Felicia Andrews Read online

  "Is it all gone?" Sarah asked him.

  He turned to her, hesitated, and then, with a light snort, nodded.

  Amanda watched the change: the iron melted, the stiff backbone became jelly, and she crumpled into his arms, sobbing loudly while he stroked her netted hair absently. Amanda looked away, at the walls, the bleak face of the door, the folds of her skirt. She could not stand to see the portrait in front of her, the sight of two such innocent-seeming people crushed so suddenly by the impassive hand of fate.

  "The boys will help," William said abruptly, speaking to no one in particular. "I'm sure they will. They never liked what l was doing, but they'll help us out, get the place going again. It'll be hard. Very hard. I should have listened to Dozois, I suppose. But then, I always thought I knew everything. Nothing would ever happen to me, always the other fella. He's the one that gets the foul luck, not me. I wasn't important enough. I would just go on as always. Just like . . . always. "

  Amanda put her hand firmly on his right shoulder. "William, you know you can count on me to help. I'm . . . I don't know much about your business, but at least you can let me repay your hospitality by . . . " She faltered. She did not know how to say what she was feeling, what she was thinking. She looked to Olivia for help, but the thin, oval-faced woman was too busy studying the backs of William's hands.

  Wilcox sighed again, reached up, and patted her hand gently. "I understand," he said. "My instinct tells me to deny you, but my mind tells me I'm not up to making decisions like that. Not yet, anyway."

  He shifted and raised Sarah's tear-stained face. She attempted a smile, and he kissed her cheek quickly.

  "We'll not starve, of course . I'll have to scramble a bit to fill some of the orders-"

  "Willy," she said then, choking on her sobs, "what will I do?" Her voice rose slowly into a keening wail. "All those lovely things! What will I do? Whatever-"

  "Sarah," he said firmly, though Amanda knew what that firmness cost him, "we will do just as we've always done. Remember that storm in '75? Damn near wiped us out, sinking all those ships. But we pulled in here and there, tightened the belts a notch or two, and came out ahead anyway. We have a name, Sarah. That will count for something now, just as it did then."

  Amanda suddenly felt as though the room had begun to close in around her. Shadows dancing from the hearth fire reached out to strangle her, and she could only spin around on her heels and walk out to the porch, lean against the post, and stare down the road that wandered inland and south toward the city. The air was sharp, the breeze brisk, and she wondered how a man like Wilcox could find the courage he had. From a whimpering, panic-stricken man to one of determination and strength; it was as if, she thought, she had been watching a miraculous transformation, or had missed somehow the substitution of twins. She knew that much of it was for Sarah's benefit, much of it too the kind of people who had come out to this place to settle and prosper. But there was still enough of William Wilcox there to shame her for thinking he was a silly, rather fastidious man who never got his hands dirty when he could get someone else to do the work for him.

  In a rather disturbing way, in that single moment while he talked with his wife, Wilcox reminded her of her father and the strength he had had to keep his steamboat company going when everyone else who claimed great business knowledge was running full tilt for the railroad s.

  She shivered and hugged herself tightly.

  It was obvious, of course, that her stay must end. She could no longer impose herself on the couple, not with the tragedy they'd endured and the battles they had ahead of them. She had a feeling that Harley would volunteer to stay behind for a while, if only for the comfort of his presense, and she had no objections. Perhaps Olivia would accompany her back to Four Aces; in spite of her determination she did not really want to face that long journey alone.

  The door closed behind her. She did not turn.

  "Amanda?"

  Light from the front windows spilled into the darkness and pushed it back. Olivia, a light shawl tossed carelessly over her shoulders, stood so she could be seen, though she did not meet Amanda's questioning gaze. Her soft brown hair was drawn back, as usual, into a snug bun at her nape, and her high forehead and cheeks gave her a constant, querulous expression. She was not the most attractive woman Amanda had ever seen, but she knew that she was devoted entirely to Harley; and it was this devotion that sometimes allowed small piques of jealousy to shine through when Amanda claimed even a minute portion of her husband's loyalties.

  "You know, Amanda, " she said after a moment, "Will and Harley go back a long ways. "

  " I know."

  "I didn't much like him at first, when I first got to know him right after we was married, but he's a real nice man. A gentleman, if you know what I mean."

  Amanda nodded.

  "It's terrible what happened down there. You should have seen it . . . no, I guess not. It wasn't pleasant at all. I hid my eyes most of the time, I couldn't help it. There was one man, he was ridin' by when it started, and some glass caught him. God, Amanda, I can take slaughterin' a sow or a rooster, but seein' a man all chewed up like that . . . " She buried her face in her hands, shuddering, but Amanda made no move toward her. Olivia was too independent and would regret her display of weakness as soon as it was over. "Anyways, Harley-"

  "It's all right," Amanda said gently and smiled knowingly.

  Olivia stared at her dumbly for a moment. "I don't . . . What do you mean?"

  Amanda gave her a little shrug, leaned her back against the porch post, and crossed her arms over her chest. "I was just thinking not two minutes ago that Harley, being the kind of man he is, will probably want to stay here for a while longer. After I leave. In fact," she said, broadening her smile, "I was kind of hoping you would want to ride back with me. But I see that isn't going to be."

  Olivia stepped to her, one hand on her arm. "Amanda, you know I wouldn't want you to travel all that way across those mountains by yourself, but . . . well, I haven't been away from Harley for a single night since the day we was married, and I don't think I could stand it, bein' back there and not knowin' how he was doin' out here." She grimaced at some inner thought. "I don't really like this place, if you want to know the truth. It's too big. "

  Amanda laughed quietly. "And what do you call· Wyoming, Livy? A closet?"

  "No, I don't mean that. There's--"

  "Too many people."

  She nodded quickly, a strand of hair dropping unnoticed over her forehead. Amanda pushed it back with a finger.

  "Well," she said, "it was a thought. I'll ride to the depot tomorrow, or the next day, and be sure my reservations are still good. "

  Olivia's grip tightened. "Amanda, please don't hate me." A child, she thought; after all she's seen, all she's done, she's still a child.

  "I don't," she said.

  Olivia opened her mouth as though she were going to say something else, then pulled the shawl more tightly around her shoulders and ran back inside. Amanda only smiled at the dark. There was more than being away from Harley, she thought, that made the woman want to stay behind. She knew that Olivia Peterson did not want to spend the traveling weeks alone with her, where something might slip about Harley's feelings toward his former employer--or her own disturbing jealousy.

  She looked out toward the sea . . . and frowned. She glanced back at the house. A shadow . . . She could have sworn she had seen a shadow moving across the edge of the cliff. An animal, most likely, she told herself; but her legs carried her unbidden off the porch and onto the grass. It was foolish. It might be a bear or one of those mysterious mountain lions she'd heard stories about, cougars that still prowled through the hills in search of human flesh. She had seen more than one around her own land, but never here. She had doubted the stories from the moment of their telling, but nevertheless she could not help a slight shiver when she left the shadow of the house and stood in the moonlight, staring, straining her senses to pick up something, anything, that wou
ld give her information about what was out there.

  She looked over to the gazebo.

  There it was again. It was not her imagination. Something, or someone, was prowling around the house.

  She considered returning inside and taking Harley back out with her, but her curiosity was too powerful. By the time she could fetch Peterson, the intruder might be gone, and she did not want to lose him. No one, at least as far as she understood, ever took night walks out here; therefore something purposeful was in the wind. Something she had no doubt was connected with the fire that had destroyed the Wilcox offices.

  Though she did not think Harley understood the significance of it when he told her, she had caught immediately the reference to an explosion just before the fire began. It was probably muffled, and Wilcox had already appeared to convince himself it was the sound of the fire breaking through the outer walls. She knew, however, that an investigation would prove the opposite--the fire was no accident. It was arson.

  But whether it was meant to conceal a murder attempt against Wilcox was something she did not know. That, she told herself, was carrying speculation much too far. As it was, she told herself that what had lodged in her mind may only have been an inaccurate case of reportage. After all, Wilcox was faced with the annihilation of his livelihood and his imagination might just as easily have contrived the appearance of a dragon soaring overhead.

  But even if there was an explosion, the fire should not have spread so rapidly. Only two days before there had been a rainfall heavy enough to dampen the most stubborn of woods.

  She shook her head vigorously. Now she was letting herself go too far. While arson was probably not unknown in a place like San Francisco, there could very easily be a hundred other reasons why Wilcox's warehouse had burned-perfectly normal, rational reasons. Reasons that she was unaware of but which existed nonetheless.

  And she did not believe it for a minute. Without proof, she would say nothing, but her senses told her Wilcox was in for more unpleasant news before this was sorted out. Just as her senses cautioned her to move slowly as she approached the latticework gazebo.

  The moon scudded behind silver-rimmed streaks of cloud, and the breeze rustled playfully in the foliage. The distant thunder of the surf broke upon the beach in such endless monotony that it was almost totally unheard. A bird cried out harshly and darted overhead, making her duck; something small startled her as it scrambled through the brush back in the trees. She felt her heart begin to race, her blood tingling along her arms and the back of her neck-signs, all of them, that she was not alone.

  The gazebo was set on a fieldstone base and reached a full fifteen feet in the air, culminating in a solid white dome at the peak of which was a gold sea-gull weather vane moving soundlessly as the wind shifted, its shadow lost in the trees. Amanda glanced up at it once, then placed a boot on the single step that led inside. With one hand on the open framework entrance, she leaned forward. A single bench ran around the perimeter of the inside wall, and in the center of the flooring was a small, circular wrought-iron table and matching fanbacked chairs painted a soft white that now glowed as though afire by the touch of the moon.

  It was empty.

  She glanced around a second time before stepping down again and staring back at the house.

  She was positive it was not her imagination. Someone, not something, was still out here. And her curiosity was heightened by the thought that she could very well be placing herself in danger through her foolhardiness-burnished and tempered, safe than sorry, she thought, and took a step toward the house.

  A twig snapped.

  Instantly she pressed herself against the curving wall of the gazebo and dropped into a half crouch. Her breath caught in her lungs as she moved her head slowly from side to side, waiting for another betrayal to give her the direction. Her eyes were beginning to burn from staring. Briefly, then, she closed them and counted to ten, opened them again and began to sidle around the wall. Moving slowly she tested each step for a stone that might skitter underfoot, a twig or stiff stalk that might crack under her weight. She opened her mouth to breathe through it, feeling the chilled air seemingly coat her lips and teeth with a sheath of brittle ice--silently, imperceptively, until the bulk of the gazebo was between her and the house.

  It was then that the hands grabbed her.

  She kicked out immediately and heard a man's deep and pained grunt, but the hands were strong. They clamped over her mouth and buried into her hair so that she had to draw in a sharp breath at the agony that laced over her head. Then another pair of hands grabbed her ankles, and she was carried into the surrounding trees before she had a chance to cry out, to struggle. It was too swiftly done to be accidental, too silently performed to have been handled by simple brigands or prowlers. She knew she was being abducted by men who had learned their craft through experience, and she did not fight them while being carted unceremoniously through the shrubbery. She would have to save her strength for what she feared was coming.

  They may be experienced, she thought grimly, but so damn it am I.

  Less than five minutes later they stopped in a small clearing. Before she could brace herself, she was dropped to the ground, and the wind exploded from her lungs. Her vision blurred as her head cracked against the hard earth, and her eyes immediately snapped shut when a match was struck in front of her and held close. She felt a weight on her knees--a man. Her arms were pulled over her head and her wrists pinioned to the grass. She licked at her lips, and waited.

  "Damn," a rasping voice said, the man behind her head.

  "Didn't know she was a nigger. "

  "Ain't. " She could feel the heat of the flame close to her cheek. "Redskin. "

  "Worse. They ain't even got the vote. "

  There was a chorus of muffled husky laughter, but Amanda refused to be goaded into fruitless action. The man in front of her was powerful, she could sense it, and the one behind was in a perfect position to see her shifting if she should decide to try something now. She would have to continue to wait. But she would not give them the satisfaction of talking to them first. Let them ask. She would not beg.

  She heard footsteps, then, slow and confident ones that moved toward her from the right. She opened her eyes, but the match had gone low and she could see nothing. Here, even the foliage conspired against her, blocking out the moonlight and giving her the sensation that she was in some unearthly cavern that gave birth to foul wind.

  Another match was struck as the first was tossed to one side, hissing to blackness in the dew-laden grass. The man straddling her legs was stumpy, wearing a stained white shirt beneath an unbuttoned leather vest and black frock coat. A flop-brimmed hat was pushed back on h1s head, and his face was unshaven across cheeks that were puffed, a blunted jawline. His large nose had obviously been broken more than once, and his straggly, oily hair hung down over a forehead that was scabbed with recent scratches. When he saw her gaze and smiled at her, she nearly laughed at the stark contrast of huge, blatantly store-bought teeth.

  Still smiling, he looked away toward the unseen figure in the dark. "Well?"

  The voice that responded was flat, toneless, of such incredible depth that Amanda could not help a tightening of her stomach, a tensing of her thighs. Though her skirt was still bunched at her knees, she felt that she had been raped already.

  "It's her."

  The man behind her, his voice a combination of whine and supplication, hawked and spat. "We get on with it?"

  "Whatever it takes."

  "How long we got?" The question contained a plea for a promise to be kept.

  "Not long. They'll be looking for her. Soon."

  And he was gone.

  A moment's silence, and she realized she was listening to his footsteps retreating into the woodland again. She returned her gaze to the man on her legs, her eyes narrowed, her lips tight. She had relaxed her arms, though her shoulders were beginning to feel the strain, and she tried to push herself slightly upward to reli
eve the dull throbbing-and give herself some leverage.

  "Well, now," the man said, grinning over her head at his companion. "Well, now. What you think we can do in a short time, Spar?"

  The laughter she heard brought bile to her throat.

  "You ain't goin' to cooperate, are you?" the man asked her.

  For a reply she spat at him, the spittle striking him squarely in the center of his chest. Then she winced in expectation of a blow that never came. When she opened her eyes again, he was grinning at her.

  And he said nothing more. He only reached out and yanked her blouse from her waistband, tearing at it until the last four buttons flew into the night. Her stomach, as he held yet another match close, jumped in anticipation, gleaming in the wavering light and making his lips pull back from his teeth.

  "My, Spar, she don't wear no corset things . "

  She could feel Spar shifting his knees in impatience, but forced herself to concentrate on a dead stare at the unnamed man's face. He felt it, did not like it, and snarled as he yanked again and the blouse fell open. Instantly her flesh tightened.