Lost Lady (James River Book 2)

IT WAS NIGHT, ALMOST DAWN THREE DAYS LATER, WHEN Travis jerked his horse to a halt before Margo’s door. It had taken several horses to carry him all the way at the pace he’d demanded of them.

Jumping down, he slammed into her house, knowing exactly where she’d be—in the library, sitting under the portrait of her father.

“It took you a little longer than I expected,” she said cheerfully as she greeted Travis. Her red hair was a mass of tangles about her shoulders, and there was a dark stain on her dressing gown.

“Where is she?”

“Oh, she’s safe,” Margo laughed, holding up an empty whiskey glass. “Go and see for yourself. I rarely harm children. Then come back and join me for a drink.”

Travis took the stairs two at a time. At one point in his life he’d been a frequent visitor to the Jenkins house, and he knew his way around well. Now, searching for his daughter, he took no notice of the bare places on the walls where once a portrait had hung or an empty table where an ornament no longer stood.

He found Jennifer asleep in the bed he’d used when he was a boy. When he picked her up she opened her eyes, smiled, said “Daddy,” and went back to sleep. She and Margo must have traveled all night, as the dust on her face and clothes showed.

Carefully, he put her back down in the bed, kissed her, and went downstairs. It was time he and Margo talked.

Margo didn’t even look up as he crossed the room and poured himself a glass of port. “Why?” she whispered. “Why didn’t you marry me? After all those years we spent together. We rode together, swam naked together, made love. I always thought, and Daddy always thought—.”

Travis’s explosion cut her off. “That’s why!” he shouted. “That goddamned father of yours. There are only two people you ever loved: yourself and Ezra Jenkins.”

He paused to raise his glass in salute to the portrait over the fireplace. “You never saw it, but your father was the meanest, cheapest liar ever created. He’d steal pennies from a slave child. I never cared much what he did, but every day I could see you becoming more like him. Remember when you started charging the weavers for their broken shuttles?”

Margo looked up, a desperate expression on her face. “He wasn’t like that. He was good and kind….”

Travis’s snort stopped her. “He was good to you and no one else.”

“And I would have been good to you,” Margo said, pleading.

“No!” Travis snapped. “You would have hated me because I didn’t cheat and steal from everybody around me. You would have seen that as weakness on my part.”

Margo kept her eyes on her drink. “But why her? Why a skinny little, washed-out English gutter rat? She couldn’t even make a cup of tea.”

“You know she’s no gutter rat, not when you demand fifty thousand dollars ransom of her.” Travis’s eyes began to glaze over as he thought back to that time in England. “You should have seen her when I first saw her—dirty, scared, wearing a torn and ragged nightgown. But talking like the highest-born English lady. Every word, every syllable was so precise. Even crying, she talks like that.”

“You married her because of her damned uppity accent?” Margo spat angrily.

Travis smiled in a distant way. “I married her because of the way she looks at me. She makes me feel ten, no, twenty feet tall. I can do anything when she’s around. And watching her grow has been a joy. She’s changed herself from a frightened little girl into a woman.” His smile broadened. “And she’s all mine.”

Margo’s empty glass flew across the room, shattering on the wall behind Travis’s head. “Do you think I’m going to sit here and listen to your ravings about another woman?”

Travis’s face turned hard. “You don’t have to listen to me at all. I’m going upstairs to get my daughter and take her home.” At the foot of the stairs he turned back toward her. “I know you well. I know it’s because of what your father taught you that you tried this treacherous way of getting what you wanted. Because Jennifer is unharmed, I’m not pressing charges this time. But if you ever again….”

He stopped, his words trailing, and rubbed his eyes. Suddenly he was very sleepy, and as he mounted the stairs he looked like a drunken man.

Shortly after Travis left the inn, a bewildered Regan returned to her apartment. Farrell was waiting for her.

“Regan, please, you’ve got to tell me what’s going on. Has someone harmed your daughter?”

“No,’ she whispered. “I don’t know. I can’t tell.”

“Sit down,” he said, his arm around her, “and tell me everything.”

It didn’t take but minutes before the story was out.

“And Travis left you here to suffer alone?” Farrell asked in astonishment. “You have no idea what is happening about your own daughter but trust him to get her from his ex-mistress?”

“Yes,” she said helplessly. “Travis said—.”

“And since when have you ever let another person run your life? Wouldn’t you rather be with your daughter than here, knowing nothing?”

“Yes!” she said firmly, rising. “Of course I would.”

“Then let’s go. We’ll leave immediately.”

“We?”

“Yes,” Farrell said, taking her hand. “We’re friends, and friends help each other in time of need.”

Only later, as they were in the buggy and headed south toward Travis’s plantation, did Regan realize that she’d told no one where she was going. The thought left her quickly as she was too concerned for her daughter’s safety.

They traveled for hours, the carriage much too slow for Regan’s taste, and once she dozed, her head hitting the side of the buggy. She came awake abruptly when Farrell touched her arm. He was standing on the ground beside her; the carriage had stopped.

“Why are you stopping?” she demanded.

He pulled her from the seat to stand before him. “You need rest, and we need to talk.”

“Talk!” she gasped. “We can talk later, and I don’t need any rest.” She tried to pull away from him, but he held her firmly.

“Regan, do you know how much I love you? Did you know that I was in love with you long ago in England? Your uncle offered me money and I took it, but I would have married you without the incentive of money. You were so sweet and innocent, so very lovely.”

In her distress Regan lost sight of the fact that she was alone with this man in a remote piece of woods.

Astonished, she pulled back from him. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Farrell! What have I ever done to make you think I’m stupid? You never loved me, never have, never will. All you want is my money, which you’re not going to get, so why don’t you be a good sport, go home to your pretty, poor house in England, and leave me alone?”

One minute she was standing, the next she was slammed against the carriage, sliding down, as Farrell’s hand knocked her backward.

“How dare you speak to me like that?” he seethed. “My family comes from kings, while yours are mere merchants. That I have to lower myself to marry a woman like you, who knows more of ledgers than laces, is—.”

While he was speaking, Regan was regaining her wits. Much more important than her own problems with Farrell was her anxiety about her daughter. Still on her knees from the blow, she charged at him, using her head as a battering ram, and caught him directly between the legs.

Farrell doubled over in pain and gave Regan her chance to escape.

One glance at the buggy showed he’d unhitched the horses enough that it would take a long time to be able to use that means of escape. Pulling up her skirts, she started to run back toward the road, just in time to see a dilapidated old wagon disappearing around a curve. It took all her energy to catch the wagon.

An old man, his face bristled with gray whiskers, sat on the seat.

“There’s a man chasing me,” she called up, running with the wagon.

“Should he catch you?” the old man said, obviously amused by the situation.

“He’s trying to force me to marry him—for my money—but I want to marry an American.”

Patriotism won the man over. Without even slowing, he grabbed Regan’s arm and hauled her into the wagon as if she weighed nothing. With another swift motion he pushed her to the back and covered her completely with grain sacks.

Seconds later Farrell appeared on horseback, and Regan held her breath as he shouted at the old man. After pretending he was deaf for some minutes, the old man refused to allow Farrell to search his wagon; he pulled a pistol when Farrell kept insisting. At last the old man reluctantly admitted having seen three men riding by, one with a pretty woman in the saddle in front of him. Farrell took off in a flurry of hoofs and dust.

“You can come out now,” the old man said, grabbing Regan’s arm and pulling her to the seat.

Rubbing her arm, she refrained from asking the man to stop tossing her about like one of his feed sacks. After several ferocious sneezes, she asked if he knew where the Stanford plantation in Virginia was.

“That’s a long way. It’ll take days.”

“Not if we change horses and travel all night. I’ll pay for the horses and any other expenses.”

He seemed to study her for several minutes. “Maybe we could work something out. I’ll get you there in record time if you’ll tell me why that Englishman was chasing you and what you want with Travis, or is it Wesley you’re after?”

“I’ll tell you everything, and Travis is mine.”

“Lady, you got your hands full,” he said, chuckling as he yelled for the horses to start moving. Within seconds they were tearing down the road, and Regan was holding on with both hands, her teeth jarring together constantly. She couldn’t speak or tell any story.

An hour later the man stopped the wagon, got down, and pulled her out after him.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“We’re going by boat,” he said. “I’ll sail you to Travis’s front door.” After a mile hike they came to a little cabin and a dock reaching into a narrow stream of water. The man disappeared into the cabin for a moment and soon returned with a canvas bag. “Let’s go,” he said, shoving her into a boat as worn-out as his wagon had been.

“Now talk,” he said once they were under way.

Days later the man dropped Regan off at the dock of Travis’s plantation, bidding her goodbye and good luck. It was early morning, and the plantation was silent as she ran all the way from the dock to the house.

The door was open, and as she tore up the stairs she prayed Travis and Jennifer would be asleep in one of the rooms. She started throwing open door after door, cursing the house for being so large and causing her to take so much time.

She found him, just his hair showing above the sheet, in the fourth bedroom. “Travis!” she cried, flinging herself at him. “Where’s Jennifer? Is she all right? How could you have left me not knowing and be here sleeping so calmly?” she asked, giving him a good cuff on the ear.

The man who sat up was not Travis. He was very much like him but a smaller version.

“Now what has my brother done?” he asked wearily, rubbing his ear, but as he looked at her he smiled. “You’ve got to be Regan. Let me introduce—.”

“Where are Travis and my daughter?”

Wesley was instantly alert. “Tell me what’s happened.”

“Margo Jenkins kidnapped our daughter, and Travis went after her.”

Before she could answer, Wes threw back the covers, not caring that he was nude, and began to dress.

“I always told Travis that Margo was no good, but he felt he owed her something so he always indulged her. She thinks she can have anything in the world, that it’s hers by right. Come with me,” he said, grabbing her hand and pulling her with him.

“You’re very much like Travis,” she said, gasping at the pain he was causing her wrist and trying to keep up with his long strides.

“There’s no time for insults now,” he said, leaving her at the library door while he loaded two pistols and stuck them in his belt. “Can you ride? No, Travis said you couldn’t. Come on, you can ride in front of me. The two of us together aren’t as heavy as Travis.”

If Regan had time or the inclination, she would have been disgusted with Travis’s little brother. How could there be two men like Travis? And in another year or two Wes was going to be as large as Travis.

“I’m Wesley,” he said as he dropped her into the saddle before mounting behind her.

“Somehow I assumed that,” she said before they took off at a breathless gallop.

At the door to Margo’s house, Wes let her down. “We’ll go in separately. Remember, I’ll be close by you.”

With that he left her, and Regan walked through the front door. It took only moments to find Margo as she sat in the library.

“Just in time,” Margo smiled graciously, but her eyes were red. “You’re the third visitor I’ve had this morning.”

“Where’s my daughter, and where is Travis?” Regan demanded.

“Dear little rich Jennifer is asleep, and so is her beloved father. Of course, Jennifer will wake; Travis will not.”

“What!” Regan yelled. “What have you done to my family?”

“No more than you’ve done to my life. Travis drank enough opium to kill two men. He’s upstairs sleeping until death.”

Regan had reached the doorway when a shot from outside made her stop. Paralyzed, she looked down the hall toward the door. Margo rushed past her and jerked the door open, and Farrell entered, half carrying, half dragging Wesley’s bleeding body.

“I found him lurking around outside,” Farrell said, pushing Wes into a chair, a pistol in his hand.

“What are you doing here?” Regan gasped, going toward Wesley.

“Leave him!” Farrell said, grabbing her shoulder. “Did you think I was going to give up so easily, after all the years I’d been searching for you? No, Margo and I planned all this long ago, while the rest of you were playing with that stupid circus. Wesley here will die of his wounds received in an unfortunate hunting accident. Travis’s body will never be found, and his dear little daughter will inherit everything. I will, of course, marry the little heiress’s mother, who will be so distraught over her husband’s death that she’ll commit suicide. I will then return to England, the sole beneficiary of your estate, and Margo will generously agree to be Jennifer’s guardian and care for the Stanford plantation until she comes of age—if she lives that long. Now do you see why I’m here?”

“You are both mad,” Regan said, backing away from him. “No one will believe so many deaths are accidental.” She turned and started for the stairs at the end of the hall, but Farrell caught her.

“You’re mine now,” he said, advancing toward her, his body stained with Wesley’s blood.

Regan’s hand went out, and she turned over the candelabra on a low table. Immediately, the curtains over a nearby doorway went up in flames. Margo’s scream filled the air as she grabbed a small rug and began beating at the flames.

“Release her,” said a voice from the end of the hall.

“Travis!” Regan cried, fighting to free herself from Farrell. Travis looked horrible, as if he’d just been violently ill.

“I thought you put him out of the way,” Farrell yelled at Margo as she fought the fire.

“It took me a while to get all the opium out of my system,” he said, holding on to the stair banister.

“Stop talking,” Margo screamed, “and help me put out the fire. It’s spreading!”

Farrell tightened his grip on Regan and put the pistol to her head.

Wesley, nearly forgotten and slumped in a chair behind Farrell, used his draining strength to pull a knife from his boot, and with one lunge he plunged it between Farrell’s shoulder blades. The pistol flew upward, fired into the ceiling, and Farrell fell forward.

Regan reacted instantly as she ran toward Travis and the stairs. “Get Wesley,” she commanded. “I’ll get Jennifer.”

Regan found her sleeping daughter quickly, pulled her from the bed, and ran down the stairs in time to meet Travis working hard to get his brother out of the house. Neither man had much strength, and it seemed forever before they were in the fresh, sunlit morning air and out of the smoke-filled house.

Travis gently put Wesley on the grass. “I’ll get horses and a wagon,” he said.

“Travis!” Regan said, touching his arm, her eyes going to the house. A flame leaped out of the first-floor window. “We can’t leave Margo in there to die. She has to come out.”

Travis gave her cheek a quick caress and then ran back to the house. Minutes later he came out, Margo thrown over his shoulder as she kicked and clawed, cursing him vilely.

He dumped her on the ground. “That goddamn house isn’t worth anyone’s life, not even yours,” he said as she glared up at him.

Regan was bent over Wes, binding the gunshot wound in his side.

Travis had barely glanced away from Margo before she leaped up and ran toward the house. “My daddy is in there!” she was screaming.

Travis saw the first flames touch her skirt and knew he could not save her. Quickly, he grabbed his daughter, who was watching everything wide-eyed, and buried her little face in his shoulder.

Within seconds, Margo’s whiskey-soaked dress burst into flame, and Regan turned away as Wes’s arm went around her, pulling her to sob onto his shoulder.

It was a while before any of them could recover. Travis, touching his brother’s forehead in affection, smiled at the man holding his wife. “Take care of my women while I go get a wagon,” he said.

By the time he returned, they were surrounded by plantation workers who stood helplessly by as the house burned. It was too far gone to try to save it. Men were getting the horses out of the nearby stables, and two more men helped Travis put Wes in the back of the wagon. Jennifer sat by her uncle, too tired and dazed to speak.

When Travis and Regan were on the seat, he turned to her. “Shall we go home?”

“Home,” she whispered. “Home is where you are, Travis, and that’s where I want to be.”

He kissed her. “I love you,” he said, “and—.”

“I’m bleeding to death, and you two are courting,” Wesley bellowed from the back.

“Courting!” Travis snorted, clicking to the horses. “Little brother, you don’t even know what courting is. As soon as you’re up to the excitement, I’m going to tell you about the world’s best courtship. Maybe someday you can be half as creative—.” He stopped and narrowed his eyes at Regan, who’d started laughing, and his look of injury made her laugh harder.

“I think I’d rather hear Regan’s side of any of your stories, Travis,” Wesley said, smiling, his eyes closed.

“Home,” Regan said, wiping her eyes. “It’s going to be very good to get home.”

Travis began to smile also as he turned the horses toward the Stanford plantation.