Patricia Potter (48 page)

Quinn forced a smile on his own face now. “Damn it, I’d tell you if I knew anything. If that damned slave of mine is involved, I’d be the first to see him hang. I might anyway, him getting me into this.”

“Then where is he?”

“He should be down in the cargo deck, where he sleeps.”

“He ain’t there. He ain’t anyplace on this boat.”

“Then I’ll pay you to find him.”

“Him instead of the girl,” John mused. “Now that’s an interesting proposition.”

“Kind of like a bribe,” Ted, the brother who had lingered in the background, replied.

“Is that what it is?” John said, like a cat playing with a mouse.

“Hell, no,” Quinn denied. “I just want him back.”

“Mebbe we can get both him and the girl,” Ted said hopefully.

“And mebbe we’re being played for fools,” John answered. “Like we were several months ago.”

Quinn silently cursed himself as he dropped his head wearily. He’d used poor judgment that long-ago evening, inviting the Carrolls for supper and then relieving them of all their money. But something within him had wanted to teach them a lesson, to tweak their noses. He was certainly paying for that error now.

He started to lift his head when he noticed the door behind the Carrolls open very slightly. His hands behind him curled into frustrated balls. Cam. It had to be Cam. The Carrolls must have broken the lock to enter his cabin. They had to be damned good to do it without waking him, but they would have been unable to lock it again.

And Cam was the only man who would ever enter his cabin without warning. That Cam knew something was wrong was evident by the fact that he did not knock. A trickle of sweat ran down Quinn’s back despite the cold chill that had lodged there. Damn Cam to hell. Why hadn’t he done what he was told? Quinn’s entire body tightened with foreboding. But still, he had to do what little he could to help.

Quinn groaned suddenly, falling against the wall. As one of the Carrolls started to grab his shirt again, his feet went out, hitting the man in the chest and sending him against his brother. Then Cam was there, his fists catching the second man in the chest and face and sending him crashing to the floor. The first Carroll recovered quickly, his hand darting for the knife, which had fallen to the floor at Quinn’s kick.

Cam’s foot caught Ted Carroll’s wrist and pressed down on it unmercifully. Quinn heard the crack of bones and Carroll’s scream just before Cam’s hand smashed the man’s mouth, knocking him unconscious. Cam then checked the other man, making sure he too was unconscious. As the head rolled, Cam’s teeth flashed with satisfaction before he picked up the knife and quickly cut Quinn’s bonds.

The sudden release sent a cramp through Quinn’s body, momentarily making it useless, and he gritted his teeth against the debilitating pain. His hands were numb, his wrists bloody, and when he stood he had to spend a moment trying to get feeling back into his limbs. He looked down at the Carrolls and knew it was only a matter of time before half of Kentucky and Illinois were after him.

He looked at Cam. “I thought I told you to stay with Meredith and Lissa.”

Cam shrugged. “I had a feelin’ you were in trouble.”

“Meredith?”

“I told her to wait at the cabin until midmorning. If I wasn’t back by then, they were to go on to Sophie’s and go through the Underground route.”

Quinn winced as he took a step, shrugging aside Cam’s hand. Even though Cam had probably saved him from a prison term, he couldn’t stop the anger boiling in him. It wasn’t an anger he understood, for he and Cam had long had a partnership in which neither was dominant, and Cam was under no obligation to follow his orders. Yet Cam’s sudden appearance made his skin crawl with some terrible premonition, and his mind kept flashing back to Terrence and the sound of the whip cracking against his back. He shook his head to rid it of images he couldn’t control. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” he said roughly.

Quinn gave one last look at the two fallen men and went to the door, opening it quietly. “They said they sent for the sheriff,” Quinn said. “I think we can expect him at any time.”

“Should we tie them up?”

“No time,” Quinn said.

Cam nodded, following Quinn as he darted out and made his way to the main cargo deck. As they started for the gangplank, they heard the sound of horses and saw five men approach the
Lucky Lady.
Quinn and Cam ducked behind crates and made for the back of the boat.

“There they are!”

Quinn heard the shout and looked up. One of the Carrolls was on the top deck, looking down, his gun pointed at them. On the wharf more men were gathering.

“We have to go into the water,” he said to Cam, who quickly nodded. They ran along the deck, their speed increasing as they heard the sounds of pursuers around them, now on both their own deck and above.

There was the sound of a pistol shot, and Quinn felt it speed by him, striking a lantern and spilling oil. He and Cam kept running. There was another shot, like the crack of a whip, and Quinn felt Cam falter, then heard his brief cry. He grabbed Cam and together they went off the side of the
Lucky Lady,
hitting the freezing water as another shout went up. They went down, the water trying to tear them apart, but Quinn wouldn’t let go as he struggled against the current. They finally came up, and Cam was a dead weight in his arms. Gasping for breath, Quinn looked around and discovered they had already been swept beyond the lights of the river-boat. He could see flames on the deck, and increasingly small figures turn their attention from him to fight the blaze. If the fire spread, not only the riverboat would be destroyed but much of the wharf also.

Quinn felt regret for the
Lucky Lady.
But he realized that the fire would give them valuable time to escape. He took one last look. There was still a figure on the top deck, his gun extended as his gaze swept the dark shadows of the river. If no one else came after them, Quinn knew the Carrolls would.

“Cam,” he whispered, but there was no answer. Cam’s body was motionless except for the movements caused by the river. How badly was he hurt? Deep chilling despair filled him. Not again. Dear Christ, not again. Death followed him like a shadow, falling on everyone he cared about. The echo of that last shot reverberated in his ears, like the sound of the whip had for so many years.

His body was freezing in the icy water, but his heart pounded as loudly and harshly as a hammer against iron. His arm tightened around Cam and he allowed the current to take them farther downstream, his legs moving in steady strokes to keep them above water and heading slowly toward shore. He thought about praying but disregarded it. Prayer had never helped him before. Never helped those he loved. Terrence, who died under the lash for attacking a guard who was beating Quinn. His father and older brother, who died because they wouldn’t leave New Orleans during an epidemic, because they were anxiously awaiting word of him. And now Cam. All of them destroyed trying to help him.

He yelled out against the night, against the river, against darkness, only the cry died in the roar of the river. His legs started to stiffen with cold, and his body once more cramped with fatigue and pain. He thought about letting go, letting the water take him, before he killed anyone else, before he killed Meredith too.

Just then the figure in his arms stirred and moaned softly, and Quinn struggled toward shore. He could no longer see the
Lucky Lady,
nor, thank God, any more flames. Yet he knew that even if the flames had been doused, attention would remain on the boat for a long time. There would be too much danger of a spark igniting again. He and Cam had a chance.

Quinn moved slowly toward the bank, every movement a supreme effort. God, he was tired. His strength was gone, and only determination drove him on, determination that Cam wouldn’t die because of him.

At last his feet found bottom and he dragged Cam to the bank. He turned Cam over so he faced the ground, and water flowed from his mouth as he choked and sputtered. Then Quinn pulled Cam farther inland until they were well under the cover of the trees. Only then did Quinn sink down beside his friend. Cam groaned, and Quinn knew he was still alive.

But for how long?

With fury so deep and so strong that it rejuvenated a body drained of all strength, he leaned over Cam and swore, his every word an anguished cry in the night, a tortured moan that tore from his throat. “Damn you, Cam, damn you. Why did you come? Why?” And he fell over Cam’s form, tears mixing with the muddy river water that dripped from his face.

The harsh breathing of the man next to him startled Quinn into action.

Quinn cursed the darkness as he tried to find the extent of Cam’s injury. He heard the rasping attempts to breathe, felt the movement of Cam’s chest as he gasped for air. Quinn finally found a rip in Cam’s trousers, both front and back. The bullet had gone through his thigh, and Quinn worried that it might have shattered the bone. The impact of Cam’s hitting the water might have also caused a head injury. Quinn had been prepared; Cam, hurt by the bullet, had not.

Drizzle fell from the skies. Shivers ran through Quinn’s body, and he felt the icy skin of Cam.

“Don’t die on me,” he whispered. “Don’t you dare die on me.”

The cold, he knew, was deadly. He had to find them some shelter, some warmth.

How far were they from the shack where he had left Meredith?

It was downriver from Cairo, and they had been carried perhaps a mile by the current. Not nearly close enough. He had to find shelter now, or they both would die. Already he was feeling the drowsiness that came with extreme cold, and he had to fight to keep awake. To give into it, as he wanted to, would mean death.

He looked around. He saw only trees, no sign of light, no indication of any farmer or fisherman. But his eyes caught a path on the ground. A path led somewhere.

He stood and moved along the path. His toe caught a root, sending him sprawling. As he pitched forward, his hand landed on something hard and curved—and hidden by branches.

His fingers skimmed over the find, and he knew instantly it was a rowboat. Because of fugitive slaves, there was a law along the Mississippi that all boats had to be secured. The owner of this one apparently hid his, for as Quinn tossed aside its camouflage, he could find no chain tying it to a tree. He did discover a length of rope attached to one end of the boat, and a paddle and an oilcloth nearby. His luck was changing.

Dragging the boat to the bank, he moved through the trees, mindless of the branches scratching his arms, and the cold eating into him. He only had to carry Cam back to the river; the boat would carry them to the shack.

He put the boat into the water and tied it to a tree. Shivering, he returned to Cam with the oilcloth in hand. The first sign of light was in the sky, but it was a dismal shade of gray, not the bright glimmering of a fresh day. Still, it would help him find the curve in the river that was near the cabin.

Quinn reached Cam and gently shook him. “Cam?”

“Capt’n.” The voice was weak but audible, and Quinn sighed with relief.

“Can you sit?”

Cam’s mouth tightened as he struggled to sit, and his body shook and wavered as he sought to stay upright. Quinn wrapped the oilcloth around him. “I found a boat. Can you make it to the bank?”

Spasms ran through the large man’s body, but he nodded. Quinn held out a hand to him and felt a sudden warmth as their fingers clenched together. Strength, born of desperation and resolve, pulled Cam to his feet, although he looked as if he would fall any second. He tried to stand on his wounded leg but it gave way, and Quinn grabbed him.

Once again, they tried to move, Cam using Quinn as a crutch. The good leg, the one Cam used for balance, was the one wounded, and now both legs were crippled. Cam’s stomach was queasy from too much river water, and his head spun. Even with the oilcloth, he was freezing; every part of his body convulsed with shivers. Only thoughts of Daphne kept him going.

Pretty little Daphne who looked at him so worshipfully. No one had looked at him like that before. No one had made him weep, or laugh with love. He tried to take his mind from the present misery, the physical agony of moving, and instead remember the day on the bank when he had whirled her around, and she had laughed so delightedly. He tried to hear that laughter now rather than the steady drumming of rain on leaves, rain on ground, rain on the oilcloth. He stumbled and felt Quinn’s strong arm. His eyes swung over and met his companion’s. Challenging eyes that wouldn’t let him stop.

Cam wanted to close his eyes, he wanted to stop, but he knew he could not. If he stopped, he would never rise again. One foot moved, and then another as pain ran down his leg like runaway fire. Finally they were at the riverbank. Cam leaned against a tree while Quinn untied the boat. Holding on to the rope with one hand, Quinn stretched out the other to Cam. Cam somehow took the few steps toward Quinn and dropped inside. The boat swayed and tipped, and he feared he would go back into the dark cold water. But it steadied and he lay down at one end, unable to do anything to help Quinn except try to keep the boat still by keeping himself still.

The boat rocked once again as Quinn stepped in, and then it was caught by the current. Quinn took the oars in his hand, and, steadily, they made their way down the fog-shrouded river.