Chapter 8

8

The temptation to look over his shoulder was so strong, Philip had to clench his jaw to keep his chin aimed forward as he rode away from the secluded homestead. The detective inside him writhed at the idea of leaving his quarry behind. He’d found the Radcliffe heiress! Not a shred of doubt clouded his mind on that score. Yet finding her only fulfilled half the mission. Getting her to Houston in one piece was the main objective, and he’d not accomplish that feat without the lady’s cooperation. Giving her the freedom to choose whether or not to accept his escort provided the clearest route to gaining her trust. Too bad it also carried the biggest risk.

She could reject him. Especially if she ignored the letter. Or worse, she could pack up what few belongings she possessed and make a run for it.

Philip reined Steele to a walk as he found his way back to the rutted path that wound through the forest, heading back toward Queen City. He scanned the area for a place where he could keep watch for the station agent’s wagon without being seen. Spying a stream, he followed it around a bend and dismounted.

“This is a good spot.” He patted Steele’s neck. “Plenty of water. A bit of grass. Go ahead and get comfortable. Don’t know how long this will take.”

He reached for the canteen attached to his saddle and drank in a healthy gulp before tying the flask back down. Then he opened his saddlebag and pulled out his field glasses. He walked around to the front of his horse and gave the command for him to stand, then dropped the reins to ground tie him. Steele might move about a little to take a drink at the stream or nibble on some grass, but he’d not wander off. Even if Philip’s reconnaissance lasted multiple hours. Which it might.

He had no idea how long the doctor’s visit would last, but he was pretty sure the girl wouldn’t make a move until she knew how her grandmother fared. Hopefully, her curiosity would get the better of her while she waited for the men to leave, and she’d read the letter of introduction her mother had written. Would Miss Radcliffe recognize her mother’s handwriting after all these years? Or would she assume it was some kind of trick perpetuated by her uncle?

Philip found a place to sit where he could lean against a wide tree. With the trunk blocking him from the west, he’d be invisible from those traveling east on the road, but once they passed, he’d gain a clear view of them. Hopefully, his field glasses would allow him to peer into the wagon and determine if they carried a pair of stowaways in the bed. If he found no evidence of the women, he’d circle back to the cabin for a little surveillance. Make sure little Miss Radcliffe didn’t scurry away under cover of darkness.

Her wolf might make spying a bit tricky, though. Did he roam the woods at night or stay close to the cabin? Hopefully, he was more pet than wild and wouldn’t be prowling the woods tonight.

What kind of woman kept a pet wolf anyway? A grin tugged on the corner of his mouth as he pictured her in his mind’s eye. A feisty one, apparently. She’d stood among the pines with a strength that mimicked the trees around her. Legs braced for battle. Ferocity shooting from her gaze. Knife wielded with the confidence of one who knew how to use it. Loyal beast snarling at her side. She’d made quite the imposing figure. One that had caused him a momentary lapse of wits.

He’d known she was nearly twenty-one, but for some reason—perhaps because Mrs. Radcliffe had spoken of her daughter more as the child she remembered than a woman grown—he’d been expecting to encounter a sheltered, innocent miss like the one he’d beheld in the last photograph, not a grown woman brimming with courage, intelligence, and determination. She’d stolen his breath. The photographs had prepared him to meet a pretty young girl, not a stunning woman. The sepia-toned images had utterly failed to capture her vibrancy. Especially that hair. Deep auburn. Like burnished copper. Her hood had hidden most of it from view, but the wind had caught a thick lock and blown it about. When a stream of sunlight found it, hair he’d thought to be brown from a distance turned into a deep mahogany.

Philip frowned as he dug out a rock from under his hip and made his seat more comfortable. He’d had no business talking to her. Not today of all days with her grandmother ill. He’d simply meant to scout the area and confirm that the woman of the woods was in fact Scarlett Radcliffe. Even with the urgency of his mission pressing down on him, he’d known better than to approach his target while she was experiencing what had to be a personal crisis. She might be losing the only human connection she had in the world. The fear and uncertainty brought on by such an occurrence would naturally heighten her suspicion of strangers. The timing could not have been worse. Yet when that wolf of hers caught his scent, he’d been left with no choice but to reveal himself.

He prayed she’d read the letter. Everything hinged on her willingness to trust him.

****

Letty sat at the base of her lookout tree, her attention back on the cabin and her grandmother where it belonged. She draped the stranger’s coat over her lap and began to rummage through the pockets. One by one, she laid out each item she found in a semicircle on the ground around her folded legs. Not many clues for untangling the stranger’s identity. A handful of loose change totaling a dollar and thirty-five cents. A white cotton handkerchief, free of any adornment. A bit of jerky wrapped in brown paper, making her think he was a man who spent a lot of time in the saddle. A leather wallet carrying an odd set of slender metal tools. A small pocket New Testament, its leather cover worn along the spine and pages crinkled enough to testify to regular use.

Then, of course, there was the letter. Housed in a plain white envelope with no name or address to identify its intended recipient. The stranger had insisted it belonged to her, yet she’d made a point to empty every other pocket before finally slipping it free of the pocket in the coat’s lining. Setting the coat aside, she placed the letter in her lap and smoothed a hand over it. Her heart pounded in an odd mix of anticipation and dread.

There could be only one explanation for how a man she’d never met was certain that this letter belonged to her. He must have seen the photographs Grandmother had sent. The ones Mother took to the judge to keep Uncle Drake from claiming Letty’s inheritance.

Every year, a photographer friend of Mr. Darby came to town and took her photograph down by the bayou. No names were exchanged, and Grandmother paid him handsomely for his willingness not to ask questions. She also paid for the glass negative, so she could ensure no proof remained behind for anyone to discover. If the man who belonged to this coat had seen the photographs, he must have been sent by her uncle.

So why hadn’t he snatched her up on the spot? He could have easily overpowered her. Rusty might have made him leery, but the stranger had been wearing a gun. He could have dispatched her canine guard with one shot and her with a second. Uncle Drake wanted her dead, after all. Dragging a corpse back to Houston would be easier than transporting a live captive. Just toss her in a pine box and put her on a train. So why hadn’t he?

She reached for the New Testament lying in the pine needles beside her and stroked her fingers down the front of the cover. Was this why he hadn’t killed her? Was he a man of morality? A man who feared God more than his employer? But if he was a godly man, why would he work for a scoundrel like Drake Radcliffe?

Letty rubbed her temple. All these questions on top of her worry over Grandmother’s health were making her head throb. Rusty rubbed his head against her arm as if he sensed her need for a friend. She stroked his ears for a minute, then turned her attention back to the envelope.

Could she trust what was written inside? The man had obviously wanted her to read it. Was it a deception or a way for her to discover the truth?

For pity’s sake. Why was she letting a simple piece of paper intimidate her so? She’d faced down a pair of interloping loggers with guns. Found her way to town and fetched Mr. Darby. She could be decisive when called upon.

But could she be discerning?

Living a sequestered life left her with no experience to draw upon when it came to deciphering a person’s motives. How many times had Grandmother warned that unscrupulous people would try to take advantage of her once she returned to society? People would hide their true colors behind honeyed words in order to win her trust. Was that what this stranger was trying to do?

Letty’s hand trembled slightly as she reached for the letter that her gut told her would change the course of her life—whether for good or ill.

You promise to give wisdom to those who ask in faith. My faith in you is strong, Lord, but my faith in my ability to understand you is weak. Help me discern what is true.

She collected the envelope and slowly tore the edge off the end. If she took her place as her father’s heir, she’d need to learn how to decipher truth from fiction, wisdom from folly. The only way to do that was to dive into the murky waters of ambiguity herself and gain some experience.

Turning the envelope on end, she bowed the sides and slid the letter free. She steadied herself with a deep breath, then unfolded the page and began to read.

Dear Mother and my most precious Scarlett,

Letty’s chest squeezed. Mama?

She studied the handwriting, searching for something familiar. They had so few things with them that her mother had penned. A handful of letters she had written to Grandmother after her marriage. A recipe for Letty’s favorite strawberry cake. A note written inside the cover of her favorite storybook expressing how much her mama loved her and how she would be counting the days until they saw each other again.

The penmanship looked the same. It felt the same. Yet she wouldn’t simply accept it at face value. It could be a forgery. Or Mama could have been forced to write it under duress. Grandmother had warned her of Uncle Drake’s penchant for treachery.

But, oh, how she hungered to feast on her mother’s words. Her eyes returned to the first line and began again.

Dear Mother and my most precious Scarlett,

I pray this letter reaches you before you mail your final packet. The two of you are in danger of being discovered. Drake intercepted the courier who delivered one of your parcels. While the men he hired were unable to find you three years ago, I fear that if he manages to intercept your final message, he’ll find you, and all of this horrible separation will have been for naught.

That is why I have hired a man of my own, a Pinkerton detective who comes highly recommended for his loyalty and integrity. His name is Philip Carmichael, and I plead with you to trust him. He has vowed to bring Scarlett home to me. Stefan and I have a plan in place to protect her by removing Drake’s power to inherit. My prayer is that once he has no more to gain from her death, he will cease his hunt and turn his scheming in another direction.

He grows more desperate every year. More obsessed with claiming Lowell’s fortune for himself. I believe he has men watching my home. More than once I’ve caught glimpses of strangers lurking in the shadows. I don’t fear for myself, though. I fear for my darling Letty.

The nickname her mother had given her jumped off the page and straight into Letty’s heart. Oh, Mama. The words began to swim on the page as tears misted her eyes and blurred her vision. Letty rubbed them away with a harsh swipe of her sleeve, too desperate to read more of her mother’s words. A forger would not have known to call her Letty—a pet name her mother had only ever used in private. That was why Grandmother had allowed her to keep it when they created their aliases.

My sweet girl—I pray you are well. How I’ve missed you these last years! I cannot wait to see you again, to wrap my arms around you, and to marvel at the amazing woman you’ve become. I love you with an undying love, Letty. A love that no amount of distance can dim.

Mother—Your dedication to Letty is the hope that has kept me sane all these years. No one but you could have been trusted to raise my daughter. I know firsthand what a wonderful mother you are. If I can live with half your selflessness and devotion, I will deem my life a success. I love you, Mama.

I’ve given Mr. Carmichael documentation that will prove he is in my employ. I implore you to listen to what he has to say. I trust him. I pray you will, too.

Leah

Letty lifted the empty envelope and peered inside, searching for the documents that her mother had promised, but there was nothing there. He must still have them. This Philip Carmichael person.

A horse whinny had her lurching to her feet and reaching for her knife. Only it wasn’t the Pinkerton returning to the scene, it was Mr. Darby checking on his wagon and team. Letty released her grip on the weapon and took a few steps toward the cabin. The station agent glanced up, his gaze raking the trees. Looking for her. The doctor might decide to join him outside at any time, so she maintained her cover, but she whistled high and sharp to let Mr. Darby know she was near. His face swiveled toward the sound, then his chin dipped in a slow nod.

Did that mean that Grandmother was all right? Please, God, may it be so.

A few minutes later, the doctor exited the cabin, and the two men climbed into the wagon and headed back to town. Her mother’s missive still in hand, Letty collected Mr. Carmichael’s buckskin jacket along with the fallen envelope and other items and waited until the wagon disappeared from view. The moment it rounded the first bend, she sprinted for the cabin, Rusty at her heels.

She slowed as she reached the door and urged Rusty to stay outside, giving him a good rub both to soothe him and to gain some encouragement for herself before she opened the door and stepped inside.

“Grandmother?” She laid the buckskin jacket over the back of Grandmother’s rocking chair and tucked her mother’s letter into her skirt pocket as she moved toward the bedroom.

“In here, darling.”

Letty quickened her step and broke into a grin when she discovered her grandmother sitting up in bed, her reading glasses perched on her nose and her Bible in her lap. Color had returned to her face, and the twinkle Letty so loved shone in her eyes. When Grandmother patted the mattress beside her, Letty didn’t hesitate to take her up on the offer.

“I’m sorry to give you such a scare,” Grandmother said as Letty sat beside her. “It seems my heart is not quite as stubborn as the rest of me.” She chuckled softly, widening Letty’s grin, yet not alleviating her worry.

“Are you all right?”

“I’ll be right as rain in a few days. The doctor gave me some nitroglycerin tablets. He says they’ll help with my chest pain and make it easier for my heart to do its job. I’ve never been one to go in for all the quackery people try to pawn off as medicine, but I have to admit that I feel better after taking this one.”

Letty clasped her grandmother’s hand between both of hers. “Thank goodness. I was so worried.”

“Well, you just put all that worry right out of your head. I’m fine. Doc wants me to take it easy for a few days. That’s all.”

“I’m sure there’s more to it than that, but I’ll not press you on that point just yet.”

Grandmother grinned. “Wise woman.”

The words pricked Letty’s heart. She’d thought to keep the incident with the Pinkerton to herself until the morning. Give her grandmother some time to recover before facing the strain of this new predicament, but something inside prodded her to pull the letter from her pocket.

“What is it, Letty?” Grandmother’s expression sobered. “I can tell something’s weighing on you. Something more than your concern for me.”

Praying she was doing the right thing, she held the letter out to her grandmother. “I met a man in the woods while Mr. Darby and the doctor were in here with you. I sent him away, but he left me this letter. Said he’d be back in the morning. The letter ...” Her voice cracked. “It’s from Mama.”

Grandmother sucked in a breath, then took the paper from Letty’s hand. She unfolded the page and drank in the words like scorched earth drank in the rain.

Finally, she set the letter aside and met Letty’s gaze. Her face showed no sign of deteriorating health. In fact, her eyes brightened as some of her old fire sparked back to life.

“Bring me my writing desk, would you, please? We have much to discuss before Mr. Carmichael returns.”