clearly were; truly baffled by how easily Thomas would fall for them.
At first, she had kept her mouth shut, as a proper fiancée ought to do, but when it began to affect or alter decisions that she and Thomas were making concerning their own, private affairs, she had raised a very ill-received objection.
“Your mother cannot be allowed to dictate how our lives are to be lived.” The moment the words had come out of her mouth, she saw the flash of anger in his eyes.
“Are you suggesting that my mother is a dictator?”
“Perhaps dictate was not the proper word to use.” Emily had attempted to backtrack. She fixed her most pleasant smile on her face.
“I think that dictate is exactly the word that you used and one that was carefully chosen. You are jealous of my mother, and you’ll use any word necessary to attempt to make her smaller in my eyes.”
Communication between them had not improved from that point forward. Emily was still steaming over the confrontation as she sat behind the wide desk in the Emilia Ashley Finishing School and considered the trap she found herself in.
No doubt, word of her supposed jealousy and her use of the word “dictate” in their argument had gotten back to Hillary, and she had made use of her infamous skill in exacting vengeance to hire someone to look into her past, explaining the sudden appearance of Mister MacLean at her doorstep. She could ill-afford to be found out, and a break-up with Thomas Gordon the third would cost her the mining interests left to her by Reginald Sinclaire.
Though she was doing well at the school and her bank account was maintaining a steady, though not extravagant, balance, she could ill afford the loss of the inheritance or of the prestige that her connection to the Gordons lent to her business. She had assumed that it was only a matter of time before someone decided to dig into her past, but she had hoped that her reputation and the money from her inheritance would help to insulate her from complete ruin. She simply hadn’t expected inquiries to arrive quite so soon.
The man who had just been on her doorstep had been digging into her past and was making a rather bold inquiry into it. The way that he acted had cast suspicion upon his purpose and had her wondering, immediately, if he had been paid to exhume her buried past.
I should have changed my name. She had considered it when she arrived in San Francisco, but had believed that the new start and the good reception that she had received would make it unnecessary. Besides, something about doing away with her mother’s name seemed to make everything too final. Though her mother was perhaps not the best sort in the eyes of civil society, she had tried to provide the very best for her daughter. Keeping her name alive, even with the risky secret behind it, seemed to be the least that Emily could do to honor her.
Was Noah MacLean about to tear it all down?
Chapter Fourteen
Even though he had made a blundering fool of himself, Noah’s mind could not resist returning to the vision of Emily Ashley as she smiled at him. Though all logic told him that a snowdrift had a better chance of surviving in hell than he did with Emily Ashley, something deeper had already touched a place inside of him that would not listen to sound reason.
He continued to be disgusted with himself for blowing a perfect chance to get to know Emily Ashley better firsthand and had to resort to the more backward methods of his craft to fill in the blanks about her. He discovered that she was engaged to be married to Thomas Gordon the third, who was heir and partner in the numerous enterprises that they had undertaken after the transcontinental railroad had cut into their shipping profits.
Being aware of the terms of the will that would provide her with a fortune in gold mining interests, she was certainly well on track to ensure that she was married within the allotted time. He had done his duty. Her future seemed to be well in hand. She neither needed nor wanted his assistance... intrusion into her life. So why did he still feel the way he did?
His heart had forced him to admit that she was the most beautiful woman that he’d ever laid eyes upon, and it had, of its own accord, begun to have desires for her that reached beyond the realm of possibility. I’m a damned fool with an empty dream.
He focused on the telegram from Brewster in his hands:
Stay in San Francisco. STOP
Client en route. STOP
Secure accommodations. STOP
It wasn’t exactly what he wanted to read. What he had hoped for was a total dismissal of the matter. He’d fouled things up approaching Emily, likely placing her on a silver platter for whatever Sinclaire had up his sleeves. He considered sending a telegram with his resignation from the Pinkerton Agency, but his strict sense of duty wouldn’t allow him to quit until his job was done.
Flustered, he decided he needed to get out of San Francisco. Get some fresh air. Clear his mind. Just like he had done when Philadelphia closed in on him, he’d taken to renting a horse from Gabe Johnston’s Livery Stable on the outskirts of San Francisco. It would be some time before he would have to tend to Sinclaire’s needs in San Francisco, so after packing a few things to sustain him for a week or so, he hailed a passing taxi to take him to the stable.
“How much do you want for him?” Noah asked.
“Same as usual,” Johnston responded in his thick Swedish accent. “Two dollars a day.”
“Not to rent him,” Noah clarified. “To own him. And the saddle too.”
“Oh. I don’t know,” the Swede responded, scratching his head. “$100 for the horse and the saddle?”
“$80,” Noah returned. “I ain’t payin’ gold miner prices.”
“Fine, $80,” the Swede responded, chuckling softly. “But only because I like you.”
“Good,” MacLean said, handing over the cash. “Hate to see how you’d treat someone you didn’t like.”
“Why you buy the horse this time, Mister? Why you don’t just rent him like before?”
“May not be comin’ back,” Noah replied, tying his leather bag to the back of the saddle and mounting without saying anything more.
At a steady gallop, he left San Francisco behind him within a few minutes, heading south around the bay, and then northeast across Vargas Plateau and into De Valle beyond. He’d camped there before, allowing himself an escape from the chaos of city streets. What he couldn’t escape were his foolish thoughts, especially when he gazed into the campfire each night.
Emily. He’d botched it, pure and simple. The irritation wasn't just because of his mistake; it was because he’d let her smile, her laugh, the sparkle in her penetrating green eyes, and the sun touching her golden hair with hints of red get to him. He was a professional, assigned with a task to be performed without getting involved, the same as raiding a supply depot or derailing a train. He’d let himself get involved, even if he hadn’t said anything or done anything, he’d let himself get involved.
“You’re a damned fool, Noah MacLean,” he muttered. “A Pinkerton detective, especially one knee-deep in the kind of muck I get myself into, has nothing stable, nothing safe, to offer a woman like her.”
It was the noble lie he repeated over and over in order to justify his own fear of screwing things up worse.
The mental saga continued to play out the following night beside his campfire east of Stockton in the San Joaquin Valley at the base of the Sierra Nevada Foothills and the mouth of the North Fork of the Mokelumne River. By the time he was crossing over from Jelemini Creek into Bear Valley, he had been able to force it all out of his mind, burying it under the immediate purpose of his ride.
Rumors about Bear Valley, where Sinclaire’s mining claim was located, had trickled back to San Francisco. Rumors about strange goings-on, whispers of men being pushed off their claims, of muscle replacing duly authenticated claims filed in a court of law. Noah was not surprised. He could tell Sinclaire was some sort of snake from the moment he met him; slippery and hiding something. It was likely that the sudden aggressive expansion in Bear Valley was tied to Sinclaire hoping to maintain control even if Emily Ashley inherited his father’s claim. He couldn’t really march in with guns blazing and accuse Sinclaire or whatever thug he’d appointed to oversee his interests, but he could sniff around a bit, gauge whether or not the rumors were true. Maybe if he poked around, listened, he might find a solid enough thread to do something more substantial.
Bear Valley mining camp was little more than a collection of ramshackle cabins, canvas tents, and timber lean-tos. Dust coated everything, and the air hummed with the distant clang of picks and shovels, but underneath it, something felt wrong. Strained.
He guided his horse towards the largest structure, a log cabin that passed for a saloon in the center of the camp, its front door wide open, revealing the dim interior. Nobody had bothered to put up a sign, but the bottles visible through the windows, the long bar at one end, and the tables and chairs provided plenty of evidence for its primary purpose in Bear Valley.
Dismounting, Noah tied his horse loosely to a rail already crowded with several swaybacked nags, adjusted his coat, and felt the familiar weight of the .44 Colt he’d acquired from the Pinkerton Agency, replacing the Kerr revolver he’d worn while riding with Mosby. With his eyes scanning everything in sight, he pushed through the doors of the saloon.
The air inside was thick with the usual mix of stale whiskey, cheap tobacco, and unwashed bodies. But it was way too quiet. There seemed to be a heavy, watchful silence among the dozen or so men scattered about the room, slouched at tables, leaning against the bar. They weren't talking, weren't laughing. They were drinking, but they did it with tense shoulders and eyes that darted nervously. They were miners, by their rough clothes and calloused hands, but they looked less like men seeking their fortune and more like prisoners serving a sentence.
This camp was under somebody’s thumb.
Noah walked into the bar. Though not one to sit and drink, he ordered a whiskey to settle the dust in his throat. The barkeep, a thin man with a perpetual tremor, poured it with nervous haste, avoiding eye contact. Noah took a slow sip, letting his eyes roam the room. He saw the quick, furtive glances shot his way, the way conversations died completely when his gaze lingered even for a second. These men were afraid.
He hadn't been in the saloon five minutes when the door opened again. A man stepped in, and the already tense silence in the room tightened another notch, becoming absolute. Men froze mid-drink, eyes wide.
This newcomer wasn’t a miner. He was taller, broader, dressed in slightly different clothes – sturdy, but not worn down by rock and ore. He had the easy, reckless confidence of a wolf walking into a pen of sheep.
Patrick’s eyes swept the room, a proprietary gaze that settled on the silent miners, a subtle smirk playing on his lips. Then his eyes found Noah at the bar. He paused. Unlike the others, Noah wasn’t frozen with fear. He was watching, assessing, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp and alert. There was a stillness about him, a self-possession that screamed "not one of us." More than that, there was a flicker of something O’Leary recognized in the man’s gaze, in the set of his jaw – a raw, untamed grit, a toughness that hadn't been beaten down by fear or circumstances. In a word, a problem.
