Читать книгу Lydia - Elizabeth Lane - Страница 9

Sarah unsaddled her mule and left it munching hay in Amos Satterlee’s barn behind the store. Calmly, as if the whole town might be watching, she mounted the snowswept back stairs to her rooms, twisted the key in the lock and stepped inside.

Only when the door was securely bolted behind her did she surrender to panic. Her pulse, which she’d kept under control by sheer force of will, exploded into a ripping gallop. Beads of sweat broke out on her ash-pale forehead. She sagged against the wall, her knees too weak to support her weight.

She should have known it would happen—that sooner or later, even here, someone would recognize her. Most of the Southerners in Miner’s Gulch, including the Suttons, had arrived before the war, in the ‘59 gold rush. Sarah had felt relatively safe among them. Then, just last week, she’d stopped by the Sutton cabin to check on Varina and had run smack into big Donovan Cole. Only then had she realized, to her horror, that Varina was Donovan and Virgil’s sister.

She would never have gone back to the cabin if Varina had not needed her so desperately. But how could she have ignored little Annie’s pleas, or her own awareness that Varina might die without skilled help? She had placed Christian duty above her own safety. Now she would have to deal with the consequences.

Sarah sank onto one of the split-log benches that she used in her makeshift classroom. By now, she realized, Donovan would have figured out everything. Even back in Richmond, where he and Virgil had frequented the parties she gave, he had seemed distant and untrusting. Now—yes, he would know. And what he didn’t know, he would guess. Donovan was no fool.

But would he understand? No, of course not. She could not expect any Southerner, least of all Donovan, to grasp the motives behind what she had done during the war.

And even if he did understand, she could never expect him to forgive her. Not Donovan Cole.

Sarah pressed shaking hands to her ice-cold face. Dear heaven, what had happened tonight? Why had Donovan been so insistent on getting close to her? Why had she let him? There’d been nothing between the two of them in Richmond. It was Virgil who had courted her. Sweet, eager Captain Virgil Cole, who’d held back nothing from her—including Robert E. Lee’s plan to push north into Pennsylvania.

She’d learned later that Virgil had died at Antietam, and that Donovan had been taken prisoner. For that, and other uncounted tragedies, she would never escape her own blame. The servants who’d acted as her couriers had relayed Lee’s strategy to the North. The resulting alarm had galvanized Union forces, triggering the bloodiest day of the entire war.

Sarah had only done her duty. But that knowledge did little to ease the nightmares that racked her sleep.

Wild with agitation, she sprang to her feet and raced into the bedroom. Her battered leather portmanteau lay under the secondhand brass bed. She wrenched it out and, slapping off the dust, flung it open on the patchwork coverlet. Her quivering hands fumbled in dresser drawers, jerking out underclothes, toiletries, small treasures-Stop!

Sarah forced herself to stand perfectly still and take deep, measured breaths. Running wasn’t the answer, she reminded herself. She’d done it once before, three years ago in Missouri, when someone recognized her on the street. Now it had happened again. The odds were, it would happen almost anywhere she took refuge.

And Sarah had reason to stay. Miner’s Gulch had become her home. She’d made friends here. She’d delivered sixteen—no, seventeen—babies, nursed the town through measles and scarlet fever epidemics, and taught nearly a score of children to read and cipher. To leave now, with so much more to be doneNo, she could not even think of it. It was time to face up to the past. It was time to take a stand.

Against Donovan Cole.

She sank onto the bed, cheeks flaming anew at the memory of Donovan’s nearness—his iron-hard grip on her shoulders, his fingers loosening her hair, tangling roughly in its falling cascade. She’d been half-afraid he was going to kiss her. If he had, Sarah realized, she would have been lost. That kiss would have seared away her prim mask—and her own response would have betrayed the good woman she’d worked so hard to become.

Sarah’s fist slammed into the pillow. Of all the men in the world, why did it have to be Donovan Cole? Damn him! Oh, damn him!

And damn her own foolish heart.

There could be no more hiding from the truth. Back in Richmond, even while she was charming secrets out of Virgil Cole, it had been Donovan who had haunted her dreams. Brooding, aloof Donovan, who never gave her so much as a smile.

And that, she realized with a shudder, had been all to the good. She could never have played Donovan as she had so many other men. He was too strong for that, and too astute. Sooner or later, she would have found herself at his mercy.

As for tonight—but tonight counted for nothing. Donovan might have been fleetingly attracted to Sarah Parker. But he had never even liked Lydia Taggart. Once the full truth dawned on him, he would despise her.

And Donovan was not one to let bygones be bygones-Sarah knew him that well, at least. As sure as sunrise, he would seek her out and confront her. When that happened, she would need all her strength. Otherwise, his anger would destroy her.

By morning, the storm had passed. Donovan stepped out of the cabin into a world transformed by white magic. Snowflakes glittered on budding aspens and frosted the dark green stands of lodgepole pine. On the high horizon, diamond-crowned peaks glistened against the clear spring sky. It was beautiful, Donovan admitted grudgingly as he strode off the porch and into the yard. Whatever else one could say about this godforsaken spot, at least it favored the eye.

Flexing his arms, he wrenched the ax blade loose from its chopping block and laid into the uncut logs with a fury that sent chips flying. He had spent a sleepless night tossing on his pallet in the loft. And it wasn’t just the cries of his new nephew that had kept him awake. Every time he’d closed his eyes, it had been her face he saw—Lydia, or Sarah, or whatever her accursed name was.

His head ached from asking questions, then weighing his own answers. Who was Sarah Parker? Was she really Lydia Taggart, or had it been the other way around? Why would she fake her own death, then hide out in a place like Miner’s Gulch? Why had she panicked when he recognized her?

The conclusions, as they slid inexorably into place, had sickened him. The war—yes, it had to be the war. The charming young Widow Taggart had appeared in Richmond at the war’s beginning, then conveniently “died” at its end. The servants who’d recounted her death—yes, of course, they’d been her collaborators all along. And the young officers who’d frequented her parlor, Virgil among them, had been her innocent dupes.

Lydia.

His mind ejaculated her name with every blow of the ax. He should have known she was a Yankee spy. Maybe if he had, he could have saved Virgil. He could have saved himself two years in the hell of Camp Douglas.

His mind drifted back to Richmond, in those early days of the war—to Lydia Taggart, with her fine, big house, her money, and her knack for throwing the liveliest soirees in town. Lydia herself had been a dazzler, always gay and laughing, always surrounded by a bevy of young officers. Even Donovan had not been immune to her charms. But she was Virgil’s girl, and so he had kept his distance.

If only he hadn’t. He might have seen through her deadly masquerade before it was too late.

The cabin door swung open. Annie and her little redhaired sister, Katy, came trooping down the front steps, bundled into their ugly patchwork coats. They waved to Donovan as they trudged across the dooryard toward the gulch trail.

“Wait a minute, where are you two going?” Donovan lowered his ax. One hand reached back to massage his complaining back muscles.

“We’re going to school,” chirped freckle-faced Annie. “We always go to school on weekdays.”

“At Miss Sarah’s?” Donovan’s voice dripped contempt.

“Uh-huh. Miss Sarah says that girls who learn to read and write can become anything they want to. I’m already in the second reader, and Katy’s—”

“Go on back in the house,” Donovan growled. “You’re not going anywhere today. Your mother’s bound to need your help.”

Annie’s chin lifted. Her grip tightened on her sister’s mittened hand. “We already offered to stay. But Ma says she’ll manage just fine. School’s important. She doesn’t want us to miss it. Not even today.”

Donovan sighed. “All right, then, go on. But be careful in the snow. Don’t slip and fall.”

The warning went unheeded as the two little girls scampered across the clearing and disappeared among the trees. Donovan gazed after them, storm clouds seething in his mind. What would Varina say, he wondered, if she knew her daughters were being schooled by a Yankee spy?

Maybe it was time he told her.

After chucking the ax soundly into the block, he swung back up the steps and into the cabin. He found Varina sitting up in bed, her newborn son slumbering in the crook of her arm. Her hair was mussed from sleep and her eyes were ringed with tired shadows, but her smile was as serene as a Madonna’s.

“I keep thinking how Charlie would have enjoyed this little mite,” she murmured. “I’ll admit to his not having been much of a provider, but he loved his children, Donovan.” She glanced fondly at four-year-old Samuel, curled like a puppy near her feet. “I only hope they’ll be able to remember that.”

Donovan sank onto a stool, his heart aching for her. “As soon as you’re well enough to travel, I’m taking all of you back to Kansas,” he said. “You’ll have a proper house. The girls will wear proper clothes and go to a proper school, and as soon as the boys are old enough—”

“No.” There was a thread of steel in Varina’s soft voice. Donovan stared at her, shocked into silence.

“I’m not leaving Miner’s Gulch,” she said. “This claim was Charlie’s dream, and now it’s mine. I know you mean well, but I won’t go back to Kansas and live off anyone’s charity—not even my own brother’s.”

Donovan chewed his lip in a slow boil of frustration. How could he have forgotten how stubborn his sister could be? “Damnation, Varina, look at this place!” he exploded. “The slaves on White Oaks lived better than this!”

“White Oaks is gone, Donovan. And we’re no better than anybody else these days—if, indeed, we ever were.”

“Varina-”

“No, listen to me,” she said. “I’ve got a business proposition for you.”

Donovan groaned, guessing what that proposition might be. “If you’re expecting me to stay and work Charlie’s claim—”

“It’s my claim now. Mine and the children’s. But we can’t work it alone. For your help, I’d be willing to give you half of any profits we make. Charlie always said the mine would pay off. He was so close to finding gold when he—”

“Don’t, Varina.” Donovan knew he was being cruel, but it had to be said. “Charlie was chasing a phantom. Everybody knows the gold veins in these parts played out years ago. And even if they hadn’t, I’m not a miner. I’m a lawman.”

“For how long?” Varina’s free hand reached out to clasp his forearm. “How much time will you have before you cross some young hothead and he shoots you in the back? I just buried Charlie. I don’t want to bury you, too.”

Donovan battled the urge to grind his teeth. This discussion was not going as he’d planned. He’d come inside aiming to unmask Sarah Parker for what she was. Instead, Varina’d gotten the bit in her teeth, and now she was running away with it.

“I’ve made a home here,” she was saying. “You could, too. You could build your own cabin right on this land if you wanted. Why, you could even court yourself a good woman and have some young ones to grow up alongside mine—”

“Blast it, Varina, don’t you go planning my life!”

“And why not? If the planning was left to the men, this world would be a sorry place. And don’t you tell me a pretty girl can’t turn your head. I noticed the way you were eyeing Sarah Parker last night—”

“You were in no condition to notice anything.” Donovan’s controlled voice belied the emotion that flamed under his skin.

“I noticed enough.” Varina’s finger traced the curve of her baby’s tiny, shell-perfect ear. “Sarah would be a right handsome woman if she hid those little round glasses and let her hair fluff out around her face. But pretty or not, she’s got what truly matters—a good, kind heart.”

Donovan’s throat jerked as he swallowed an angry outburst. Varina wasn’t strong yet, he reminded himself. It wouldn’t hurt to wait a day or two before bringing down a woman who was clearly her friend.

He took a deep breath and forced himself to be calm. “You see everybody as good, Varina,” he said quietly. “What do you really know about this Sarah Parker?”

Varina’s arm tightened around her sleeping infant. “I know that this baby and I might not be alive if Sarah hadn’t been here last night. I know that when Charlie was killed, she was the first one here to help wash him and lay him out. And I know that she gives my girls book learning—more and better than I could give them myself. What else is there to know about her? Sarah’s as close to being a real angel as anybody I ever met.”

Donovan felt as if he were choking. Unable to sit any longer, he erupted off the stool, strode to the cabin’s single, small window and glared out at the pristine snow.

“But she’s a Yankee—”

“The war’s over, Donovan.”

“But what do you know about her past? Where did she come from? What the devil would she be doing in a place like this?”

“If it’s all that important, why don’t you ask her?” Varina sighed wearily. “Now, will you forgive me if I go back to sleep? It’ll be a day or two before I’m up to much—”

“I’m sorry.” Donovan bent and brushed a contrite kiss across his sister’s pale forehead. “I shouldn’t have unsettled you so.”

Varina inched her sore body down into the quilts and resettled the baby against her shoulder. “Promise me something,” she said, already drifting off.

“For you, anything.”

“Don’t refuse my offer right away. Take a few days to mull it over. Look at the town. Think about the life you could have here.”

“Varina—”

“Think about it. That’s all I’m asking….” Her voice floated wispily away from him as she closed her eyes. Within seconds, she was asleep, the baby snuggled alongside her ribs and Samuel curled at her feet.

Donovan sighed as he rehung the quilt around the bed to shield them from drafts. When it came to muleheadedness, no one could match Varina. He’d learned that much years ago, when he’d tried to talk her out of marrying Charlie Sutton. Now, when he only wanted to help, he had run headlong into that very same stubborn streak.

Varina, he realized, would never agree to leave Miner’s Gulch. She would cling to this land until her life slowly rotted away. Her girls would marry worthless dreamers like their father; and as for young Samuel and little Charles Donovan, there’d be no future for them here. They would break themselves in the search for gold or end up on the wrong side of the law.

No! Donovan could not let such things happen to his only living kinfolk. Building his own life in a forsaken hole like Miner’s Gulch was out of the question. But he could stay here for a few weeks at least, long enough to make some badly needed improvements on the cabin, and maybe hire a good man to work Varina’s claim. Then, when he got back to Kansas, he could open a bank account for the education of his nieces and nephews. He owed that much to his parents’ memory. He owed it to Virgil’s.

And—Donovan’s jaw clenched as he remembered—he owed something else to Virgil’s memory, as well. He stalked out onto the porch and glowered down the slope in the direction of the town, where, at this very moment, the most treacherous woman he’d ever known was schooling his nieces.

Even if he could forgive Lydia Taggart, he could not condone her presence here. Not when she was exerting such a strong influence on Varina and on her innocent young daughters. He could just imagine the lessons Annie and Katy would learn as they grew up under her tutelage—how to flirt, how to deceive, how to betray…

Whatever it took, he vowed, he would get Lydia, or Sarah, or whatever the devil her real name was, out of Miner’s Gulch.

Striding out into the yard, he wrenched the ax from the chopping block and resumed his frenzied assault on the logs. Every blow called back another memory—Lydia, glancing up at him over the rim of her wineglass, her silver eyes meeting his, then darting swiftly back to Virgil; Lydia, laughing like a little girl as Virgil pushed her in the backyard swing; Lydia, waltzing around the ballroom floor, skirts swirling like a froth of peony petals below the tiny stem of her waist.

If she had not been Virgil’s girl…

Donovan slammed the ax into the sweet-smelling pine. Chips as white as a woman’s skin flew around him as he drove the blade home again and again.

He would get rid of her, he swore. Whatever it took, he would see her gone.

Whatever it took.

Miner’s Gulch had sprouted amid the gold boom of the late 1850s. In its heyday, the population had soared to nearly a thousand, but most of the people were gone now. Less than two hundred souls remained, clinging to the played-out claims that dotted the slopes of the steep ravine. Of those who hung on, a few still dreamed of finding that elusive strike. Most, however, had long since given up. They stayed because they were too poor to pull up roots and start over, or because they had no other place to go.

Donovan walked the two-mile trail that meandered down the slope between Varina’s place and the main part of town. By now it was midday. Warmed by the sun, the snow was melting fast. Water dripped from the bare aspen branches, turning the pathway to slush beneath his boots. Not that Donovan was paying much attention. His mind was black with thoughts of the coming confrontation with Sarah Parker.

Over and over, he ground out each phrase of what he would say to her and how he would say it. He would be calm, he resolved, but he would give the woman no quarter. And heaven help her if she tried to charm her way around him. A granite boulder would be more easily softened than his heart.

As the trees opened up, Donovan could see the town below him—a ramshackle spatter of wooden buildings, sprouting from the land like ugly, reddish toadstools. Hastily built on shallow foundations, they tilted rakishly along both sides of the muddy street. Many of them were boarded up, or had been pillaged for their glass windows. Even the places that were still occupied looked as if they would buckle in a heavy wind.

Pity Varina was so set on staying here, Donovan mused as he rounded the last bend in the trail. Otherwise, Sarah Parker would be welcome to this miserable town. She could set herself up as its queen, for all he cared, with a goldplated spittoon for a throne. She could-But he was getting emotional, Donovan cautioned himself, and that would not do. He had resolved to remain cold and implacable. His plan was to state his terms in a way that the woman could not possibly misunderstand, then leave her to make the only sensible decision. He had no wish to be cruel. He only wanted her gone.

He walked faster, steeling his emotions against the hot rage that boiled up inside him every time he thought of her. Laughing, lying Lydia, the very essence of treachery. Even last night-But last night counted for nothing. It was prim, shy Sarah Parker who had attracted him. A phantom. A stage role—no more real than Lydia Taggart herself had been.

He broke into a sweat as the question penetrated his mind. Who was this woman? Was she Lydia Taggart? Was she Sarah Parker?

Or was she someone he did not even know?

He had reached the outskirts of town. Slowing his pace to a deliberate walk, he tried to calm himself by studying each building he passed. The two-story hotel had been boarded up for years, its faded green paint peeling like a bad sunburn. The assay office, too, was closed, but Varina had mentioned that Satterlee, the storekeeper, did assay work at the rare times it was needed. The barbershop was open only on Wednesdays and Saturdays, and the barber, a Mr. Watson, doubled as official undertaker and set an occasional broken limb. Sarah Parker doctored the few women and children.

Even the sheriff’s office was empty, except for dust and pack rats. There seemed to be no laws worth breaking in this town, nor anyone who cared one way or the other.

The street was a quagmire of slush and mud. In front of the saloon, stepping boards had been laid from the hitching rail to the door. The saloon, in fact, was the only establishment in Miner’s Gulch that still appeared to be thriving. Even at midday, idlers were meandering in, drawn by the lure of whiskey, the tuneless tinkle of the piano, and the shopworn women who lounged in the overhead rooms, framed like jaded portraits in the second-story windows.

Donovan avoided raising his eyes as he passed. Ordinarily, he didn’t mind the company of whores. Some of them possessed a warmth and honesty that he found lacking in so-called decent women. But this town was his sister’s home, and people were bound to talk. Neither he nor Varina needed that kind of trouble. Besides, right now, he had a very different kind of whore on his mind.

Satterlee’s General Store was two doors down from the saloon. Three upstairs windows, curtained to eye level with flour sacking, faced the street. Donovan risked a tentative upward glance, hoping for some indication that Sarah was there, but he could see little more than the reflected glare of the bright spring sky. Swiftly he turned away. It wouldn’t do at all for her to look down and see him standing in the street, gazing up at her windows.

He was wondering what to do next when a motley gaggle of children came trooping around the store through the alley that led to the back. Seeing his two nieces among them, Donovan realized that Sarah had just dismissed school.

He felt something tighten in his chest. Yes, she would be there. This was as good a chance as he was going to get.

“Uncle Donovan!” Little Katy had spotted him and was weaving through the crowd of children, dragging her big sister by the hand. “What are you doing here? Did you come to walk home with us?”

Donovan sighed. Fishing in his pocket, he dug out a pahnful of small change. “Here,” he growled, giving the coins to Annie. “Go on into the store and buy some peppermint sticks for yourselves and Samuel. Then start for home. I’ll catch up when I’ve finished my business here in town.”

“Thank you.” Annie counted the money carefully while Katy danced around her like a pup anticipating a bone. She tugged her sister toward the front of the store, splashing mud with her small, prancing boots.

Donovan waited until they’d gone inside. Then, taking a deep breath, he turned and strode deliberately down the alley, toward the back stairs.

For the past three years he’d tried to believe that the war was really over. But he’d been wrong. There was one battle left to fight. He would fight it here and now.