Steal Me, Sweet Thief Page 10

  The stage depots yielded nothing. Scanning the schedules, Macalester could see why: Geneva would have missed the early departures, and no further ones were scheduled until the afternoon. That left the train and the flatboat.

  Flatboat was what his gut told him. She would want him to think train, but flatboat was really the best. They weren't but a hundred miles from the Mississippi, and two days on the Arkansas could have her on a riverboat to New Orleans as cozy as she pleased.

  The docks yielded the answers he was looking for. Yes, the harbormaster told him, surveying him with a critical eye that told Macalester that the man would remember him when Lennox came calling later. The woman he described had been there, and she had booked passage on a boat due in Pine Bluff, forty miles downriver, around eight that evening. Thanking him, Macalester fished in his pocket for his money, hoping to make an offering designed to help the sharp-eyed man to forget him. It was then he realized that almost all of his money was gone, as well. Cursing God for making women clever, he departed, heading southeast for Pine Bluff, riding hard.

  Chapter Ten

  The Arkansas River was neither wide nor straight, but the boatman guided the craft along her banks like an experienced seamstress working an elaborate pattern. The river had a musty smell to it, but it was a clean smell, a wild smell. Geneva, sitting on her valise along the gunwale in the stern, could almost have enjoyed the idyllic journey along the tree-lined waterway were it not for the uncomfortable accommodations and her nagging worry that Macalester would dog her trail.

  Macalester. She could not think of him without a host of painful and ambivalent emotions. She hated him, surely, for his treachery, and for the fact that he had more than taken advantage of her, both emotionally and physically. His deception was unforgivable. And yet—and yet…

  What harm had he really done? She had burned her own bridges in New York without any assistance from him at all. And Blaine, who supposedly cared for her, would have taken her all the way to London for far less of an excuse than the masquerading outlaw's. Still, she mused, he might have been honest with her. She would not have gone with him willingly, of course, but it would have been nice, for once: a refreshing change, for a man to be honest with her.

  But Macalester was an outlaw, and she knew little of the breed. Perhaps he was incapable of being honest.

  The small flatboat was crowded with goods, livestock and passengers bound for Pine Bluff or the Mississippi. The journey of one hundred miles would take two days, she had been told, with the overnight stop in Pine Bluff With grim amusement, she looked about at the assortment of humanity and domestic animals. The facilities on board were as far removed from a first-class train compartment as Arkansas itself was from New York. After two days under these conditions, she promised herself in silence, there would be a hot bath, a laundering of her pink and gray traveling suit and a real bed in a real hotel. Not to mention decent food. She had neglected to ask about provisions on board and had not thought to bring any with her. It was nearly noon now, and her stomach was reminding her, none too gently, that she had not breakfasted that morning: She had been in too much haste to remove herself from Macalester's company.

  A young woman, even younger than herself, wearing a an outrageously cut satin gown of a sunset hue, eventually sat down on her own luggage beside Geneva. She had perfect skin the color of bittersweet chocolate, an absurdly long feather boa that seemed perpetually inconvenient, and a large, overdone piece of millinery with golden plumes standing proudly a foot or more in the air.

  "At least it ain't rainin' " the girl offered by way of a greeting as she adjusted her skirt hem. "I'm Camilla. Camilla Brooks. Most folks call me Brooksie; I guess 'cause I run off at the mouth."

  Geneva nodded to her in acknowledgment, quickly readying a lie.

  "I'm Eve Lyons," she told the girl, who had settled into her place with the easy grace of one accustomed to a variety of circumstances.

  "Eve Lyons," the girl repeated, flashing a smile of white-toothed brilliance. "Well, Eve, I guess you're a schoolteacher. Am I right?"

  Geneva silently blessed the girl for providing the story.

  "Yes," she murmured, smiling tentatively. "Yes, you are."

  Brooksie's own smile broadened triumphantly.

  "I knew. I can always tell. It a gift. My mama had it, too. She used to tell me, 'Chile, it unnatural, how we knows things.' She used to make me get down on my knees with her on that dirt floor and pray to Jesus to take the devil outta us. But I knew it wasn't no devil. It just a gift. Like singin'. I'm a singer, you know," Brooksie went on proudly, nodding her head until the plumes bobbed like huge birds priming for flight. "I got that from my mama, too. I'm gone to New Orleans. Gonna make my way in this world. Yes, ma'am. You gonna teach school at Pine Bluff?"

  Geneva found that she could not help smiling at the woman's breezy, open manner.

  "No," she replied, keeping her voice low in contrast to the other's bold and strident tone. "I'm bound for New Orleans, myself Have you ever been there before?"

  Brooksie stared at her for a moment, then laughed. It was such a joyous sound that Geneva very nearly laughed herself "Me? I ain't never been past my church, till today. You ain't from around here, are you?" Geneva shook her head.

  "I'm from—" She thought for a moment. She did not think it wise to tell too many lies. After all, she might have to recall what she had said at a later time. On the other hand, Geneva had the distinct impression that Camilla Brooks would allow her no rest if she told her she was from New York City.

  "I'm from Albany," she said finally, looking askance at the other passengers. "Albany, New York."

  Was it her overactive imagination, or were those men staring at her, those rough-looking men of undetermined years who dressed as though shoveling manure would be a step up for them in this hard world? She faced Camilla again, whose aspect was much easier on the eyes than anything else on the vessel, including the five shabbily dressed children who were running about shoeless, or in shoes that did not fit, with no stockings. Geneva shuddered. What would these people do, she wondered—Camilla Brooks included—if they knew she had three hundred dollars pressed against her bosom?

  Brooksie was prattling on about something, but Geneva was no longer listening. From the corner of her eye, she could see one of the men approach, wearing a most unpleasant expression upon his granitelike features. His black beard was thin and wiry and looked as though it had encountered neither comb nor scissors since it had begun to grow upon its wearer's chin—and by its length, that was probably a long time ago. Geneva looked away from him, holding her breath, hoping he would move on.

  He did not. He stood before them, planting his heavy, muddy boots firmly. Camilla stopped talking and stared openly at him. She seemed, miraculously, at a loss for words.

  "What's a nigger girl botherin' this lady fer?" His voice was incongruously high and nasal.

  Geneva very nearly laughed, both at the sound of it and with relief that he apparently did not mean to rob her.

  "Oh, go away and mind your own business," she told the man, shooing him off with a wave of her gloved hand. "Nobody's bothering you."

  The man's small mouth opened, creating a dark hole in the beard, and his narrow, pig eyes widened.

  Simple, direct commands, Geneva reminded herself, forcing herself to return his stare blankly.

  "Go on," she urged again, gesturing to the cluster of men on the other side of the boat. They had ceased their cackling conversation and were now, to her dismay, watching the events unfold before them as though they were audience to a failed comedy.

  For a full two minutes there was neither sound nor movement, except for the dipping of the rudder and the gentle slap of waves against the bulkhead. Then the man stared them both up and down, as though memorizing their features for future use. The notion was not comforting.

  To Geneva's astonishment, he turned away and sauntered back to his contingent in a heavy, shuffling step. Geneva said nothing b
ut remembered to draw a breath, unable to take her eyes from the taciturn party of men across the deck. Camilla Brooks, too, was silent, as though the man had taken her tongue back with him as a prize.

  "There gonna be trouble, sure," the dark-skinned woman said under her breath, and indeed, Geneva could not even be certain she had been meant to hear it. She felt a sudden chill and drew her cloak more tightly about herself, although the afternoon breeze was not cold. She wished, unexpectedly, for the imposing presence of Macalester, remembering his tidy treatment of the drunken Blame Atherton outside of her suite at the Biltmore. She reproved herself immediately for such a foolish fancy: Macalester, when he awoke, would have no reason to want to protect her from the likes of these ignorant and loutish men.

  Beside her, Camilla gasped. Geneva looked up to see the five men approaching them, their thin, oatmeal faces grim. The grisly quintet stood before her and Camilla for a minute, staring. Geneva resisted an urge to place her hands over her blouse where the three hundred dollars nestled snugly between her breasts.

  Before she knew quite what was happening, the men seized her and Camilla Brooks and lifted them over the gunwale, dropping them unceremoniously over the side, in spite of their cries of protest, into the dark, slow waters of the Arkansas River.

  Geneva bobbed to the surface after a few awful swallows of river water. Its smell was not unpleasant, but its flavor was ghastly. She coughed and sputtered for breath. The river pulled at her clothing, and she discovered quickly that movement was difficult. Surprise and dismay gave way in a moment to indignation.

  "How dare—come back and—oh—"

  She saw the boatman cast a backward glance over his shoulder and return to his task, apparently with no intention of assisting. The five men who had executed the unscheduled dunking stood silent and still, like paid mourners at a funeral. The other passengers had already begun rifling the women's belongings, which the men had not bothered to send overboard. Camilla's hat, plumes incredibly untouched, floated along behind the boat like a frigate in full sail, swirling gaily in the wake.

  Camilla!

  Treading water, Geneva looked about for any sign of her talkative new friend. A few feet away, the water churned, and she caught a glimpse of flaming orange tinted with brown just below the surface. The younger woman was struggling for air. Clumsily, Geneva reached down into the water for her and missed. Fighting a sense of panic, she stripped off her ruined jacket and skirt underwater. She was able to move more easily then, but she sensed she would tire quickly.

  Taking a deep breath, she tried again, diving into the dark water. This time, blind, she seized a handful of saturated satin and came up for air. Camilla's dark head appeared beside her, and she coughed, struggling in Geneva's grip.

  "Be still; I've got you." Geneva panted, hooking her elbow beneath the other's chin. Miraculously, Camilla did stop thrashing. "We ain't gonna die in this muddy old river," Camilla managed to say. "We too young."

  Inspired by her spirit, Geneva found a reserve of strength. She wanted to answer her friend to reassure her, but she suspected she would need all of her resources to get them both to the river's bank, some twenty feet away. Camilla talked for her, encouraging and praying aloud as Geneva's aching limbs and throbbing chest worked inexorably to draw them to the shore.

  At last her shoes touched the slick bottom. She had come but half a dozen yards; still it had seemed a mile. Struggling against the soaked remnants of her clothing, she pulled Camilla in behind her. The other woman gained her footing and in turn took Geneva by the arm, pulling her along as she negotiated the muddy bank. Geneva's knees gave out at last as her ruined boots touched dry land and she collapsed to the ground, certain that she would never move again.

  She lay perfectly still, coughing up river water occasionally. Camilla had dropped down beside her in like circumstance, and they remained thus for a long time.

  It seemed hours to Geneva, who ached so in her limbs and in her chest that she could not even cry. The sun was westering, and they were in the shade of oaks and cottonwoods whose leaves were just beginning to fade.

  It was getting cooler. By nightfall, when they should have been comfortable in an inn at Pine Bluff, they would be chilled in their damp clothing in the Arkansas woods, unless they could find shelter. Of its own volition, Geneva's hand went to her breast: she breathed a painful sigh of relief The money was still there. She sat up with effort, shivering as a brief breeze blew in from the water. Her blouse and her petticoat, all that remained of her tidy traveling suit, were still wet, and they clung to her like whining, spoiled children.

  "We must be miles from Pine Bluff," she observed presently, her voice faint. "God, I wish I were dry. Come on, Brooksie. We've a long way to go."

  In response, Camilla sat up, brushing her hair out of her face with a muddy satin sleeve. Geneva laughed weakly at the sight, although it pained her to do so.

  "You're a picture," she told her companion, who was streaked over every inch of her once-grand dress with brown river mud.

  "At least I'm still wearin' my clothes," the other retorted, gesturing to Geneva's dishabille. "We can't take you no place decent, gal. That's sure."

  Geneva looked down at herself, grimly assessing the damage wrought by their ordeal. Her fine silk blouse, once the color of fresh cream, was now a translucent gray-brown and bunched about her hips like a shift. Her petticoat, stained the same color, barely reached the tops of her soaked and soiled boots. She could feel her hair pulling loose from its pins, and she knew there were traces of mud on her face and neck as well.

  "That won't be much of a liability, for the time being," Geneva grumbled, "since there aren't any decent places in these woods. Anyway, there's no help for it."

  She stood up and extended her arm to Camilla, who accepted it although she did not seem to need any assistance. The dark-skinned woman held onto her hand for a moment, until Geneva, startled, met her gaze.

  "You saved my life," Camilla stated, her sable eyes thoughtful, her pretty mouth unsmiling. Geneva shook her head.

  "We saved each other, I guess." She shrugged, feeling a little uncomfortable under the other woman's unabashedly admiring gaze. "You talked me to the shore. I couldn't have made it without that."

  Camilla smiled.

  "Then it was Jesus," she pronounced. "That was my mama's special prayer. I ain't never knowed it to fail."

  Jesus, Mama or Camilla, it made no difference to Geneva. She was there, in one piece. She was wet, and she was cold and hungry, and she had a long way to trudge in wet boots, but she had money, and she had her life. And, it seemed, by accident or Providence, she had made a friend, as well.

  The two women followed the river until dark, then they huddled under a tree, trying to keep warm. It was October; the nights, even in southern Arkansas, were cool. Without a fire, and without blankets or even dry clothing, it seemed a body could near freeze to death in the woods at night. Geneva shivered with more than the cold. Could Macalester have trailed her? Would he have made Pine Bluff by this time, and somehow learned of her unscheduled stop? Knowing what she did of the clever and unprincipled outlaw, she believed it to be entirely possible.

  Given her present circumstances, she nearly wished for it. Anything would be better than freezing under a tree in the black night of an Arkansas forest, even if it involved being taken once again into Kieran Macalester's custody. She had escaped from him once; she could do so a second time.

  Beside her, Camilla slept, snoring softly. Geneva envied the younger woman's ability to sleep under these conditions. Every noise, every strange animal sound startled her, and she was certain that a variety of snakes, insects and other unsavory pests were taking up residence in her hair, or in her petticoat. Besides, she was unable to shake the cold. Her whole body ached with the chill. Her feet were freezing inside of the wet boots and her hands were like ice. She tried to sit on them to warm them up, but Camilla lay against her in such a manner as to make it nearly impossible for her t
o move without disturbing her. To make matters worse, her stomach was painfully empty and growled with indignation each time she managed to doze.

  It was the longest night of her life, and it did not end until the sky began to lighten to a pale, misty gray. The fog was wet and cold and did nothing to lift her dismal spirits. She resented, finally, her companion's apparently peaceful slumber, and she awoke her at last with a rough shake.

  "Wake up, Camilla!" she said briskly, and her voice echoed in the trees. "We'd best be on our way. Maybe we'll make Pine Bluff in time for breakfast."

  Camilla stirred and groaned.

  "Don't let's talk about food, until we can eat some," she mumbled, straightening.

  Geneva's back and legs informed her of their displeasure at the night's accommodations as she attempted to stand. She felt as though her limbs had rusted in the damp and cold. She was surprised that they did not squeak as she moved to an upright position. She drew in a breath and sneezed. The sound reverberated through the fog like cannonshot, reminding her, with a jolt, of their lonely and perilous circumstances.

  "Come on, Camilla," she urged again. Suddenly there seemed to be a shadow behind every tree and she wanted, desperately, to be quit of the place.

  The river was nearby. They followed it again, heading southeast, slowly but steadily making their way toward Pine Bluff Camilla's loquaciousness had lapsed to an occasional remark, or a fragment of a song, or an exhortation to the Almighty. Geneva simply trudged along, conversation being more of an effort than she cared to make. Her feet hurt. Her back hurt. Her head hurt. And her heart ached.