My Heart Stood Still (Sisters Of Mercy Flats 2) (22 page)

“It looks like a room—maybe more storage.”

“We’re not going in there,” Quincy warned.

Brushing past him, Anne-Marie held the candle out in front of her and moved toward the rustic door, her skirt fabric rustling in the shadowy darkness.

Quincy glanced at Creed. “That woman is going to give me the green apple quickstep before this is over.”

Brushing aside a layer of cobwebs, she lifted the heavy bar blocking the chamber entrance. When she slid the bar aside it rattled on its rusty hinges, making a menacing sound throughout the small chamber.

Using her slight weight, she shoved against the door. The hinges groaned at the disturbance but refused to budge. Quincy stepped up, laid his shoulder against the wood, and heaved.

The door slowly swung open, yielding an even blacker void.

Three sets of round eyes peered into the gaping edifice.

“See anything?” Anne-Marie whispered.

Creed edged closer. “Nothing. Hold the light higher.”

The three pressed close to each other and entered the stale-smelling chamber. The inside was pitch black.

Anne-Marie moved the light along the walls and her gaze anxiously roamed the tight quarters. The room appeared to have no apparent purpose that Anne-Marie could identify.

“Just more empty shelves,” she announced.

Sinking back against a ledge, Quincy fumbled in his back pocket for a rag to wipe his brow. “This place is worse than Eulalie’s house and that Indian camp put together.”

Creed closed the door and slid the rusty bar back into place.

The next morning Anne-Marie was up before dawn. Meals were meager, consisting mostly of a thin gruel, nuts, winterberries, and the venison Bold Eagle had left for them.

After breakfast, Anne-Marie dressed Creed’s wound and bandaged it using strips of petticoat that she had washed and hung out to bleach dry in the sun. To her delight, Creed’s health gradually showed signs of improvement.

Each hour brought a new and wondrous discovery for Anne-Marie. She found contentment with Creed. A satisfaction she hadn’t known was possible. At times she thought she was falling in love and at others she knew it. The idea was so unlikely and complicated that it made her laugh, but at other times she would try to analyze her frightening new feelings. She decided she felt the way she did about
Creed Walker because he was the first man who made her aware that she was a woman. Not by anything he’d done or said, but the way he watched her over the supper table, the way his hand brushed hers when she poured his coffee, or the way he put his fingers on the small of her back to usher her out of a room. His gaze would fix on her at times, following her as she went about her work. Their eyes would lock, and there was something indefinable in his expression. Creed Walker was not the type of man to settle down on a homestead and raise potatoes; he was an adventurous man, one who would eventually return to Bold Eagle’s camp and marry the waiting young maiden who had a claim on him.

Sighing, Anne-Marie dunked another dish in the hot sudsy water. There had been little time for daydreaming of late, so she didn’t feel bad about taking her time with this morning’s dishes, watching robins outside the mission window forage for seed. Lifting the window, she took a long breath of fresh morning air, her mind still on Creed.

For all the times interest dominated his gaze, she had to admit there were often as many times he’d stared at her as if she suffered from a rare brain disorder. Like the night she was invited to share her poetry. She had warned the men that she was only a novice poet, and her attempts were amateurish at best, but they had insisted she recite something she’d written, so she had complied.

“Are you sure?” she asked, afraid she would bore them to tears. Nights were long at the mission and entertainment was as scarce as hen’s teeth, but that particular night the men were in a charitable mood.

“Go ahead,” Quincy invited. “Recite something for us.”

Glancing at Creed, Anne-Marie sensed that he wasn’t necessarily the poetic type, but he seemed agreeable. “Well,” she began, drawing a fortifying breath, “I’m not as good as my sister Amelia.”

“You have to be better than either one of us,” Creed said, the corner of his mouth lifting.

They sat on the floor in the kitchen, around the huge cook stove. The fickle spring weather had turned balmy, but there was still a brisk
chill at night. May wasn’t far off, and Anne-Marie found herself longing for the time when honeysuckle, bougainvillea, and jasmine would perfume the mission air.

“I wrote a poem about robins once. Would you like to hear that one?” she asked.

“Sure.” Quincy lay back, resting his head on crossed arms.

“Shoot,” Creed said.

“All right.” She curtsied and, clearing her throat, she began:

The robin hopped, the robin sang,

The robin fell, and hurt his wing.

He got right up and chirped some more

And found some crumbs upon the floor.

She drew a deep breath. “The robin—”

Creed’s brow lifted. “
Sang
and
wing
don’t rhyme.”

Her face clouded. “I told you—I’m not very good.” That was one occasion when he looked at her as if he doubted her sanity.

Later that night the conversation had turned to the gold.

“The buckboard’s well hidden?” Creed asked.

Quincy nodded, pouring coffee from the pot that sat on the kitchen stove. It wasn’t real coffee—just the chickory brew Creed carried in his saddlebags. “Well hidden. No one could spot it, even if they got this close.”

“Where?”

“In the mission courtyard, beneath a thick growth of tangled vines.”

Creed toyed with his cup. “I don’t know, Quincy. I think the hiding place would be pretty obvious if one had a mind to do some looking. Maybe we should move the shipment to a safer place. That wagon is our only means of transportation if we’re forced to leave on short notice.”

“It’s seems safe to me, but if you want it moved I’ll move it. Are you thinking what I am? That squirrely outlaw Cortes is still hanging around, looking for us?”

“His type doesn’t give up easy.”

Anne-Marie supplied the logical solution. “Why not store the gold downstairs?” She glanced at Quincy, aware he wasn’t comfortable with the idea of going into the basement again.

Quincy had two words. “No. Way.”

“Think about it, Quincy. What better way to assure that the gold will be safe? No one but us knows the room’s there, and even if those outlaws find us, they know nothing about that room.”

“That outlaws aren’t going to find us,” Quincy stated.

“They might.”

Quincy shook his head. “Cortes isn’t smart enough to blow his nose on a hanky. I’ll wager he’s given up and gone home.”

“I wouldn’t be so certain about that.” Creed got up to stretch, still favoring his wound.

“Are you siding with her?”

“Yes, because she’s right, Quince. That gold isn’t safe where it is.”

“Now look, you two. Do you understand the meaning of
fear
? I’m not just afraid; I get paralyzed in dark, cramped spaces. Can’t get my limbs to move. Creed can’t carry the gold to the cellar; he’s still babying that leg. So who does that leave to move the gold down there? John Quincy Adams, that’s who. I’m not going near that room, so don’t ask. Someday I would like to settle down, marry me a fine woman and have sons and daughters. If I stay with you, the prospect is looking less likely every hour.”

“If a light were on it wouldn’t be dark.” Anne-Marie tried to make the task more tolerable. “I’ll find a larger candle… ”

Quincy wasn’t buying it. He set his jaw, crossed his arms and stared at her.

Sighing, Anne-Marie got up to stir the fire.

When the silence lengthened, Quincy grew more vocal. “I know what you’re doing; you two don’t fool me. You’re trying to make me feel guilty about not doing my share to get us out of this, but you are wasting your time. Period. That gold is fine right where it sits. There
hasn’t been a sign of those outlaws for days, so you might as well get it through your thick skulls I am not going back to that cellar.”

Creed calmly turned to Anne-Marie. “Do you have any more robin poems?”

She frowned. “Really? You didn’t think the other one was awful?”

“Pretty awful, but I’ll listen to another one.”

“No. I think I’d rather just sit and think.”

Silence stretched. Creed lay back, closing his eyes. Night birds called back and forth in the courtyard.

“You’re not going to shame me into that cellar,” Quincy said. “I’m not going in that dark hole again. It isn’t like the gold is in any danger.”

Moving back to the pallet, Anne-Marie sat down, gathering the hem of her skirt between her legs. Loosing the pins from her hair, she absently ran her fingers through the thick mass.

A slow awareness crept over Creed as he studied her movements beneath hooded lids. Candlelight caught the fiery silk highlights and he wanted to run his fingers through the thick layers, draw in her sweet feminine scent. His gaze moved to her mouth and lingered.

When she absently glanced up and caught him staring, color filled her cheeks and she quickly looked away. He was waiting when she lifted her eyes again and their gazes touched. What would she feel like held tight against his chest, listening to his heart’s erratic thump? Berry Woman was nothing more in his mind than a young girl; Anne-Marie was a woman.

“Oh, all right!” Quincy shoved back. “You’re not going to let up until I move that blasted gold.”

Startled, Creed broke eye contact with Anne-Marie. Quincy stalked to the door, jerked it open, and left.

Glancing back to Anne-Marie, he frowned. “What got into him?”

Shrugging, she got slowly to her feet. “He must have changed his mind about moving the gold. He’ll need my help.”

Before Creed could argue, she followed. Quincy was still grousing. “I have lost my mind. I swore I would never go back into that cellar,
but here I go, like the numbskull that I am. They got a place for men like me, insane asylum… wouldn’t be surprised if they already had my name on the door ’cause that’s sure where I’ll be heading when this little farce is over… ”

Fourteen

S
heriff Ferris Goodman sat across the table from Loyal Streeter in the Gilded Dove saloon. The men had kept company for over an hour, and Loyal was getting restless. He kept toying with his glass, sending nervous looks toward the door.

“Relax, Loyal. Cortes is gonna show up any minute now.”

“Where is that buffoon?”

“We’re gonna get the gold back,” Ferris assured the councilman. “The job’s just takin’ a little longer than expected.”

Loyal tossed down another drink. “It’s like the earth opened and swallowed that Indian, black, and woman alive.”

“There’s an Apache camp the other side of Brittlebranch. Fifty or so tepees.”

“You think they went there?” Streeter blanched, and then shook his head. “Cortes ain’t got the guts to confront a band of Apaches. The man is crazy, but not that crazy. Those outlaws would be nuts to mess with an Apache—unless the Crow’s in cahoots with the chief.”

“Well, you never know. If the Indian’s desperate enough, and I’d
say right about now he is, he might try anything to hold on to that gold shipment.”

“Maybe—but I’m still puzzled about what part the black has in this. And what about the nun? Why is she with them? Seems real strange she’d be in such company. You think she’s a captive?”

Loyal signaled to the bartender for another refill. “I don’t know, but you can bet your life the Indian’s not worried about the black or the woman right now. He’s looking after his own self.”

Ferris frowned. “Them redskins are smart—and wily. Suppose the Crow knows something about that gold? It was plain bad timing that we moved the shipment when we did. I should have been more careful.”

Shrugging, Loyal tossed down another drink. Shoving the glass aside, his gaze focused on the empty glass. “Nah, those three couldn’t have known about the gold. No one knew about it other than me and the officials.”

“Dirty agent?”