Elizabeth Grayson (35 page)

Follensbee gestured his men to track him down, then settled Ann in one of the armchairs. Lieutenant Ashbrook returned not three minutes later with James Rossiter in tow.

“He was saddling his horse,” Ashbrook reported and handed Follensbee a pair of bulging saddlebags. “Looks like there’s some interesting reading here.”

The colonel riffled through the bags then handed them back. “Take Mr. Rossiter on out to the wagon. I need a few words with Mrs. Hardesty before we go.”

As Ashbrook hustled James Rossiter toward the door, he turned and glared at Ann. “You’ll mind your mouth, girl, if you know what’s good for you.”

“I won’t lie to protect you,
Father,”
she answered coolly, “when you never once raised a hand to protect me.”

Rossiter called curses down on her head as Follensbee’s men led him away. Once they were alone, the colonel turned his attention back to Ann.

“Very well, Mrs. Hardesty,” he began. “What do you know about your father’s activities?”

“James Rossiter is my stepfather.” It seemed a particulary important distinction for Ann to make. “And until this morning, I didn’t know a thing about any of this.”

“Then why don’t you tell me what you’ve learned?” Follensbee encouraged her.

Because her fate—and Chase and Christina’s—had always been in the commodore’s hands, Ann had never before spoken about her stepfather. Though she kept her secrets, she told the colonel what she could and did her best to clear her husband’s name.

“So you see,” she finished, “Chase didn’t know about the contraband at the start. He only agreed to carry the rifles on this last trip because the commodore threatened Christina and me.

“Chase is a good man, Colonel Follensbee,” she went on. “You’ve seen what a fine captain he is, and how the men respect him. Please, if you could just see fit to recommend leniency where he is concerned...”

“But, Mrs. Hardesty,” Follensbee broke in, “didn’t Captain Hardesty tell you? He’s the one who helped us make our case against the smugglers.”

“What?” Ann managed to croak.

“We heard rumors this spring that some of the Missouri River steamers were running guns and started to investigate. But the smugglers were so skillful at passing off the contraband as cargo, that it was nearly impossible to detect. We didn’t know exactly how they were doing it until Chase came to see us at Fort Leavenworth three weeks ago.”

How difficult, Ann wondered, had it been for Chase to go to the authorities when there was so much at stake? When he must have known he’d be risking his own freedom by telling the truth? Yet he’d done what he thought was right in spite of it, and Ann was proud of him.

Follensbee perched at the edge of the desk and looked down at her. “I boarded the
Andromeda
to see how the smugglers operated, and I stayed aboard so I could deliver my report to Jefferson Barracks. If I hadn’t been aboard this morning, Chase would most certainly be cooling his heels in the guardhouse while we got things settled. As it is, we’ll round up the other Gold Star officers involved in the smuggling either at the end of their runs or farther upriver.”

“Then Chase has cleared his name?” Ann pressed him, needing to be sure. “There won’t be any charges—”

“Your husband is completely exonerated.”

Ann let out her breath in relief.

Once Follensbee had gone, she climbed to her feet and ambled to the window that overlooked the garden. Though the sun beat bright and warm on the last of the summer roses, Ann felt bleak and gray with exhaustion.

She was drained by her confrontation with the commodore and Follensbee’s questioning. The idea of seeing Chase and telling him the truth about Christina and Boothe terrified her beyond all bearing.

She rested her forehead against the glass and blinked back the tears. As long as she lived, she’d never forget how stricken Chase looked standing there in the hall, or how decisively he’d turned from her.

How could she convince him, even after this, that they could pick up where they left off? That they could have a life together?

Ann knew she had to try. If he refused to accept what she had to tell him, then Chase at least deserved to hear how grateful she was for what he’d taught her, how precious her time aboard the
Andromeda
had been to her. Chase needed to understand how proud she’d been to be his wife, and how much she’d cherished being a Hardesty.

He deserved to know just how much she loved him.

She raised her face to the sun, felt the heat of it baking through the glass to warm her, fill her with its strength. Ann basked in the sunshine a moment longer, then turned away.

Chase would show up at the
Andromeda
eventually, and when he did, Ann intended to be waiting. That meant she had to collect her daughter from Mary Fairley and head back to the levee.

When she got down to the kitchen, she gathered Christina in her arms, then took a horsecab back downtown.

She was just paying the driver when she heard the quick triple
thoop
of what she recognized instantly as the
Andromeda
’s whistle. She turned with a jerk and saw that the steamer was backing down. Smoke billowed black from the smokestacks and the stern wheel churned feverishly against the current as the boat hung for a moment in the middle of the river.

Ann’s heart fluttered in her throat like a butterfly caught in her two hands. The
Andromeda
wasn’t scheduled to leave for Sioux City until noon tomorrow.

Where was Chase going?

She threaded her way through the people gathered on the levee, waving in desperation. She knew how unlikely it was that anyone aboard the riverboat would see her in the crowd, but she ran toward the water anyway.

Then the
Andromeda
blew its whistle one last time and headed north, her wake rolling out behind her like the tea-dyed train of a lady’s lacy dancing dress.

Ann was still standing on the cobblestoned slope, trying to decide what she ought to do, when one of the transfer agents came tramping toward her.

“Mrs. Hardesty,” he said as he tugged a small square of paper from his waistcoat pocket. “Your husband asked me to give you this.”

She nodded her thanks, then shifting Christina on her hip, tore open the folded page. Chase’s writing was, as usual, all but illegible, yet somehow she made out the words.

My dearest Ann,

Colonel Follensbee has had word that there is one
final shipment of rifles aboard the
Cassiopeia.
He has
commandeered the
Andromeda
to go after them.
There is money in the bank to see you through until I
get back. I will ask for word of you at the town house
when we return.

Your husband,
Chase

With her heart in her throat, Ann raised her gaze from the message and watched the
Andromeda
steam out of sight.

chapter seventeen

IS THAT HER, CAPTAIN HARDESTY?” COLONEL RICHARD Follensbee asked from where he leaned against the breastboard in the
Andromeda
’s pilothouse. “Is that the
Cassiopeia
just beyond the bend?”

Chase squinted into the fierce orange glare of the setting sun, trying to make out the configuration of the steamer half a mile ahead. He raised his hand to shade his eyes.

Was it the
Cassiopeia
? They’d been chasing Boothe Rossiter’s boat upstream for six days, ever since Follensbee and his troopers had stormed aboard and commandeered the
Andromeda.

“The invoices we found in James Rossiter’s things,” Follensbee had explained to him, “indicate a full dozen cases of carbines are aboard the
Cassiopeia.
If the Cheyenne and Sioux get hold of that many rifles, there’ll be a bloodbath from Nebraska to the Rockies come spring. We have to overtake Boothe Rossiter’s boat and stop him from delivering those guns.”

Chase had scribbled a note to Ann before they left St. Louis and given it to one of the transfer agents. Looking back, he realized he should have apologized to her for the way he’d gone roaring out of the town house. He should have made it clear that his only reason for leaving her behind in St. Louis was because of the urgency of recovering the rifles. But he’d been too riled up when he’d written it and too eager to get out on the river to be thinking clearly.

And in truth, when Follensbee’s mission was over, Chase meant to find a way to settle his score with Boothe Rossiter.

“We’re catching up!” Follensbee cried, shifting Chase’s full attention back to the river. “Can you tell if it’s her?”

As they drew nearer, Chase recognized the fancy crescent-moon finial on the roof of the steamer’s wheelhouse and her high, rounded stern. “It’s the
Cassiopeia,
all right,” he confirmed. “If we’re lucky, she’ll pull into the landing up ahead for the night.”

When the smaller steamer slowed and blew its landing whistle, Chase smiled in anticipation. Once the
Cassiopeia
tied up at the cluster of buildings in the crook of the bend, they’d have them.

Then from the
Andromeda
’s own foredeck came a chorus of whoops and a flurry of rifle fire.

“What the hell’s going on down there?” Chase demanded.

Follensbee bolted out of the wheelhouse to investigate. When he came storming back a few minutes later, he was sputtering. “That goddamn idiot corporal took odds on when we’d overtake the
Cassiopeia.
The fools who won took it into their heads to celebrate.”

“Well, their celebration has cost us our prize.” Chase observed, nodding to where the smaller steamer had turned back into the channel. “Rossiter’s decided to make a run for it.”

Follensbee cursed volubly when he saw the
Cassiopeia
’s tall, black chimneys give a fiery belch of smoke as the steamer picked up speed.

“You want me to go after him?” Chase asked, watching the
Cassiopeia
’s wheel toss up spume.

“What’s the river like ahead?” the colonel wanted to know.

Before he answered, Chase put the wheel down to port and glided through the thick blue shade cast by the limestone bluff opposite the town. “Beyond this crossing the bank levels out and the channel widens. We’ll need to catch the
Cassiopeia
in that stretch of open water, because just beyond it the banks close in and the channel doglegs.”

“If we don’t catch that steamer tonight, there won’t be a single gun aboard her come morning.” Follensbee glanced across at Chase. “Those carbines are why we came.”

“You
did
say the government would buy me another boat if we wreck this one, didn’t you?”

Follensbee just laughed.

“Well, if we’re going to turn this into a race,” Chase went on, “you’d better have your men hang tight. Things could get rough before this is over.

“And Colonel Follensbee,” Chase added as the colonel turned to go, “would you ask Mr. Boudreau to step on up here? I could use a second pair of eyes for this.”

Once Follensbee left the wheelhouse, Chase rang the engineering bells to signal Cal for greater speed. Almost immediately, he felt the steamer surge beneath him.

“I’m coming to get you, you bastard,” he vowed under his breath. “And when I catch you, I’m going to make you pay for what you did to Annie.”

As the high banks fell away, Chase blew the whistle in a long, loud challenge any riverboat captain would recognize.

The
Cassiopeia
whistled in answer.

The race was on.

As he chased the
Cassiopeia
into the setting sun, Follensbee and Boudreau materialized on either side of where Chase stood. He could hear the
Andromeda
’s boilers roaring two decks below and feel the smooth, muscular stroke of the engines.

Gradually Chase closed the distance between the two boats—from a thousand yards to eight hundred, from eight hundred to five. The tang of anticipation came sharp in his mouth. For as much as this was Follensbee’s mission, it was Chase’s fight.

The steamers churned into the deepening twilight. Then, just as they came close enough to count the crates of goods piled on the guards, a shower of sparks trailed from the
Cassiopeia
’s chimneys.

“They’re pulling away!” Boudreau cried.

“They’re burning fatwood,” Chase answered and rang the engineering bells, signaling Cal to spike the furnaces.

As he did, Chase could almost hear the engineer’s voice ringing in his ears, “Don’t you bust up this boat, boy! She’s the best ol’ gal I ever tended.”

The
Andromeda
leaped ahead.

While the river lay straight before them, both steamers ran full out. But when they reached the dogleg half a mile ahead one boat or the other would have to give ground. Whichever boat was in the lead when they made the turn would pull away. The other would fall back or risk running aground in the shallows.

Chase signaled for greater speed. The
Andromeda
strained forward. Her timbers groaned, and her hog chains hummed from stem to stern. She inched up beside the
Cassiopeia,
close enough for Chase to taste her smoke and catch a glimpse of the yelling passengers’ faces.

Ahead, the surface of the river shimmered like molten copper, making the channel nearly impossible to read when every glimmer could harbor a threat and every shadow mean disaster. Still, Chase held his course.

As they approached the dogleg, he nosed past the
Cassiopeia.
As he did, he expected Boothe to fall back, to give ground as they roared into the turn, but Rossiter kept coming. Chase steered as close as he dared to the southern bank, but the
Cassiopeia
slid sideways, crowding him.

He gave the other steamer what space he could.

Then, with a groan like lost souls howling on their way to hell, the
Cassiopeia
shuddered and fell back.

“Boudreau!” Chase shouted, not daring to take his eyes off the river. “Tell me what happened!”

The younger pilot dashed to the doorway. “Looks like a sawyer pierced clear through to the Texas,” he shouted. “The
Cassiopeia
is sinking fast!”

Chase signaled Cal to bring the
Andromeda
back to maneuvering speed, and they ran half a mile more into the deepening twilight. Then, just as they were making their turn to go back and help, a plume of yellow light shot skyward from the wreck. A thunderous
whuff
of an explosion set the air to shimmying.

“The
Cassiopeia
’s burning!” Boudreau cried.

Cursing under his breath, Chase fought the wheel. With a deep-throated complaint, the
Andromeda
came about. As she did, Chase saw a perfect vision of perdition take shape before his eyes.

The
Cassiopeia
had sunk at midstream to the depth of her boiler deck. A bright line of flames licked along the roof of the salon. Half a hundred people were foundering in the water.

Some of them flailed desperately. Others clung to boards and crates and shutters. A few bodies floated motionless.

Chase could see at least a score of passengers still clinging to the burning boat. Several crewmen were beating at the flames with blankets. A woman and two children waved frantically from the front of the Texas deck. One man had climbed the jackstaff and kept shimmying higher as the
Cassiopeia
settled.

Chase maneuvered the
Andromeda
in as close as he dared, signaled for Cal to hold her against the current, and turned the wheel over to Boudreau.

When he reached the main deck, the hands had already pulled two or three dozen people from the water. They lay shivering in the night air, their stark faces illuminated by the flames from the sinking steamer.

There was the sound of another explosion, the ceaseless braying of a donkey off to their left, and the even more frantic cries of people hoping for rescue. Beck Morgan had launched both the skiffs. He and Colonel Follensbee had taken one. Chase climbed into the second with two of the deckhands.

They maneuvered around the bow to the far side of the
Cassiopeia.
Chase could hear people in the water, but the reflections and the deepening shadows made the passengers almost impossible to see.

“Call out,” he shouted. “Help me find you.”

“Here!” a woman’s hoarse voice answered. “Here.”

Chase managed to locate her and her child, clinging to one of the
Cassiopeia
’s bright red shutters. They maneuvered the yawl near enough for Chase to scoop the child into the boat. He hauled the boy’s mother over the gunwale after him.

The two deckhands had just put their oars in the water when something else exploded, blowing the glass out of the cabin windows. Fire licked through the broken panes, illuminating one of the
Cassiopeia
’s skiffs bobbing not ten feet away.

At first Chase thought the man aboard it was rescuing people, too. But when a boy about fifteen grabbed the side of the yawl, the man turned and smacked his hands with the flat of an oar.

“What the hell are you doing?” Chase shouted as one of his own crewmen reached out his hands to help.

Abruptly the man in the skiff turned to face him, and Chase’s pulse thumped with satisfaction.

It was Boothe Rossiter.

Rossiter recognized Chase, too, and pulled a gun from the waistband of his trousers. He fired at him, the bullet whizzing past Chase’s head. As the skiffs bobbed closer, Boothe raised the gun again.

Before he could fire, Chase leaped at him. As he slammed into Rossiter’s midsection, his momentum tipped the skiff, dumping both Boothe and him in the river.

Chase grabbed a handful of Rossiter’s clothes as they plunged deeper and deeper. Down into the cold, murky darkness. Down where sand swirled and branches ripped at skin and clothes.

Together they slammed into the mucky river bottom. Chase felt the mud suck hard at ankles and shins. They rose toward the yellow, firelit surface of the water.

Chase broke the surface first, sputtering and gasping for breath, his hand still twisted in Rossiter’s coat. Boothe bobbed up an instant after, kicking and fighting to jerk away.

Chase held on for Annie’s sake. The two of them bashed and flailed at each other. They punched and gouged while the
Cassiopeia
disintegrated around them.

Then from directly above their heads came the mournful, unearthly wail of failing timbers. Chase looked up to see the entire salon section of the boiler deck tip slowly toward them. It came first in a rain of shimmering orange sparks, then shattered into sheets of flame. Each section pulsed with heat, pulsed with life.

Rossiter screamed in horror.

Chase kicked away and dove deep to avoid the timbers that shot past him, hit bottom, and ricocheted toward him.

One of them slammed into his ribs. Another bashed his knee and agony shot the length of his leg. In the haze of pain the yellow blaze around him dimmed.

Darkness dragged at him, slowly swallowing him down. A vision swirled in his head, of honey hair and gentle hands, of glowing eyes and a soft, plush mouth.

Annie.

The air gushed out of him in a burble of breath.

Annie.

Water rushed into his throat and gurgled in his chest.

Annie.

His ears roared. His thoughts blurred.

Annie.

He reached for her as the vision faded.

Then something—someone—grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and yanked him upward.

Chase’s head broke the surface of the water. He felt the air on his face and took a breath.

He puked up water instead. He breathed again and coughed up more. Still, the air tasted good. It might be steamy hot and thick with smoke, but it tasted better than any air he’d ever sucked into his straining lungs.

He hung limp in someone’s grasp, breathing, gasping, gagging, hardly believing he hadn’t died there in the river. At length Chase came to realize someone was shouting his name.

“Hardesty! Damn you, Hardesty! Are you dead or alive?” Shaking accompanied the shouting. “Hardesty! Damn it, answer me!”