Bride of the Shining Mountains (The St. Claire Men) Read Free Page B

company, I ’spose I’d better get
movin’,” a voice said, issuing from the far side of the fire; its owner
remained just beyond Reagan’s field of vision.
    “I thought you lost your cache to Dan Wilhelm last night,” the
handsome stranger replied. “I believe that ‘picked clean’ was the term you used
to describe the state of your finances.”
    “For your information, I’m not intent on a poker game. I thought
I’d amble on over and watch the festivities. Watchin’ don’t cost nothin’, and
Tom Bridger’s waitin’ my arrival with a jug of Monongahela whiskey. You feel
like comin’ along? It’s better than brooding, and you know what a social
butterfly Tom is. Why, he’ll be plumb crushed if you don’t put in an
appearance, this bein’ your last night here and all.”
    “Somehow I think he’ll survive the disappointment,” the man in the
lean-to said dryly. “Besides, I still have to straighten things out with Frank
Levie. I’ve tried twice to meet with him, with no success. The way he’s acting,
one might think he was avoiding me.”
    “Think you can convince him to stay?”
    The dark-haired stranger shrugged. “I have to try. Navarre’s
depending upon me, and if Frank goes, half of Broussard’s Yellowstone trappers
go with him.”
    The unseen man whistled low. “That could mean substantial losses
for the company. How do you intend to handle it, Jackson?”
    Reagan watched as her host slipped into a fringed buckskin shirt,
which he belted at the waist. Jackson . .
. Funny, but he didn’t strike her as a Jackson.
The name Jackson triggered images of iron gray hair and stern features in
Reagan’s mind, not the exotic specimen standing before her.
    “Frank has always been a company man,” Jackson said, “loyal to
Papa and Clay, if not to me. I fully intend to appeal to that loyalty, and if
that fails, I’ll do whatever I must to finish the task so that I can leave here
tomorrow.”
    “Sure wish you’d rethink this thing, Jackson. Saint Louis has a
decidedly unhealthy air about it just now, especially where you’re concerned.
Why not stay on awhile? You’d be more than welcome at winter quarters, and when
you return in the spring, things will have cooled down considerably.”
    Jackson just snorted. “You’re sounding suspiciously like Uncle
Navarre.”
    “Aye, damn it, and if you had a brain in your head, you’d listen.”
    “It’s been three months and I can think of nothing else,” Jackson
said. “I need to get back, for Clay’s sake, if not my own. I owe him that
much.”
    “And your father?”
    Jackson’s head came up. “What about him?”
    “You going to try to mend the rift between you?”
    At the mention of his sire, a tic worked furiously in Jackson’s
ruined cheek. “It isn’t a rift--it’s a chasm. Clay was the only thing holding
the family together. Now that he’s dead, there’s nothing left to mend.”
    “I expect I’ve said all I’m liable to say on the subject,”
Jackson’s companion replied. “Think I’ll go find Tom. I could use that whiskey
right about now.”
    The other man departed.
    As Jackson turned away to rifle through his saddle packs, Reagan
realized that the time had come to slip silently away. Turning just slightly,
she tested the hide wall, judging its tautness, tugging against the stakes
that held it, grimacing at the soft, almost imperceptible ripple of sound it
gave off.
    Behind her, her host paused in his rooting. “Josephine, ma petite chat,” he said,
“is that you?”
    Reagan eased the edge of the wall upward and, clamping her hat to
her head with one hand, wriggled her way under the barrier, feet foremost. She
was halfway out and already figuring what to do next when something cold and
wet nuzzled the sensitive skin on the back of her wrist.
    A snuffling sound issued from close at hand, followed by a throaty
growl that raised the fine hairs at her nape. At the same time, something
tugged at the roasted meat still