The Enchantment (7 page)

' 'I don't have the money."

Her mouth gaped. "What?"

"I don't have the—"

"I heard what you said," she said through gritted teeth. "Explain it."

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"I don't think there's any call to be rude—"

' 'Explain where my money is. Now!" Emma banged her fists on the desk and lurched to her feet. Her eyes narrowed to angry slits as she stared down at him.

He shrugged, clearly impressed by her anger. "My colleague, Dr. Henry Stanton at the University of New Mexico, kindly offered to outfit me for the journey to Cibola. I sent him the money more than thirty days ago. I only kept enough for train fare and traveling expenses."

"Let me understand this," she said slowly. "You gave all my money to a professor in New Mexico who kindly offered to spend it for you?"

"That's right."

"Digby, your ineptitude would be funny if it weren't so damned ..." Her voice trembled, and she clamped her lips together.

So damned serious. Her mind finished the paralyzing sentence. God, what would she do now? She squeezed her eyes shut to block out the terrifying images jockeying for position in her mind. She didn't even have a place to sleep tonight.

Digby rose slowly and leaned forward. Emma felt the soft intake of his breath against her cheek. It was warm, and strangely reassuring.

She slowly opened her eyes and found herself staring into his compelling green gaze. Her throat went dry.

There was something in his eyes she couldn't fathom, something that made her uncomfortable. It was as if he could see right through her angry, ice-hard facade to the scared woman within.

She opened her mouth to yell at him.

Before she could utter a word, his finger touched her parted lips. The sharp tang of homemade soap filled THE ENCHANTMENT

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her nostrils. Her words backed into one another in her throat. She stared at him, stunned into silence.

"You have two choices," he said matter-of-factly. "Be civil or leave."

Emma's hands curled into fists. This was precisely why she hated to be poor. Poverty meant weakness, and weakness meant she had to take garbage like this from idiots.

It took a supreme effort to say her next words in a reasonable tone of voice. She'd rather throw herself in front of the el than apologize. But, unfortunately, she had no choice. "I'm s-s-sorry if I was rude. It's just that I need that money. I can't believe you simply gave

it away."

A good-natured smile transformed his serious expression. "I never claimed to be J. P. Morgan, Miss Hatter. I never claimed—or pretended—to be anything other than a man who thinks he's found a key to a locked door. I'm sorry if you think I shouldn't have given my money to Dr. Stanton. Perhaps you're right. Perhaps not. Either way, the question is moot. I did. If you cared so much about the money, you should have come down here and supervised my spending. As it is ..." He shrugged.

Supervised my spending. The sentence flared like wildfire in her brain. Had he just given her the solution to all her problems?

She proceeded cautiously, afraid to hope. "You gave the money to this Dr. Stanton, to spend as he sees fit,

correct?"

Digby nodded, and Emma felt her excitement jerk up a notch. "So if you got to New Mexico and found that he'd spent it, say . . . unwisely, you'd simply ask for some of it back, correct?"

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He frowned. "I doubt he'd spend it unwisely. He is, after all, an educated man."

God save me. Emma forced a false smile. "Nonetheless, if you did think he'd overspent, you could get some of it back, couldn't you?"

"I suppose so, but—"

"Good," Emma cut in. "When do we leave?"

' 'I have a sleeper train ticket for tonight at . . ." He stopped.

Emma's forced smile melted into the real thing at Dr. Dimwit's discomfort. She almost laughed out loud.

Why, the good doctor looked decidedly ill. Maybe he'd just forget the whole thing right now and wire Dr. Stan-ton for the money. "Dr. Digby," she said in a sugary voice, "is something amiss?"

"Did you say 'we'?"

"Yes, I did. It's my investment. I think I'll just tag along to oversee your spending."

"Are you sure? It's a long, hard journey. An adventure." The last word was more breathed than spoken, as if it were too significant to be said aloud.

Emma stiffened. Adventure. How many times had she heard that ridiculous word from her father? "I'm sure," she answered tightly.

"That's great! We'll have a wonderful time. He jerked open a desk drawer and pulled out a big, leather-bound book. Flipping the book to a dog-eared page, he thumped his forefinger on a cruddy little line drawing of a plant.

Emma's eyes glazed over as he pointed again at the drawing and yapped some more. Thump, babble, thump, babble.

She shook her head in disbelief. The idiot was happy that she was coming along. She should have known.

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' 'What time do we leave?" she demanded suddenly.

He looked up from the book. "The train leaves Grand Central Station at nine o'clock tonight. I hope you can get a ticket."

"I'll get one."

Nodding, he started flipping wildly through the book. "Here, before you go, look at this great picture. ..."

"Sorry, I have to go home and pack."

"Oh." Reluctantly he closed the book.

With a curt nod, Emma pivoted on her heel and marched out of the cramped little office.

"See you at nine o'clock tonight. We'll have a grand adventure," he called out after her.

She exited the stuffy little office and slammed the door shut behind her. The sudden silence was heavenly.

Four days on a train with that? It was unbelievable. She'd be lucky if she didn't kill him by New Mexico.

She'd better not take a weapon. Just in case.

Larence let out his breath slowly, afraid that if he spoke, or moved, or even closed his eyes in relief, the spell would shatter. That Miss Hatter would barrel back into his office and say it had all been a lie.

He waited, his eyes trained on the crystal doorknob. It didn't move. The clock on his desk clicked forward.

Had she really meant it? Was she going with him?

He heard her walk past his open window, and a small smile teased the edges of his mouth at the sharp, no-nonsense rat-a-ta-tat of her heels on the walkway.

She wasn't coming back this way; she was leaving. She'd meant it! Relief spun so hard through Larence's mind that he felt dizzy from the force of it. He returned to the book on his desk, and opened it to page 287. A

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pen-and-ink rendition of a secret door leapt out at him. His fingers shook, his mouth went dry.

For the first time since taking the check from Miss Hatter, Larence felt completely at ease. Unafraid.

Now she'd know it all, just as he knew it. The legend, the people, the countryside would become a part of her, worming its way into her soul as irrevocably as it had wormed into his. She'd never be able to sell her half of the treasures. Never.

No one, not even crabby Miss Hatter, could actually see the treasures and then dismantle them.

His expedition, his dream, was safe.

i

He was almost there. Larence's heart pounded, his palms turned clammy, as he climbed the stairs to Grand Central Station. It was a moment he'd waited and planned and prayed for. The first steps of his very first adventure. If only his grandmother were alive to see him now . . .

You won't make it, Larry. You 're not like other boys. You shouldn 't try to be.

Larence stiffened at the unexpected memory. His step faltered; pain shot through his bad leg and he nearly

stumbled.

You're wrong, he thought fiercely. Maybe you weren't wrong then, but you're wrong now. This time I will be like other men.

This time he wouldn't fail. He was tired of being alone and afraid. It sounded crazy, and he knew it, but somehow this quest was more than just an expedition to find a lost city. It was a quest to find himself.

"Don't let her make you afraid," he said aloud, taking comfort, as he always had, in the sound of his own voice. "You can make it. You can."

Banishing a lifetime of doubt, he hurried up the stairs, 61

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and limped through the open doors into Cornelius Van-derbilt's phenomenal station.

The place was chock-full of travelers. People scurried up and down the wide, cream-colored steps, their muffled footsteps merging into a single, shuffling heartbeat of sound on the hard marble squares. They flowed and ebbed together like dancers. Gas jets in huge, sparkling chandeliers cast glimmering rays of light on the silvery tracks and shiny floor. Overhead, trapped in the small, leaded-glass squares of a domed window, hundreds of stars sparkled like glitter-dust.

Awestruck, he limped down to the crowded concourse below, merging awkwardly into the throng and letting it carry him forward. Several times along the way, he tripped, and just barely kept himself from falling. He didn't care. He would have fallen flat on his face a hundred times before he'd miss one second of this glorious cavalcade of humanity.

A sound reached his ears. A hissing, then a loud, jangled clanging.

Larence surged out of the crowd, dropped his valise down on an empty bench, and hurried out to the platform's edge. The incoming train rattled past him. Cool air whooshed through his hair. Hot steam pelted his cheeks.

The train jerked to a hissing stop, and sat there, steaming, clanging, rattling like a caged animal. The floor shuddered beneath Larence's feet. He leaned slightly forward, breathing in the smoky, humid air, reveling in the flutter-soft feel of it against his face.

His fingers curled around the piece of paper in his hands. The train was here, he had the ticket. Now all he needed was his partner, and the adventure could begin.

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What a time they'd have together. His heart raced as he thought of the wonderful things they'd share, the good times they'd have on the trail.

He scrounged through his bulging pockets until he found his nickel-plated pocket watch and glanced at the time: 8:54.

She should be here by now. Craning his neck to take full advantage of his six-foot frame, he scanned the crowded concourse. It took less than a second to find

her.

She was walking—like she always walked, stiffly— down the stairs, her arms filled to overflowing with luggage.

He waved at her. "Over here, Miss Hatter."

Her lips thinned into the grimmest smile he'd ever seen. He limped toward her.

"Miss Hatter," he said, reaching her side, "it's great to see you again."

"Wonderful," she said through clenched teeth.

"May I help you with your bags?"

Emmaline groaned at the puppy-dog eagerness in his voice. God, she hoped she hadn't made a monumental mistake in coming here. Without bothering to slow down, she shoved three valises at him.

He grabbed them, wobbled precariously, but managed to keep moving. Emma grimaced and hurried ahead, trying to ignore the clomp, step, clomp, step of his gait as he limped along behind her. She stopped at the wooden bench. Digby rammed into her back, throwing her forward. She snapped over the bench's iron side like a rag doll. Her Piccadilly parasol and traveling satchel flew out of her hands.

"Sorry," came Digbyrs half-laughing voice behind her.

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She righted herself slowly, forcing herself to swallow the scathing retort that sprang to her lips.

' 'Here you go, lady," said one of the station attendants as he came up beside her. Her trunk thumped to the floor. Wincing at the sound, Emma clicked open her handbag and burrowed through the wrinkled silk interior for pennies. Pennies. She scowled. The man deserved more. She knew it; he knew it. But it was all she had—and she was damn lucky to have that. She'd had to sell her gold watch to get enough money for traveling expenses, and the fifty dollars she'd gotten for that wouldn't last long. Until she reached New Mexico and retrieved some cash from Dr. Dimwit's buddy, she was pinching every penny.

The attendant's open palm appeared beneath her chin. She plucked a penny from her bag and dropped it in his hand.

"Gee, thanks, lady."

As the disgruntled attendant walked away, Emma's efficient gaze swept the bags piled on the bench.

With some satisfaction she noticed how neatly Digby had stacked them. At least he was good for something.

"Where do I purchase my ticket?" she said without bothering to look at him.

Silence answered her. She turned to look at Digby, and shook her head in disgust. He was too busy ogling her trunk to notice she'd spoken. She sighed. This was going to be the longest trip of her life.

"Digby? Digby?"

Larence was dimly aware that she was talking to—or rather, at—him, but he couldn't wrench his gaze away from her baggage. He shook his head in denial. All these bags and that huge trunk couldn't be hers.

She had to know how they were getting to Cibola.

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A sick feeling crept into his stomach. He had mentioned it, hadn't he?

He decided that with Miss Hatter, it was best to take the bull by the horns—and hope she didn't fling him through the air. "You can't bring all that. Dr. Stan ton—"

"Is an idiot. I need all of these things. Surely you don't expect me to wear the same clothes every evening on the train? Now, where do I purchase a ticket?"

Larence let out a disappointed sigh. This wasn't going as well as he'd expected. He'd hoped the looming excitement of their adventure would soften her tongue. At least a little bit.

She snapped her fingers in front of his face. He jumped in surprise. "Where do I purchase my ticket?" she repeated in the slow, exaggerated tone of voice usually reserved for imbeciles.

He thrust a wadded-up scrap of paper at her. "Here." She frowned. "What is it?"

"Your ticket. I felt it was the least I could do, since it was your money that financed the expedition."