Beneath Brazen Skies - The Oregon Promise, Book 2, Prologue and Chapter 1

 

 

Prologue

***

Lexington, Missouri

For at least thirty minutes, Hoyt Harrington, the drunk at the bar, had been loudly proclaiming his good fortune to have secured the purchase of an Independence mercantile. He was a young man, doughy of build and arrogant in manner, interacting with those around him in a way that screamed of a wealthy upbringing. He’d obviously been raised with plenty of servants to boss around.

Corbin Donahue, sitting at a table in a dim back corner, twisted the whiskey he’d not yet touched. He hadn’t realized this job would be so easy. His mark wouldn’t know what hit him.

Good. Smoother that way.

“Build me an empire, I will!” The drunk yelled, his jowls jiggling with each effort at speech. “Just see if they don’t regret telling me I’d never amount to anything!” He slumped over his drink then and stared into it morosely.

Corbin stood and dropped a few coins onto his table. He tugged his hat low, nudged his coat collar high, and strode over to slide onto the bar stool next to the man. “Hey there, friend.” He kept his tone casual and friendly.

The drunk muttered darkly—something about his father.

“Going to Independence, are you?”

The drunk jerked up straight and blinked slowly, as though just then realizing someone sat so near. But when his bleary search finally focused on Corbin’s face, he apparently found no danger, just as hoped. “Bought me a mark . . . merk . . . mercan . . .” He gave up with a sloppy wave. “A shtore,” he slurred with a sullen nod.

Corbin dropped his hands onto the counter and motioned to the barkeep. “His next round is on me. Make it two.”

The barman eyed him with speculation and curiosity, but Corbin was long used to such perusal, so he just turned his focus back to the young man beside him. “Heading that way myself.” He stretched a palm out to shake the man’s hand. “Name’s Bill Stone.”

Even the man’s handshake felt fleshy. “Hoyt Harrington. I’m gon’ start som’thin’ big.”

“So you’ve said. Say . . .” Corbin leaned back and waited to ask his question until the barman set the two shots in front of them and stepped away. He used the lip of the bar to cover his twisting of the compartmentalized ring to the inside of his hand, then reached to swap the drunk’s nearly empty glass for the new full one. That was all it took to flick open the ring’s top and transfer the arsenic into the cup. He slid it toward the man, but then drew it back sharply, knowing the sloshing of the rye would help the powder slip below the surface of the dark liquid. “When do you take possession of this new store?” It was a moot question. Corbin already knew all the details he needed to know to pull off this job. All that would be left to do would be to slip into Hoyt’s hotel room this evening to procure the necessary paperwork.

The drunk leaned close as though to offer a tightly guarded secret. “Takin’ over tomorrow. Two ’clock.”

“You don’t say!” He clapped young Mr. Harrington on one shoulder. “I’m heading on to Oregon, myself. I have a job I’m about to get paid for, and then I plan to travel west and make my fortune in cattle. I wish you the very best.” Careful to use his left hand and keep his ring far from his own glass, he lifted his whiskey. “To the future.”

Hoyt smiled sleepily, lifted the glass, and downed the drink in one gulp. “Thankee ver’ mussshh.” He smeared one hand over his face and then passed out on the bar. Perfect.

Corbin met his own gaze in the mirror above the back counter. One more job in the books. Once he reached Oregon, he would have all the money he needed to live the high life. He would be an upstanding citizen there—at least perceived as one.

As he stood, he patted the drunk on his back as though they were old friends. He leaned close and whispered into the man’s unhearing ears, “Hope you have a better afterlife, my friend.” The man would be dead inside a week. Certainly too sick to travel by tomorrow. By that time, no one would remember a passing conversation he had with a stranger in a bar.

 

Chapter 1

***

Willow Chancellor stood at the mercantile register, trying to ignore Gideon Riley, who worked to grease one of the hinges for the portion of the counter that could be raised. If only she could get the numbers in her ledger to come into focus, she could maybe forget about how she had made such a fool of herself last year when he’d first come to town—okay, and for a few months after.

But once the man had made it clear he had no interest in her other than as a friend, she’d determined to set him from her mind. She’d put her head down and concentrated on her work—or, at least, she tried to.

For months, she’d hardly spoken to him other than a polite greeting when necessary, and he’d seemed just fine with that, treating her in kind.

She pinched her lips into a tight line and returned her gaze to the top of the column. Some of her addition must be off.

In his defense, much of today’s anxiety had nothing to do with Gideon Riley—none whatsoever. For just this morning, Papa had informed her that he was selling the store, and they would be traveling west with the first of the spring wagon trains to leave Independence! He’d known for months, he’d said, but he hadn’t wanted to burden her with the knowledge until he felt absolutely certain of the undertaking.

She lifted her head and tapped her pencil against her lips. Tears blurred her vision as she swept a look across the store. The corner window provided her earliest memory—Mama and her arranging a new selection of china all the way from England. The basket of eggs nearer to the counter reminded her of the time she had rushed in all aflutter over some accomplishment at school and knocked them to the floor in her twirl of excitement. She’d received a hug from Papa instead of the expected punishment. Here behind the counter she could still envision Mama bending to give her a hug as she’d dashed off to school on the day they’d unexpectedly lost her.

She sighed and rubbed one palm over the smooth boards of the counter. This was the only home she’d ever known!

And now Papa was using words like “certain of the undertaking.” So certain, in fact, that the buyer was due to arrive today.

Hadn’t Papa realized that it would be better for her to have time to reconcile with their departure rather than finding out only hours before the sale of the store? Had he even paused to consider her opinion on the matter? She pressed her fingers into the hollow at the base of her throat, swallowing down pain. And this shredding of her heart was taking place only a couple of weeks before they were to have a wagon packed with all the essentials they might need for the next six months!

On top of all that, the books needed to be properly reconciled for today’s buyer, which she’d been putting off for two months without knowing she would regret that particular bit of procrastination to the utmost. Now, she had an hour or less to reconcile the books before she needed to present the store to one Hoyt Harrington.

“Your problem is here.” Gideon made her jolt as he reached past her on the opposite side from where she’d last seen him to stab a broad, blunt finger at a set of numbers. “Seven and nine is sixteen, not fifteen.”

Of course. Defensiveness rose inside her. She’d been so concentrated on her feelings of loss that she hadn’t heard him approach. Nor felt him reading over her shoulder. “You’re right, of course. I do know that.” Allowing her pique to reflect in her features, she tossed him a glance.

He was wiping grease from his fingers onto a rag, which would explain why he stood on the wrong side of her—the rag bin sat under the counter on the far end.

Gideon lifted his blue eyes to hers. “I know you do for all the arithmetic help you’ve given the boys.”

His reference to his nephew and the son of Mercy Adler, who now courted his former brother-in-law, eased some of her irritation. A reminder of some of the good that would come about because she wouldn’t need to say farewell to those who had become friends over the past few months, for they would travel to Oregon together now. And, well, if she were more glad about not having to say farewell to one man in particular, he would never know about it. Even now, the way he watched her made her heart patter as though she’d just finished a romp with the boys he’d spoken of.

She slid her books farther down the counter and moved to join them, creating more room between herself and Gideon without comment. Putting her eraser to good use, she bent over the book and, once the column was tabulated correctly, stood to arch out the ache in her back.

Gideon remained where she had left him—still watching her. When the silence between them stretched to near its limits, he said, “Your father informs me that he plans to start another store once we reach Oregon. In a few years, you’ll have another place that’s just as near and dear to your heart as this one.”

Not “just as,” but perhaps he was right that a new place would also become dear.

Realization dawning, she narrowed her eyes, plunked her fists to her hips, and pivoted to face him. “And just when did he have time to share this information with you?” After Papa had told her the news, he’d promptly left to meet their buyer as soon as he arrived in town.

A furrow ticked Gideon’s brow.

She stabbed a finger in his direction. “Caught out! How long have you known?”

He seemed solely concentrated on cleaning his fingers again. His teeth worried one side of his lower lip.

Willow sniffed, unexpectedly hurt by the sudden realization that she might just be the hindmost to know of her father’s plans. “Am I the last he told?”

He shook his head. “If it’s any consolation, neither Micah nor Mercy were aware of your father’s plans until I told them this morning—as Wayne asked me to do. Further . . .” His lips pressed into a tight line for a moment before he continued. “I felt he should have told you sooner. You are strong, Willow. Could have handled the knowing. But just as you could have handled it then, that strength will see you through now. And . . .” his gaze seemed to turn even more serious. “If your strength seems uncertain, remember the Lord’s is not.”

Her chin shot higher, more as a precaution against allowing her tears to fall than from any of the other plentiful emotions surging through her. She could not acknowledge his encouragement of her strength, or she would prove him very wrong by collapsing into a puddle to bawl out her lament. Instead, she clarified, “Father asked you to tell them—Micah and Mercy?”

A single nod. “He did.”

She gave a sharp sniff and resumed her focus on the accounting book. “I have to finish this. I don’t have more time to talk now. If you’ll excuse me.”

Despite her words and her vision blurring against numbers that refused to make themselves clear, all her attention lay attuned on the man who didn’t move for the longest of moments.

Finally, from the corner of her eye, she saw him lower his hands and stride toward her, which he would need to do to get out from behind the counter, provided he’d even finished his work on the hinge.

He paused behind her. “Wayne knew that you’d be some upset and didn’t want Mercy and Micah worrying over what troubled you. That was all.”

Despite herself, she spun toward him. “And yet, you’ve known for months!”

She blinked as she realized just how close her spin had brought her to the man. From here, she could see the light glinting in the stubble he hadn’t shaved for the past few days. See that today, the blue of his eyes had drifted nearer to the color of a storm-tormented lake than the vibrant blue of placid waters under cerulean skies.

He didn’t seem perturbed. He only inclined his head. “Yes, I’ve known for months. Because last fall, your father extracted a promise from me that I’d keep you safe if ever anything happened to him.”

“If ever—” A frown tightened her brow. “Why would something happen to him?”

A look of consternation touched Gideon’s face. He raised one hand to scrub his jaw with the back of one thumbnail. “Didn’t he tell you why he’s selling in the first place?”

Willow’s heart began to hammer, and she felt a bit of dampness touch her palms. “Not a word. Only that we are selling and leaving for Oregon.”

Gideon lowered his gaze. “I think it’s best you ask him his reasoning then.” He started past her.

Her hand shot out and clamped on his forearm before she thought better of it. “Gideon Riley, if you know of some danger my father is in, you better tell me this instant.”

Gideon looked to where she held his arm firmly and then inspected her face. Sincerity shone in his eyes when he said, “Willow, this really isn’t my story to tell. But you can rest easy in knowing that neither your father nor I believe him to be in any immediate danger.” He eased his arm from beneath her hand. “I need to go help Micah finish the transfer of his crates from his old wagon to the new. Try to ease your mind so you can finish the books.”

He took a step, hesitated, turned back to her, and raised one hand to skim the point of her chin with the knuckle of his first finger. As though the gesture surprised him, he snatched his hand to his side and left her.

It was such a light graze that if it wasn’t for his reaction, she might have thought she’d imagined it. She remained still and watched him walk to the hinged portion of the counter, step out, and then lower it into place.

He raised and lowered it a couple of times, smiling slightly in satisfaction at the lack of a squeak. Then, with one more flick of a glance in her direction, he took Papa’s wooden toolbox and disappeared out the back door of the mercantile, which would take him across to the barn.

With a sigh of resignation and more questions than she’d started the conversation with, Willow returned to her calculations. But not before she rubbed her palm several times on her skirt in hopes of removing the feel of Gideon’s strong forearm from her memory.

***

“Is it done?” Grant Moore wished that the sound of trepidation hadn’t vibrated so strongly in his voice.

The meeting of two was taking place in the dim interior of a small brick room at the back of Moore Brewing’s Independence offices. A room with access from a back alley that would prevent most from seeing who came and who went.

Grant didn’t know what he’d expected his hired assassin to look like. Certainly not like this short man with handsome features and a charming smile.

Corbin Donahue looked at him placidly. “I am hired by men such as yourself on the basis of my reputation, Mr. Moore. If I don’t complete a job, word begins to travel, and then I have trouble securing the next.” There was a moment of pause where his smile fell away, leaving only a cold stare in its place. “I always get the job done.”

Grant Moore hated that the lifeless eyes suddenly had him adjusting his necktie. “And he won’t be found?” He cleared his throat and forced his fidgeting hands to his knees beneath the desk.

The man sighed as though Grant’s questions taxed his patience. “He will be found. But it will be assumed that he died of his own excesses.”

Grant nodded, opened a drawer, and slid a stack of bills across the table. A very thick stack. “Payment for the first part of the job being done. And, of course, as agreed, you will receive the remainder once you complete the next. You are supposed to arrive in less than an hour. Don’t be late.”

Donahue snatched the money and fanned one end as he leveled all the animosity of his icy stare at Grant. “I won’t be late. You just be sure that my payment is ready in full.”

Grant narrowed his eyes and met the man look for look. In a game of machismo there was one hard-and-fast rule. Never let them see your fear. He didn’t bother forming a response. They both knew he would have the man’s money when the time came. Not to have it would mean certain death.

Finally, with a nod, Donahue sauntered through the outer door into the alley. In one last act of defiance, he left the door swinging open.

Grant waited until he felt certain the man could not hear him before releasing a sigh of relief and rising to shut the door. After closing it tight, he slid the bolt lock into place and turned the deadbolt, too.

A shiver worked down his spine.

His eyes fell closed in a fleeting regret for what he’d set in motion but then with a deep breath, he silenced his conscience. Business was cutthroat, especially here on the edge of the untamed west. It was good that he had the courage to be the kind of businessman who could make it in this new era. Too bad his brother-in-law had gone behind his back and tried to sell the store out from under him. But no matter. All would soon be his despite Wayne Chancellor’s best efforts.

His brother-in-law may be barely making a living off the store. But Grant had better plans. This was the last stop before immigrants headed across the barren midlands. Once he put Independence’s other mercantile out of business, he would own the only store the wagoneers could access near the pushing-off point. He would be able to ask any price he wanted.

A thin smile touched his lips.

Soon. Very soon.

 

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