Lord of the Wolves (13 page)

Harris
was fortunate. He had his family, loved ones with which to share his life and
with whom he would grow old. Kingston had nothing, and he had never felt the
lack of loved ones, of a worthy and fulfilling life, as keenly as he did at
this moment.

That
sense of loss had little to do with Harris, however, and everything to do with
the young widow he had just left behind. Sarah Marsters, timid little mouse,
soft and sweet and caring. A true lady, deserving of far better than anything
he could offer her.

It
had pained him far more than he had ever imagined to leave her at Cherry’s
boarding house. Knowing that he had made the right decision did nothing to
lessen his longing, to ease his vast and aching emptiness. An emptiness only
Sarah could fill.

She
was good for him, a magical balm for his deeply troubled spirit. To linger at
Cherry’s and while away the afternoon in Sarah’s company had been tempting. Her
serene presence drew him. Her lack of guile was charming, her voluptuous figure
impossible to resist. If he had stayed, he would have claimed her fragrant white
charms. It was what he longed for, yet making her his woman would only bring
her a greater sorrow. And the thought of hurting her more deeply than he
already had was worse than the nagging, hollow ache in his chest.

She
needed a quiet strength, a gentleness that he had never learned... a depth of
caring that he had once possessed but had lost somewhere along the way.

Sarah
Marsters was not meant for him, he staunchly told himself, bounding up the
wooden steps to the portico of the building and making his way inside. Yet,
knowing that did not drown his desires, nor ease his cold regret.

Jean
Baer, alias
La Bruin
had done this to him. Jean had ruined him for
anything decent and good, by taking Caroline’s life, and that of their son. Until
he had settled his debt with Jean, he could not seek solace in Sarah’s arms, he
could not live his life.

The
direction of his thoughts lent him a grim determination as he lay Killbuck’s
scalp and two others on the desk in front of Captain Albert McCrae.

McCrae,
an officer in the newly formed local militia, gave a low whistle. “Quite a run
of luck ye’ve had. Twelve pounds sterling each—let’s see.”

“Thirty-six
pounds,” Kingston supplied. “I need two bars of lead, and two horns of powder. Some
salt and a side of bacon.”

McCrae
scratched his balding head just above his ear, then rose to fetch the required
items. “Headed for the long hunt?”

Kingston
had wandered to the shelves that lined the walls from floor to ceiling, where a
pair of buckskins caught his eye. They were small, the leather as soft as
butter, and heavily embellished with blue glass beads across the breast. The
same captivating blue as Madame’s eyes.

A
pair of moccasins lay beside the leather garb. Kingston picked them up,
thinking of the clumsy leather shoes she wore. The only shoes she owned, and
quite unsuited to her travels. In moccasins, she would step more softly,
perhaps walk without making a terrible din and alerting every hostile within
five miles that a vulnerable Englishwoman was about. Perhaps the garments would
help to keep her safe; certainly, they would be more comfortable, more durable
than the linen dress she wore, or anything that Cherry could provide.

He
took the buckskins and moccasins from the shelf and placed them on the stack. McCrae
started to tally the costs, but before he came to the leather garb, Kingston
stayed his hand. “These I will pay for separately; not with blood money.”

McCrae
glanced up, frowning. “But there are ample funds left over.”

Sauvage
removed his shirt and the second bracelet, the mate to the one he’d given to
Cherry as barter for Sarah’s accommodations, both of which his mother had given
to him long ago. “It should suffice as payment.”

“Oh,
aye. It will suffice.”

“Good,”
Sauvage said. “Now that our business is concluded, what have you heard from the
west?”

Leaning
back against the high rim of the tub, steam rising in a cloud all around her,
Sarah watched Jessie lay out a linen towel, sponge and soap. “Has Mrs. Vining
known Kingston long?” Sarah asked, as casually as she could.

“Mr.
Kingston? Let’s see.” She furrowed her brow, and a look of concentration came
over her angular face. “Seems to me they met just before Miss Caroline arrived
from the East. Been almost five years now.”

“Caroline
Sauvage?” Sarah lathered the sponge and ran it idly down one arm, pretending
indifference, when in fact, she hung on Jessie’s every word.

“Yes,
ma’am. She worked for Miz Cherry for a time. Helped out in the kitchen for bed
and board. Then, Mr. Kingston set eyes on her. Wasn’t long after that he made
her Caroline Sauvage. Married her downstairs in the parlor, with Miz Cherry and
that black rogue de Angelheart standing up with ‘em.”
Sarah suppressed a smile at Jessie’s characterization of Angel. “They must have
been very much in love,” she said, hoping Jessie would elaborate. She was
devastated that Kingston was gone from her life, and hungry for talk of him,
the mere mention of his name.

“They
was real happy, for a little while. That was before the war, in better times
than these. Things sure have changed. Miz Caroline was kilt by that man, Jean
Bear, and Mr. Kingston ain’t been happy since. Pains my heart to see him so mad
at life, so mad with himself, too.”

Sarah’s
sponge stilled. “Angry with himself? But why?”

“For
the past, child. If Miz Caroline would’ve married someone else, she might be
alive today. John Bear kilt her ‘cause she was Mr. Kingston’s bride.”

“Because
they are enemies,” Sarah murmured. “And their history is a long one.”

“It’s
long, all right. Started way back in the cradle.”

Sarah
raised her head, suddenly alert. “What did you just say?”

“I
said it started when they was babies. Happens sometimes, one brother hatin’ the
other... just like Cain and Abel.”

“Kingston
and
La Bruin
are brothers?” Sarah closed her eyes and groaned. “Oh, dear.
He said they shared a history, and that his father’s name was Baer. Baer,
Bruin.”

Jessie
nodded. “Yes, ma’am. You see, Mr. Kingston daddy never married his mama, ‘cause
he already had a wife.”

“And
a son, in Quebec.” A chill raced through Sarah. This changed everything. She
finished bathing and rose from the tub, toweled the moisture from her skin and
hastily dressed in the chemise and dress Kingston had procured for her. Then,
she turned to Jessie. “Kingston was looking for a Mr. Albert McCrae earlier
today. Do you know where I might find him?”

“Cap’n
McCrae’s over at the tradin’ post most days. What you want with him? Miz
Sarah?”

Jessie’s
voice trailed after Sarah as she hurried down the stairs, through the parlor
and into the street. She had to find Kingston before he left town. She had to
stop him.

Several
rangy-looking specimens lounged on the portico of the trading post, each one
dressed in a strange combination of leather, calico and furs, and smelling
strongly of tobacco and whiskey, Jack Simmons, killer of women and children,
among them.

Simmons
narrowed his eyes at Sarah’s approach and, turning his head, sent a stream of
brown spittle to one side of her rose damask skirt. “Ma’am,” he said, tugging
his greasy forelock. “Good to see you finally got shed of that no-count
half-breed frog.”

“Mr.
Simmons,” Sarah said primly. “You are a pitiful excuse for a man, and unfit to clean
Kingston Sauvage’s moccasins.”

There
was a general guffaw and the others thumped Jack’s back with undisguised glee. Cursing,
he pushed them off. “Uppity little baggage, ain’t you? It’s that damned
Sauvage’s fault. He’s spoilt you fer any decent white man.”

“Kingston
Sauvage is a gentleman,” Sarah retorted. “He does not idle his time away lying
about in the shade when he should be gainfully employed. It seems to me, Mr.
Simmons, that you would do well to emulate the one you so disdain.”

Sarah
put her nose in the air and made for the door, but as she brushed past the
trio, Jack Simmons grabbed a fistful of rose damask skirt, stopping her in her
tracks. “Don’t be so hot to make off jes yet,” he growled. “We ain’t done
conversin’.”

Sarah
frowned down at the grimy hand crushing her skirts. “For shame, Mr. Simmons!”
she hissed. “For shame!”

“He
has no shame, ma’am. And no manners, neither.”

Sarah
turned toward the deep shade of the porch and saw a man saunter into the light.
He was neatly dressed in clean garments, though they appeared to be twice
mended, and his hawkish face was clean shaven. At first glance, Sarah judged
him a cut above the man he now addressed. “Don’t look so put off, Jack. It
wasn’t no insult, just plain truth. If you had manners, you’d know you don’t
grab hold of a lady’s skirt until you’ve been properly acquainted.” Smiling
down at Sarah, he sketched a shallow bow, his sandy forelock falling roguishly
across his brow. “Ma’am, Ziggman Black, your humble servant.”

Sarah
returned his smile, relieved to have found a gentle flower of manhood growing
among the rank weeds. “Sir, she said. “I thank you for your gallantry.”

“Your
pardon, ma’am, but you should not be roaming about unescorted. To venture out
alone, even in daylight, is risky at best. You never know when you’ll stumble
across a desperate man—or a rude one.” He nudged Jack with a booted foot.

Jack
Simmons’s companions sniggered at that.

“Now,
then, ma’am,” Black said, “if you’ll just tell me where it is you’re going,
I’ll see you safely there myself.”

“It’s
Mrs. Timothy Marsters,” Sarah corrected, then noticing the look of
disappointment that crossed his sharp features, she hastened to add, “but my
husband is dead. My betrothed, Brother John Liebermann, is one of the United
Brethren, dwelling at the Shining City, perhaps you have heard of it?”

Black
scratched his chin. “Indeed, I have. In fact, my line of work has taken me to
the Muskingum a time or two.”

“And
what is your line of work, Mr. Black?”

“I’m
a marriage broker of sorts—a matchmaker, if you will,” Black said, answering
the guffaws that erupted from the trio with a hostile glare. “The gentlemen I
represent have tired of being alone, and yearn for companionship. For a nominal
fee, I locate suitable young ladies and escort them to their new—husbands.”

“How
fascinating. I should like to hear more, but I fear I must be going. I must
speak with Captain McCrae.”

“You
have business with Mac?” He sounded surprised.

Sarah
nodded. “The most urgent kind, yes.” She made for the door, but Black stepped
up to block her path.

“What
sort of business, if you don’t mind my askin’?”

Sarah
hesitated, then gave way with a soft sigh. “I am looking for Kingston Sauvage. I
have it on good authority that he is leaving town, and it is imperative that I
find him. I was hoping Mr. McCrae could help me.”

“Sauvage?”
Black said, scratching his head, assuming a thoughtful expression. “Yes, I do
believe he was here—what say you boys? An hour—maybe two—ago?”

Jack
Simmons and his companions grunted in agreement.

“You
know Kingston?” Sarah was not sure why she was surprised. There was no escaping
Kingston’s reputation.

“We’ve
had truck a time or two,” Black said readily. “Scoutin’ ventures, traipsin’
after stolen horses, and the like. I’m blessed with trackin’ skills, too. You
say Sauvage is leavin’ town, an’ we seen him go, ain’t that right, boys?”

Several
sniggers and a loud breaking of wind.

Sarah
frowned at the trio, but Black took her by the arm. “Never mind the boys, Mrs.
Marsters. They’re an uncouth lot. Now, like I was sayin’, I’m a fair hand at
trackin’, and if you want, I might track down Sauvage for you. He’s only got an
hour’s start on us. Could be we can overtake him.”

“At
the risk of being blunt, I would need some sort of reference before going
anywhere with you. A lady cannot be too careful these days.” She shot a pointed
glance at Jack Simmons. “This town seems to have its share of ruffians.”

“I
quite agree with you,” Ziggman Black replied. “Let’s see.” He rummaged in his
pockets and came away with several scraps of rumpled paper. “This here’s a
receipt for a gallon of whiskey I won at poker from Bradley Reed over there,
but that won’t do.” He pocketed that particular scrap and squinted at the
second, hurriedly placing it with the first. The third and final scrap he
handed to Sarah, looking pleased.

Accepting
it, she read:

I owe Ziggman
Black five beaver skins and a pint of Kill Devil rum for the delivery of a
bride, as agreed upon forthwith.

                                                                                                 ---
Harvey Kincaid.

Sarah
refolded the note and held it out to Black. “Well,” she said.

“Surely
it’s proof enough that I am all that I claim to be.”

“It
would seem that you did indeed deliver a bride to the signer of the note,”
Sarah was forced to concede. “But—”

“If
it’s my trackin’ skills that concern you, just ask any man in the streets. They’ll
tell you that all I’ve said is truth. I’ve a nose like a hound, Mrs. Marsters,
but I must warn you, every minute we spend here debatin’ the worth of my
skills, is a minute that would be better spent trackin’ Sauvage.”

Sarah
glanced at the river and the blue hills beyond it. Kingston was out there
somewhere, intent upon the destruction of his own flesh and blood, a sin
against God and nature. She could not let him kill Jean Baer, yet unless she
found him, she would be powerless to prevent it. “Very well, Mr. Black,” Sarah
said, offering her hand upon the agreement. “You are hired.”

Black
propelled Sarah a goodly distance along the riverbank, past several of the
hovels she’d seen earlier, through straggling locust and willow trees. The
ground underfoot was soft and sandy. Sarah’s shoes sank into the soil, and she
had to struggle to keep pace with the borderman’s long strides.

They
rounded a curve in the stream. Sarah glanced back, but saw nothing but trees. The
settlement was out of sight, and she felt the first stir of a niggling doubt. “Should
we not have come to the ferry by now? Kingston said that it was just beyond the
town.”

“John
Harris’s ferry is just beyond the town, but I don’t care for Harris. We’ll make
use of Busted Bill’s ferry instead.”

“Busted
Bill?” Sarah repeated. “I don’t believe I’ve heard of him.”

“Not
to worry, Mrs. Marsters. He’s new around these parts.” He gave her arm a
squeeze. The gesture was far from reassuring. Instead, Sarah’s doubts increased.
“Perhaps we should go back,” she said suddenly.

Black’s
fingers dug deep into the flesh of Sarah’s arm. “Well, I’m sorry to say that
it’s a mite too late for that. I’ve already contracted for a woman, and if I
don’t come through with the goods, my reputation as a marriage broker will be
ruined. The last one I found for Bill ran away after just a week. He said if I
didn’t find someone to replace her, he’d smash my face. I expect that you’ll do
well enough.”

“I
am not the source of your difficulties with this man, and I will not be the
source of the solution! Besides, I might find Kingston before it’s too late!”

“It’s
already too late,” Ziggman Black told her, pushing Sarah ahead of him through
the trees and into what appeared to be a campsite.

Sauvage
stowed his supplies in the barn loft at the rear of the trading post, then took
up his rifle and the parcel containing his parting gift for Madame, and set out
for Cherry’s boarding house at the southernmost end of the settlement. Since he
suspected that it would take a great deal of talk and all of his talents at
persuasion to convince Madame to agree to such a drastic change in attire, he
had already made up his mind to stay the night in the town and depart at dawn. It
would give him a little more time to grow accustomed to the idea of leaving
Sarah... and a few more hours in her company.

Excuses,
he had in plenty, enough perhaps to prevent Madame from guessing his true
motives for returning to the boarding house: that he was having more difficulty
than he had ever imagined, leaving her behind.

Sarah,
his mouse. It hardly seemed possible that a small slip of forthright femininity
could have so profound an effect upon his life. Yet, she had. With stubbornness
and persistence, she had managed to worm her quiet way past his defenses and
touch him as no one else had.

And
he was leaving her, abandoning her to pursue the man who had brought him to
this terrible pass. Yet, not without remorse. That perhaps was the driving
force that pushed him back to Cherry’s place, that had goaded him into buying
the buckskins and moccasins so that he would have a valid reason beyond the obvious,
to see her one last time.

As
he approached the log structure that was Sarah’s place of residence,
silhouetted blackly against a flaming sky, his strides lengthened and a feeling
of anticipation stole over him. He bounded up the front steps and flung the
door open. “Sarah?”

A
brass betty lamp burned on a small spindle-legged table, giving off a hot
tallow smell. He glanced around and saw no one. He went to the foot of the
stairs and bellowed her name.

The
sound of scurrying footsteps came to his ears, and Jessie appeared at the top
of the stairs, illuminated by the light of the tallow lamp she carried. “Mr.
Kingston! Is that you? I thought you was gone away by now.”

Sauvage
leaned on the banister, Sarah’s gift tucked under one arm. “Would you tell Madame
Marsters that I wish to speak with her? Tell her that it’s urgent—no, just ask
if she will deign to come down?”

Jessie
frowned. “Miz Sarah ain’t here, Mr. Kingston. She went off before supper to
talk with Cap’n McCrae at the tradin’ post, an’ she ain’t come home yet.”

Sauvage’s
head came up. “She’s with Cherry?”

“Miz
Cherry’s down at Miz Ridley’s. Miz Sarah, she went off alone.”

Sauvage
dropped the parcel on the stairs and flung out of Cherry’s parlor, clearing the
steps in a single bound. He ran to the trading post, but it was shuttered and
bolted for the night. A sliver of lamplight showed through a crack in the
shutters. “McCrae!” he shouted, rattling the door with his fist. “McCrae, it’s
Sauvage! Open the door!”

The
heavy bolt was lifted; the door inched open. “Sauvage, for God’s sake, what is
it? Has there been an alarm?”

Sauvage
shook his head. “The woman who came to speak with you this evening about
finding a guide to take her to the Ohio country—Sarah Marsters—where is she?”

McCrae
looked perplexed. “No woman has come asking after a guide, and even if one had,
I would have sent her away with a bug in her ear. No man worth his salt would
be venturing west with a war going on and the hills full of murdering hostiles.
Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve the books to finish before I can go home, and I
should like to get there before midnight.”

The
door clicked shut, and Kingston heard the bolt slide back into place. Cursing,
he ran a hand through his hair, then stilled as a dark chuckle issued from the
shadows of the portico. “Ain’t so high an’ mighty now, are you, half-breed?”
Jack Simmons questioned. “Looks like that lil’ Quaker lass came to her senses
and found herself a white man.”

“What
white man?” Sauvage demanded. “You know something about this, Jack?”

Jack
grinned, glancing at the sky. “Fine weather, ain’t it? Not too hot. Not too
cold?”

Sauvage
grabbed Simmons by the scruff of the neck, slamming him against the solid log
wall of the trading post. “What white man, Jack? Tell me quick, and do not lie,
or I’ll tear your tongue out and shove it down your miserable throat.” Simmons
winced. Sauvage pushed him harder into the wall. “Talk!”