Wildstar Page 12

  “What the devil do you want, Isabel?” he snapped.

  His dark frown dwindled her own wrath instantly. Lazy amusement usually met her angry outbursts, and she was momentarily abashed in the face of his anger. Her eyes dropped to the paper in his hand, and she asked falteringly, “What is it, Logan?”

  His square jaw clenched dangerously, as if he were forcing down rage, and his eyes remained as hard and cold as metal in winter. Isabel couldn't stop a long shiver that undulated slowly up her spine as he slowly tightened his fingers, deliberately crumpling the letter inside one huge, sun-darkened fist.

  “It seems that I am a married man. I have been for more than a month.”

  Isabel gasped, and Logan barked a short, humorless laugh, then added contemptuously, “Obviously, the groom's presence wasn't a necessity.”

  He stopped, his lean cheek working to control his temper, then continued in a tight voice, “There's even a wedding ball planned at my mountain estate. So I can meet my blushing bride.”

  Isabel was too stunned to speak, and bitterness oozed like snake venom from his next words.

  “You're invited, of course, Isabel. That is, if I'm allowed to invite anyone.”

  Isabel's mind was barely able to register the invitation as his words hit home. One well-manicured hand went to her throat.

  “It can't be legal, can it?” she said slowly. “You must do something about it!”

  In a sudden burst of fury, Logan hurled the paper into the fire, watching as flames ate a ravaging line of ash along the edges.

  “You're damn right I'm going to do something!”

  He moved with two long strides to the oaken sideboard, splashing a liberal amount of brandy into one of the goblets. Isabel watched him out of wide and disbelieving eyes. Logan—married? She couldn't believe it, wouldn't believe it. She was to be his wife someday; she'd been confident that given the time she could entice him into matrimony. They were meant to be together, but now Logan was already married!

  She sank slowly to the large leather chair behind her, fixing worried green eyes on Logan, as he tossed down another drink.

  “But how, Logan? How could such a thing happen?”

  Logan twisted his head slightly, looking at Isabel's dismayed face. In the past, he'd always considered her quite beautiful, despite her cruel and selfish nature. But after beholding Starfire's youthful, innocent loveliness, Isabel seemed dull and artificial. He frowned again, tortured that he'd lost her. And because of his own stupidity. He gripped his glass tighter. His sanity was already near the breaking point trying to find her, and now on top of that worry, the damnable marriage contract had come up.

  He set down the glass and clasped his hands behind his back as he paced agitatedly before the fire. He stopped and braced both hands on the mantel, staring down at the ashes of his father's letter. Vivid images of Starfire taunted from beneath the dancing flames, her lovely trusting violet eyes, her soft mouth parting willingly beneath his own; and he could not suppress his anguished groan at his torturous thoughts.

  “Logan, tell me, please, how can such a marriage be legal?”

  He turned and faced Isabel.

  “Because, Isabel, I signed a betrothal agreement before I went off to the Mexican War. And it's still binding under the law.”

  He startled Isabel by uncoiling from his indolent posture and slamming his fist so violently on the oaken mantelpiece that the clock rang with discordant chimes.

  “Why on earth would you sign such a thing?” she asked hesitantly.

  Logan sighed, leaning one elbow on the mantel as he massaged tired eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

  “At the time, my grandfather and a friend of his decided they wanted their families joined by marriage. I don't even remember why. But I would have done anything for Grandfather at that age. The girl was just a newborn then, and I haven't seen her or even heard of her since.”

  Frustration proved too much, and one of Logan's hard fists pounded into his open palm.

  “And I'll be damned if I know why Father let this happen! He knows I never intended to marry.”

  He turned, staring into the grate, oblivious now to Isabel as he spoke softly, his vow honed in steel. “But he sure as hell won't get away with it.”

  Isabel had listened to it all, white-faced, her fantasies of being Logan Cord's wife slowly shriveling, but at the determination in his last words, hope raised its head in her heavy breast.

  “But what can you do? You said yourself that it's legal.”

  Logan stood straighter, his mind made up.

  “When I'm in St. Louis, I will go to my father's house and confront him. I can get it annulled. I was leaving for there anyway.”

  He smiled grimly at her heavy sigh of relief.

  “Don't worry, love, I may be legally married at the moment, but I won't be for long. You can count on that.”

  Again wavery images of wide, blue-violet eyes and silvery tresses invaded his heart, pain burning harshly. Driven by an overpowering urgency to erase the agony of losing Starfire, he moved swiftly to Isabel, pulling her into his arms, feeling the need to bruise her lips until the sparkling amethyst eyes no longer haunted him. But as Isabel responded passionately, pressing against him eagerly, he released her abruptly and stepped away, knowing that it was useless, because his body and soul continued to crave the smaller, sweeter softness of Starfire.

  It was nearing the end of February before Logan arrived in St. Louis. He'd made the long, tiring trek upon horseback as far as Independence, Missouri, then he'd managed to catch a riverboat for the rest of the journey. He was dirty and travel-stained but did not take the time to bathe or shave before he sought out Huddleston. He'd pushed hard, anxious to talk to the lawyer, and he wasn't going to put it off any longer than necessary.

  He walked his horse along the riverfront, wearily watching the steamboats and military gunboats anchored along Laclede's Landing. The bricked waterfront was busy as slaves grunted over heavy cotton bales and fashionably dressed ladies strolled upon gentlemen's arms. St. Louis had grown rapidly, even since his last visit home, nearly three years ago. Many buildings were new, many others under construction. It was a teeming metropolis now, dwarfing the infant city of Denver.

  He reined his horse to the side, allowing a detail of bluecoated soldiers to tramp past. For the first time in months, his thoughts touched on the war still raging bloodily between the Union and the Confederacy. It meant little in Denver, with the wide prairie he'd just traversed insulating it from the conflict. And it meant nothing to Logan.

  His immediate concern was finding Starfire and annulling the travesty of a marriage engineered by his father—in that order.

  He'd had his fill of the army in the Mexican War. Ugly memories burrowed up from mental trapdoors, and he frowned blackly. He and his brother Justin been young and brash arid had joined the Missouri Volunteers, eager to fight. And Brent Holloway had been with them, their trusted friend. They'd fought all right, for survival in a humid, dirty godforsaken country. For a whole year, they'd fought the impossible odds of rattlesnakes, scorpions, and bloody battles. Justin had died at Chihuahua, when the Mexicans outnumbered the Americans four to one. Died because Isabel's brother, Brent, had run when he could have warned them. Justin died with a bullet in his head, because Brent Holloway was a rotten yellow coward.

  Logan's jaw flexed to granite, his palm resting lightly on the long, jagged scar down his thigh. He'd been bayonetted in the same skirmish, a wound that had gotten infected and incapacitated him for months in a hot and filthy peasant's hovel in the middle of nowhere. And Brent's punishment? A dishonorable discharge.

  Logan had sworn over his brother's dusty, lonely grave that Brent would pay. Even when John Winstead had persuaded him to travel to Colorado, the desire for revenge lingered. It had taken ten years before he could wreak his vengeance, but he'd finally done it. When gold was discovered on Cherry Creek and Denver was born, Logan owned much of the land in the area. His own m
ine was farther in the mountains, but it yielded a high profit from the very beginning. And Brent Holloway had fared as well when he followed the smell of gold and staked claim to the lucrative Santino mine. It had become the core of the Holloway wealth, until Logan had won it in a poker game. And he'd managed to humiliate Brent further with Estelle Bowman. Logan's mouth curved into a cruel smile, remembering how Brent's lovely mistress had given up the fancy Holloway townhouse for a whirlwind affair with Logan.

  But now as he clopped along the bricked streets of St. Louis, searching every open carriage, every pedestrian for a glimpse of silvery hair, thoughts of Brent seemed inconsequential. She was the only important thing now, and he wouldn't rest until he found her.

  Logan found the firm of Bradshaw, Stern, and Watson on Olive Street, one of the oldest, most prestigious streets of the city. The tall and narrow red brick building of three stories reeked of expensive, upper-class respectability. He dismounted and tied his horse to the hitching post, then climbed the curved brick steps to the stained-glass doors. Inside, the foyer was large and quiet, and an efficient-looking male secretary glanced up, then watched as Logan walked toward him. The man behind the desk was young and blond, and his gray eyes crawled over Logan's dirty buckskin attire with a condescending look that lingered on the gun strapped on his hip. His voice was carefully polite, but still managed to sound patronizing.

  “May I help you?”

  “I'm here to see Alfred Huddleston.”

  “Do you have an appointment with him, sir?”

  “No.”

  The secretary gave a small, businesslike smile, placing his pencil carefully on the paper in front of him.

  “Then you'll have to make one and come back. I'm sorry, but...”

  His words hung in midair as Logan parted the little gate beside the desk and walked to the door behind it. The clerk recovered from his first shock, jumping to his feet and following the big man at a run, just as Logan hauled up his boss by the lapels.

  “Where's Huddleston?”

  The commotion brought men from several other offices, and Logan relaxed his hold, allowing the man to fall limply into his chair, as a voice spoke close beside him. “I'll be glad to talk to you about Alfred, Mr....?”

  “Cord,” Logan supplied tersely.

  “I'm John Watson, and if you'll come this way, I think we can straighten this out.”

  Logan ignored the whispering men who lined the hall, following Watson into a large paneled office. The man gestured to a large gold brocade chair across the desk from him, and Logan sat down, waiting while the other man lit a long cigar. He was tall and slim, his dark hair a distinguished gray at the temples.

  “Would you like a cigar, Mr. Cord?”

  Logan shook his head, in no mood for pleasantries.

  “Let's talk about Huddleston. Where is he?”

  Watson exhaled the smoke slowly, looking at Logan carefully. “That's what I want to know, Mr. Cord.”

  Logan's blue eyes narrowed, but Watson didn't give him time to speak.

  “He was on assignment in Denver, but we haven't heard from him in six months. Neither have his wife and family. I thought you might be able to tell me something.”

  Logan's last remaining hope plummeted, sure now that Huddleston was dead and that the letter he'd sent to the lawyer's office immediately after the kidnapping had gotten lost. He cursed silently, furious at the time that had been lost. Huddleston had been tricked, too. But why?

  He quickly explained his association with Huddleston, and Watson shook his head, saying thoughtfully, “What do you think happened to him?”

  “I haven't found that out yet, but I will. Have you ever heard of the others?”

  “No, Alfred didn't mention them after he came back from his first meeting with you. He must have gotten involved with them on the second trip.”

  “What about the girl's relatives? Surely you have records on the case.”

  Watson shook his head. “I'm afraid not. Huddleston's client insisted on complete confidentiality. I'm not even sure Alfred knew the client's name. I didn't even know the particulars of the case until you told me a moment ago. I'm sorry, Mr. Cord. I know I'm not much help.”

  There was little else to say, and Logan gave Watson his address in Denver in case of any word of either Huddleston or Starfire. He walked past the now wary secretary, then mounted his horse, furious at reaching another dead end. Everywhere he turned led into a brick wall, and time was running out. What if Rankin had taken her back east? How would he ever find her? What if she was somewhere nearby—in one of the houses he now passed? How would he ever know?

  The despair mounted, and his mood grew blacker. By the time he reached his father's house, he was enraged all over again at his helplessness, ready to take out his pain and frustration on the lesser of his two dilemmas. The one he could resolve.

  The Cord mansion was on Lafayette Street, near the north border of Lafayette Park, a great, imposing Georgian structure of sandstone with tall Doric pillars across the front portico. He took the front steps two at a time, not bothering to lift the heavy silver knocker. He strode in unannounced, scaring the wits out of a freckled young maid in a white cap who stood dusting a polished table near the door.

  “Where in the hell's my father?”

  Logan hadn't meant to yell at her, but his pent-up anger and frustration drove him unmercifully. To the terrified maid, he seemed immense and terrifying, and she quailed back from the angry man, shaking and clutching her dust mop tightly in both hands. Her mouth opened but she could not speak, and she was luckily saved from Logan's wrath by the entrance of his father from the library.

  “What's going on out here?”

  Michael Cord took in the young girl's frightened face, then his eyes went to the dirty, heavily whiskered Logan, who was glaring at him.

  “Logan! Where did you come from?”

  “Never mind that, Father, I want some answers!” Ignoring the weeping maid, they entered the library. Michael shut the door softly, then turned to face his furious son.

  “Good grief, Logan, you look terrible,” he said, frowning. “Where in the devil have you been?”

  Logan looked stonily at his father, ignoring his question.

  “What do you mean by honoring that marriage contract without my permission?”

  Michael winced mentally at his son's harsh words, knowing from past experience that Logan would calm down after he had all the facts. But he'd cause a hell of a row until he did. Since he was a boy, Logan's temper had been quick and violent enough to get him in trouble. For a long time, though, Logan had managed to control it, and Michael hadn't seen him in such a rage for years.

  Father and son stared at each other in silent confrontation. Although Michael was not as big as his son, he had the same handsome, cleanly chiseled features. His slategray eyes met the angry blue ones steadily.

  “All right, Logan. I'll tell you all about it. But I think you'd better fix yourself a drink first.”

  “Forget the drink. All I want is an explanation.”

  Michael took his own advice and poured himself a shot of bourbon, dreading the argument that was bound to follow.

  “Thomas Pennington presented the document himself, Logan. It's completely legal. I couldn't do anything to stop it.” He lifted his glass as Logan sneered cynically.

  “And it wasn't worth the effort to notify me. I might have been able to buy them off! Money's probably what she's after.”

  Michael fought down his own annoyance, controlling his temper with difficulty.

  “I wrote you as soon as Thomas talked to me. But you were out on one of your jaunts among the savages and couldn't be reached.”

  At Logan's ugly look, he went on, “Anyway, Thomas was insistent that his granddaughter be wed as soon as possible.”

  Logan turned from his restless pacing.

  “What kind of ugly crone is she, if her grandfather has to force someone to marry her?”

  “On the cont
rary, she's quite lovely. As a matter of fact—”

  Logan interrupted, speaking harshly with a tight jaw and cold eyes. “I don't give a damn what she looks like—I'm going to buy them off and get an annulment. Or did my proxy see fit to consummate the ceremony with the little gold digger?”

  “Logan, for God's sake, be sensible about this! She's anything but a gold digger. Her grandfather is Thomas Pennington, and if you'll think about it, he owns about half of the city of St. Louis!”

  His son's words were black with bitterness, uttered through clenched teeth. “And you own the other half, which makes it a nice little arrangement. What a clever idea Grandfather and his friend had—provided she's capable of giving you an heir to the Cord-Pennington empire.”

  He stopped, both fists clenched. “How hideous can she be that no one will have her, even with the Pennington dowry? I'm going to stop this, and nobody can stop me,” he vowed.

  “Logan, there's nothing you can do about it. Marriage by proxy is legal in Missouri, and it has your signature, observed by witnesses! And Thomas won't be bought off, because he wants this marriage.”

  Logan stared at him, then asked mockingly, “Whom do I have to thank for standing in for me, anyway?”

  Michael hesitated and avoided Logan's eyes.

  “You won't like it.”

  Logan's look was frigid. “Who the devil was it?”

  “Brent. Thomas insisted on it, because the girl knows him.”

  Logan stared at his father incredulously.

  “Holloway? The one man I most despise on this earth?

  He might as well have murdered Justin himself.”

  Logan did not see the pain flicker on his father's face at the mention of his younger son, and he hardly listened as Michael continued, running weary fingers through his graying hair.

  “Logan, you haven't even seen the girl yet. She'll be here soon, and you can meet her and make your own judgment. I daresay you'll be in for a pleasant surprise.”