Demanding Satisfaction [Bride Train 9] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) (28 page)

“You’re the lawyer,” said Harrison, “Gillis is Chieftain of the MacDougal Clan, Trace is the head of the Elliott family, and Ross can provide protection while we talk.” He turned to Sin, having to look up as he was eight inches taller. “You’re big enough to do the same. Or perhaps you are representing your…” He paused, and turned to Ben. “Pardon me, but what should I call the relationship your sister has with Mr. Statham?”

“Wife,” said Sin, lip curling in a snarl. “She is my
wife
.”

Not by any law in this territory, the United States, or even England with its antiquated legal system, thought Harrison. Consenting adulterer would be closer to it. Nonetheless, it was a good solution to an ongoing problem.

“Of course,” he said with a slight nod. “Thank you for clarifying.”

“Sin’s not here just as my brother-in-law and extra muscle,” said Ben. The twitch of his lips gave away the fact he enjoyed baiting the much bigger man. “As the son of Viscount Statham, he of course attended a prestigious university. Might even have learned a few things from the books there.”

“Living dangerously again, are we?”

Ben waved away Sin’s quiet, deadly threat. Harrison knew Ben and Jessie were close, and Sin was not the type to batter a smaller man even if provoked. He would get his revenge, but in other ways. This extended family showed many nuances that intrigued Harrison. Twelve strong, determined men with four wives between them, one a sister. Five adopted children, as well as an increasing number of their own. They would bear watching, no matter the outcome of today’s meeting.

“Oxford or Cambridge?” asked Harrison. Cold, hard eyes met his. Gray with a dark ring, they betrayed nothing of what went on behind them.

“Does it matter?” asked Sin. His glare said the question needed no answer.

“Time’s a-wastin’.” Gillis looked over. “Is that whiskey on yon table?” Without waiting for a reply he lifted a glass. One corner of the map curled up. One gulp and it was empty. He smoothed out the map and set the heavy-bottomed glass back in its place. “What?” he demanded when Ben muttered something at him. “He poured it fer a reason. I’ll nae see guid whiskey wasted.”

He reached for the glass on the southwest corner. Harrison waited, anticipating the reaction. Sure enough, cheap whiskey sprayed across the room a moment later. Gillis wiped the drops off his beard with his sleeve.

“Dammit, Baird, what are ye doin’ puttin’ rattlesnake juice in crystal as if it was prime whiskey?” He shuddered, glaring.

“Serves you right,” replied Ben with a laugh.

Harrison noted Gillis’s use of his correct name. Perhaps he’d gained a bit of grudging respect. If anyone had asked to drink that glass he would have tossed the rotgut and poured a new drink. They all recognized, and accepted, the test.

“Help yourselves to whatever you’d like on my sideboard. There’s fine whiskey and brandy, and an excellent ale.” He lifted the lid on his humidor. “Anyone else appreciate a good cigar? I have them imported direct from Havana, made to my specifications.” He lifted one out and sniffed it, sighing at the welcoming scent.

“You planning on smoking that thing?”

Harrison looked up to find Ross standing right beside him. His fingers twitched slightly. A long, thin knife appeared between them. He idly aimed it at Harrison’s throat. His expression was mild. The threat was not.

“Thought I’d chew on it a while first,” replied Harrison. Ross gave a barely perceptible nod. The knife was suddenly offered hilt first.

“Expect this is sharper than your cutter.”

As a threat it was quite effective. Quick, to the point, and with no likelihood that Harrison could call him on it. He held out the cigar. With a flick of his wrist, Ross took the tip off, exactly where Harrison would have. Another twitch and the knife disappeared.

“If you’re quite finished threatening our host, could you pull in your horns so we could get started?” drawled Ben. Drink in hand, he waited by the table.

When they sat, Ross tipped his glass of ale to Harrison in silent thanks. He returned the gesture. He’d learned the man did not drink spirits. He’d not make the mistake about tobacco again. Meeting the specific needs of business partners was one of those small details that made cutthroat negotiations a pleasure. He absently rubbed his neck. Not the best phrase to use with this crowd.

“Mr. Baird, the Tanner’s Ford Valley Ranchers Association wants to buy railroad land,” said Ben. He sat back in his chair, seeming at ease. “We wish to protect our valley and the water which leads to it. The railroad has ownership of much of that land. We are here to negotiate the purchase of it.”

“How much land are you looking at?” asked Harrison. He sipped, letting the peaty burn of good whiskey fill his mouth and trickle down his throat.

“Everything the railroad owns west of Big Hole Pass,” growled Trace.

Every hair on Harrison’s body flashed to full attention. He inhaled, making the remains of whiskey in his throat flare. He held his breath until it faded. If his cigar was lit, he could use it as a prop to give himself time to think. No such luck today.

He’d expected them to come in swinging, but not for something that large. They were talking about thirty miles as the crow flies. The railroad owned up to forty miles each side of that line, depending on the mountain. With this purchase they would control the river that flowed through the valley into Tanner’s Ford. They’d also own the mountains which fed the river, therefore keeping it from destruction by miners, foresters, or anyone else.

“That’s a fair bit of property,” he replied mildly. “You sure you’ve got enough gold?”

“Dinna fash yerself, laddie,” said Gillis. His teeth shone white between the red moustache and beard. “’Tis yer job to say how much ye want fer it, and ours to say nae.”

He looked at Ross for a translation.

“Give us a number. We’ll supply the gold. Or not.”

Harrison pushed his chair back, using slow, controlled movements. He walked to his desk, picked up two pieces of thick paper in one hand, the inkpot and quill in the other, and returned to the table. He set one paper in front of Trace, the other at his place. The ink and quill went in the center of the map. When he sat, the only sound was the squeaking of the leather chair and the breathing of six men.

He brushed the quill against the side of the inkpot and wrote a figure far beyond what the land was worth. It was easy to read a number upside down. Sin blanched. Gillis scowled. Ben gulped. Ross showed nothing. Gillis muttered something under his breath. Harrison returned the quill to the pot and slowly turned the paper to face Trace.

After giving it due consideration, Trace took the quill and wrote a figure equally below value on his page. He set the quill back and turned his paper.

Parameters set, they began bargaining in earnest.

“It’s been proven there’s no gold or copper in that area,” said Ben.

“Maybe so,” replied Harrison, “but there could be other minerals. The trees alone are worth something. You could bring in a portable sawmill—”

“Cutting down those trees would wash the mountain slopes away with rain and snowmelt,” said Ben. “That would foul the creeks. The trees would never grow back on what little rocky soil would remain. The animals would leave.” He turned to Trace, who wrote another figure, one closer to what they all knew was the true value.

“Is it the water you want, the trees, or the land?” asked Harrison.

“Water is life. Without water, everything dies.”

Ross’s quiet voice filled the room. His accent, the one that proved his coloring came from Bannock Indian rather than Spanish ancestors, was strong.

“Water means gold in Montana Territory,” agreed Harrison. “That is where the gold was first found, in streams.”

Ross shoved his chair back and shot to his feet. His body almost quivered with barely restrained violence.

“Streams that are no more!” he snarled. “You have used machines to dig deep under them, dumped piles of stones on land that could have supported life, and all for what? Lumps of useless rock.”

The hair on Harrison’s arms rose as he watched Ross stride back and forth. The air in the room almost sizzled. The man was too close to the edge of explosion for anyone to interrupt.

“You cannot eat gold,” Ross thundered as he stalked the room. “You cannot plant it. Gold will not keep you from freezing in a blizzard. It means nothing!”

He whipped around and glared at Harrison.

“But it means everything to you, Mr. Baird. So with our gold, we will buy a future for our children. All of them, down through the years. This land will be kept sacred.” He curled his lip in disgust. “No mining. No clearing the forests to burn trees to make steam for the machines that destroy the land. No!” He swept his hands out in an abrupt gesture of denial.

When Ross had walked in, Harrison had recognized the warrior under the trappings of a rancher. The man who now pierced him with ancient eyes would not stop in his quest for vengeance. Not even in death.

He remembered what Ross had done when he realized it was Orville Rivers who’d raped and murdered his young cousin so many years earlier. Unable to release his vengeance on the living man, he’d sliced off Rivers’s head and bowled it down the main street of town. His ravens had attacked, devouring every speck of meat until all that was left was a skull.

Harrison could almost feel those sharp black beaks attacking his flesh. It was said Ross could communicate with the birds, that they passed down their hatred of certain men from generation to generation. He would not be one of those men. It wasn’t fear that filled him, but respect. He looked around the room.

Every one of these men would suffer weeks of torture to protect their own. They would die horrid deaths rather than give up secrets that might harm their families. No one would ever force an Elliott or MacDougal to speak of the barrels of alluvial gold which they’d gathered as children, long before other men created the gold rush. Those barrels were only rumors, until today. Otherwise, how could they pay such a sum for the land?

These were men to stand beside, if they allowed it.

Ross MacDougal’s father was the Clan Chieftain. His maternal grandfather was Chief of the Bannock Tribe. Unlike many, Harrison respected the men and women who’d lived here for untold centuries before him. Ross walked the earth as a man who knew his place in it, and that place was near the top. Gillis was the same, though he was the type to attack straight on, putting his body between the enemy and his family. Ross would use the strategies learned by a people who chose to survive rather than win battles.

Harrison admired the MacDougals, as well as the other men, far more than he could show openly in his job with the railroad. He sighed at the knowledge that he’d never stand as straight as Ross again. But with age came wisdom, if one learned from one’s mistakes. A younger man might see the raping of this wilderness as progress. He saw it for what it was—greed. His chair creaked as he leaned back. He looked up at Ross, keeping an expression of calm boredom as he thought.

His signature would force the railroad to keep to this contract. It was time he retired, and doing so on a personal high note would be best. He would ensure this land was left as it was when the Elliott and MacDougal wagons first topped the mountain pass and they saw what lay beyond. Trees, water, game.

A future for them and their children. A future he would help create.

He turned over his sheet, dipped the quill pen, and wrote a new number on the clean page. A number that would barely satisfy his superiors, and that only if he refused his percentage. It was a huge sum. Entire European countries could likely be purchased for less.

It was one dollar higher than Trace’s last amount.

He returned the quill to the pot. Though they could all read the large numbers, he set his fingers on the sheet, slowly turned it, and pushed it across the map. The map that would soon have vast tracts of land redrawn as belonging to these men.

“Gentlemen, I believe we are in agreement,” said Harrison.

Everyone turned to Trace. He met each eye. What passed between them was their own secret as Harrison, unfortunately, couldn’t read minds. Then Trace met his own.

“We are,” he croaked.

Harrison slowly released the breath he hadn’t realized he held. The tension in the room eased as others did the same. His promised promotion would evaporate faster than snow in August, but it would be worth it.

Leather creaked as the men shifted. They cleared their throats and swallowed their drinks. With nothing left to lose, Harrison asked the question no one dared to pose.

“Where’s your mine located?”

Trace’s black eyes glittered at Harrison. One corner of his lip turned up. “Mine? We have no mine.” Trace’s tone mocked his words. “Everyone knows those dang fools in Tanner’s Ford will do anything to keep mining far away from their valley. Anything.” He toasted Harrison with his glass and tossed down the last of the whiskey.

“If there’s no mine,” said Harrison slowly, “I suppose the rumors of you and your brothers and cousins picking up nuggets as big as your fist, stuffing them in barrels and burying them, are true.”

Five pairs of hard eyes stared back at him.