Dragon Fire Read online

  Often, too, Stone Kincaid absented himself from the stuffy coach to stand alone on the open-air platform at the rear of the car. At such times he stared out over the endless grasslands toward the western horizon, and she wondered if he thought of Emerson Clan, the man his brother had mentioned at the Chicago depot. Why did Stone Kincaid seek this man? Was Clan the reason for the glow of anger she had seen lurking deep in Stone Kincaid's eyes, like goldfish hiding at the bottom of a lotus pool?

  But more alarming than anything else about him was the pull of Stone Kincaid's soul upon her own. Windsor had known from the moment they had spoken that their spirits were kindred. Even so, she was pledged to end his life so that Hung-pin's spirit could soar free. Perhaps tonight, the moment she awaited would at last present itself.

  For the past two evenings Stone Kincaid had offered to convert her seat into a night berth, but even after all the other passengers had climbed into their narrow bunks, he had remained seated in his upholstered chair. Throughout the night she had peeked out, hoping to find him asleep, but he never seemed to shut his eyes. Stone Kincaid was strange, and very different from the other male travelers.

  Sighing, Windsor shifted her gaze and stared out the crimson-draped, plate-glass window beside her. Early that morning they had finally left the rolling plains and entered the foothills of the high mountains called the Rockies. Windsor had been overwhelmed by the wonderful aura of contentment that had washed over her like a foamy tide on a warm sandy beach. She loved the towering peaks and thick green forests hugging the railway bed, so like those in the valley surrounding her temple. She wished she were there now, where she could listen to the wisdom of the Old One. Here, in this curious land of America, she could only rely on herself.

  Outside, night had fallen long ago, as black and soft as Hung-pin's hair. The moon had climbed high, full and pale, casting a ghostly light over the dark-shadowed trees alongside the tracks. On nights such as this during her childhood, she and Hung-pin had practiced stealth. At such times the moon had been their enemy, its silvery glow revealing their every movement.

  She smiled to herself, thinking about the way they had carefully unrolled the long length of white rice paper, then attempted to tread so lightly upon its thin surface that the fragile paper remained untorn. Many years of diligent practice finally enabled them to conquer the feat. Hung-pin had mastered the art first, of course. He had always excelled in their tasks before she had, especially the more difficult ones. It had been Hung-pin who had persuaded her to come to the United States to meet her American mother. If she had not come, if she had not begged Hung-pin to accompany her, her blood brother would still be alive and well.

  Deeply forlorn, she tried not to think about Hung-pin. She repositioned her case, holding it securely atop her lap. Jun-li was restless. She could feel him moving around inside his cage. He longed for bedtime, when behind the barrier of the privacy curtains she could release him from his prison. She felt pity for her little friend because she understood how he felt. She wished to be free from the close confines of the coach.

  Outside in the moonlit night, the air would smell clean and feel cool against her face, like the twilight breezes deep in the valleys of Kansu Province. She liked the cold air, but most of the passengers spent much time huddled around the pot bellied stove in the center of the car. They were very affected by the weather, the large Americans. She closed her eyes, pretending she was home again, watching the spider dance along his strands of silk, her beloved Hung-pin at her side.

  Stone tossed down his poker hand, bored with the game and even more weary of listening to the two bickering men with whom he played. After so many hours cooped up with Slokum and Ranney, he was beginning to regret his decision not to use his family's private coach for the journey west. Gray had offered him its use, but Stone knew that Gray, as president of the Kincaid Railway Company, frequently used the custom-built car for his own business trips. Now that Gray was married, he would definitely want to take Tyler along with him. Stone certainly didn't blame him.

  Despite his present disenchantment with his traveling companions, there were good reasons to associate with the other passengers. Perhaps during their idle chatter they would drop a tidbit of information about Emerson Clan. At the mere thought of his nemesis, Stone balled his fingers into tight fists. Consciously trying to relax his tense muscles, he glanced around until his gaze came to rest on the nun.

  Sister Mary sat by herself, her eyes closed, her odd bamboo case balanced primly atop her knees. She guarded her possessions like a she-bear protecting newborn cubs, he thought, allowing himself the pleasure of admiring her face while she was unaware of his interest. Since they had boarded the train together, he had endeavored not to look at her, not to think about her. But how many times had he found himself doing both—wondering what shade of blonde her hair would be if he pulled away her wimple, or how her skin would feel if he traced his fingers down the elegant curve of her cheek.

  Disgusted with himself, he jerked his gaze away from her. What the devil was the matter with him? He was not a religious man, nor was he particularly scrupulous, but he sure as hell had never mentally seduced an innocent nun before!

  "Ain't so bad to look at, now is she, Mr. Kincaid?"

  At Slokum's slyly muttered innuendo, Stone slowly turned his attention to the man across the table. A gut-heavy, slack-jowled Texas cattle agent, Matt Slokum sweated profusely, and an offensive odor emanated from his rumpled brown plaid suit.

  "You're talking about a Catholic nun, Slokum."

  "May be, Kincaid. But, nun or not, she's bound to have a woman's body hidden 'neath all them black robes she's a-wearin', now ain't she? The right kind of man could show her what she's a-missin' by spendin' all her time prayin' and countin' them rosary beads, if you catch my meanin'."

  Stone's eyes narrowed. "I catch your meaning, Slokum, and I think you're being disrespectful."

  Slokum's large flat nose wrinkled into an ugly scowl. "You cain't say you ain't hankered to sneak a little bit of a peek under them there skirts, now can you, Kincaid? I done seen you lookin' at her, more'n once, and it weren't no prayerful kind of look in them icy blue eyes of yours." He guffawed, elbowing the skinny man named Ranney; who sat to the left of him. Ranney chuckled; then his round, baby-soft cheeks reddened as Stone silenced him with a cold, unwavering stare.

  "Like I said, you're being disrespectful."

  Slokum looked down at Stone's hand, where it lay atop his knee near his revolver; then he squirmed uneasily in his seat. "I dint mean no harm." His voice sounded nervous. "Like most ever other man in this here coach, I just got eyes in my head."

  "Then keep them there, and keep your goddamn mouth shut."

  Stone shoved back his chair, angrier than he had reason to be. Slokum was right. Stone had been thinking impure thoughts about the nun, probably worse ones than either Slokum's or Ranney's. Feeling absurdly conscience-stricken, he gathered his winnings, pocketed them, then glanced out the nearest window. It had grown late; the black night pressed like mourning bunting against the glass.

  Several passengers were in the process of converting their day chairs into berths, but Sister Mary made no move to do so. She continued to sit motionlessly, her back ramrod-straight. He wondered if she was praying and what about, then wondered why the hell he cared.

  With his brows hunched down, his face took on an annoyed grimace. Maybe it was time he went outside and had a cigar. Maybe the cold night air would cool down his blood and get pretty little Sister Mary off his mind. Despite his resolve to ignore the nun, he found himself pausing beside her chair on his way down the aisle.

  "Pardon me, Sister Mary, but if you like, I'll pull down your bed for you."

  The nun opened her eyes, and as their gazes met, Stone felt startled, as if she had grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him close against her. The woman's effect on him was absolutely uncanny.

  "You are very kind to think of me," she murmured in her shy manner, casting
her long lashes down over her magnificent sapphire eyes.

  "Yeah," he muttered, one corner of his mouth quirking with a hint of irony. She wouldn't think him so kind if she knew some of the indecent thoughts he was entertaining about her. "I guess you'll have to stand up while I fix the bed, Sister."

  She rose at once, demurely arranging her drab attire. Slokum was right. What a waste, a young woman as beautiful as she was, garbed all in black, married for life to the Church. She should be in a man's bed, head thrown back, eyes half closed with desire. His loins stirred as that mental image burned like a furnace blast through his veins.

  Clenching his teeth, he arranged the two facing seats to form the bottom bunk, then lowered the upper bed, which was suspended by chains from the car's ceiling. Finished, he stood back, away from her, not offering to assist her. In his present, rather inflamed state of mind, touching her was not the thing to do. He waited silently as she placed her bamboo case on the top bunk, then, despite her bulky dress and long veil, stepped up lightly on the lower seat and swung herself with nimble grace onto the top berth.

  From the beginning she had aroused his protective instincts. He had considered her far too young and innocent to be traveling alone. He laughed inwardly, thinking what an unlikely guardian he would make for her. The Church would certainly frown on his cold-blooded vow to hunt down and kill Emerson Clan, and poor Sister Mary would undoubtedly wear out her rosary beads pleading for his soul.

  ''I hope you enjoy a restful night," he said politely. "These berths aren't too comfortable."

  "Actually, this is a most luxurious bed for me. I am used to a simple pallet upon the floor."

  Sister Mary smiled at him, a lovely, enchanting curve of soft pink lips, and Stone caught himself staring at her in openmouthed fascination, like some stricken swain. But, Lord help him, she had the most beautiful face he had ever seen. Their eyes locked with an intensity Stone understood all too well. Apparently Sister Mary didn't. Her friendly expression faded into vague uncertainty.

  "Good night, Mr. Kincaid," she murmured, quickly drawing the privacy curtains together.

  She must have sensed his desire for her, he decided, and the realization had obviously frightened her. And his passion had been aroused, all right. Stone still felt the heat warming his mind and body. Dammit, what the devil had gotten into him?

  Since he had lowered himself to lusting so single-mindedly after a nun, he obviously was in need of a woman to share his bed. There would be plenty of willing ladies, once he reached San Francisco. Meanwhile, he would do well to stay as far away from Sister Mary as he could get.

  By now most of the other passengers were abed; even Slokum and Ranney had disappeared into their draped sleepers. One of the Negro porters was moving about the car dimming the oil lamps, which swung desultorily from the wall holders. Stone frowned, longing to stretch out and relax his tired muscles, but not in some closed-in, coffinlike bunk, one that was nowhere big enough to accommodate his long legs.

  Ever since he had been at Andersonville, he couldn't stand any kind of small, cramped place. His lean jaw clenched, held tight as his eyes turned as hard as blue-gray granite. He fought unsuccessfully to suppress a surge of bitter loathing churned up by the mere thought of his incarceration in the brutal Confederate prison camp.

  For two long, seemingly endless years, he had fought and scratched to survive while penned up inside the filthy, swampy stockade, and for every day, every moment of that purgatory, Emerson Clan had made damn sure Stone had suffered more deprivation and hardship than any other prisoner.

  With a conscious effort Stone thrust thoughts of the prison out of his mind as he settled into a nearby chair. It didn't matter where he spent the night. He wouldn't sleep much. He never did.

  A long time later, Stone was jerked out of his shallow, uneasy doze. His own hoarse groan had roused him, and he knew at once he'd had the same damned dream again. Sweat covered his brow, and he focused bleary eyes on the green-shaded lamp swaying in cadence to the rocking, motions of the locomotive. The flickering illumination lit the car dimly, and he balled his fists to stop the trembling of his hands.

  Not a single day had passed since the war's end that his skin didn't crawl with the dreadful memory, a horror that never, ever left him. There had been three of them—Stone, John Morris, and Edward Hunt. Both of the other men had been lieutenants under Stone's command. Both had been close, personal friends. Their plan had been formulated in desperation, a reckless attempt to escape the wretched, inhumane conditions of the prison. They had labored and sweated for weeks digging the tunnel beneath the stockade.

  Like a fleeing snake, a long, undulating shudder writhed down Stone's spine, making his skin grow cold. Again, for the thousandth time, he saw Clan's face at the end of the tunnel, his pale blue eyes glinting with evil malevolence. Clan's cruel laughter had echoed down the length of the narrow passage, just before he had intentionally collapsed the open end and trapped all three prisoners inside, burying them alive.

  Horror came spiraling down inside Stone's mind. Hairs stood up on the back of his neck, and cold sweat beaded his upper lip. Even now, as he sat alone in the passenger car years afterward, well and whole, he felt trapped again in the stifling darkness, dirt and rubble raining down on his back, his rasping breath loud in his ears as he frantically fought to dig his way out.

  Struggling against the demons torturing his brain, he dragged an open palm down his face. His nightmares would not end until he killed Clan. He knew that. He would do it for John and Edward, who had suffocated to death before Stone could get them out. His desire for vengeance was too ingrained, as much a part of him now as the beating of his heart. Like the most insidious of poisons, his intense hatred for Clan ran in his blood.

  Wide awake, he sat up, his eyes focused across the aisle from him where black drapes covered the nun's berth. There was no sound in the coach, just the distant rhythm of wheels clacking against metal. Everyone slept except for him. He could barely remember how it felt to experience a night of deep, restful sleep, instead of lurching awake with a pounding heart, his mind riveted with horror.

  Drawing in a deep breath, he shoved himself to his feet. Outside the windows, faint light crowned the horizon. Dawn. He needed to get outside, where he could inhale the crisp mountain air and rid himself of the demons in his head.

  3

  Separating her curtains a mere fraction, Windsor discovered that Stone Kincaid had arisen from his chair and was on his way down the corridor toward the outside rear platform. At last, she thought, the chance she had been waiting for. Only livestock and purebred horses bound for the liveries of San Francisco traveled in the coach behind them. There would be no witness to her deed.

  "Shh, Jun-li," she whispered, her lips close to his bamboo cage. "It is time."

  With great care, she hung the case across her body so that both hands could remain free. Stone Kincaid was very strong, and much bigger than she. She must not underestimate him.

  Briefly, with unwelcome clarity, she remembered the moment he had bidden her good night. His silvery blue eyes had radiated an intense, inner glow, a knowing, intimate look that made her uncomfortable, even now.

  She did not exactly understand the significance of what had transpired between them then, but she knew some unspoken communication had been sent to her. She knew little about men, especially the Americans. Hung-pin and the other disciples at the Temple of the Blue Mountain had been her friends. None of them had ever looked at her the way Stone Kincaid did.

  Could it be that he already suspected she was not what she pretended to be? He appeared to be much more intelligent than the other Westerners she had met, such as the loudmouthed Slokum, who was continually staring and grinning at her. But she must never let herself forget that Kincaid was a murderer, and he must be very quick and dangerous if he had been able to capture Hung-pin. Her blood brother had been a master at martial arts, even better than she.

  Pain touched her heart. Hung-pin had b
een bound hand and foot, rendered completely helpless to protect himself before Kincaid and his friends had tortured him to death. Only a coward would take another life in such a brutal way. Windsor's dainty chin angled upward, hardening with resolve. Stone Kincaid would not find her helpless.

  Making sure the corridor was deserted, she slid from the bunk without a sound. Standing motionlessly, she listened. Then she pushed Jun-li's box around until it lay flat against her back, where it would not trouble her if she had to use her fighting skills to subdue the big man. With the quiet tread she had mastered long ago atop the brittle rice paper, she glided down the aisle.

  She had nearly reached the rear door when suddenly, without warning, the train lurched to one side with such violence that Windsor was thrown backward down the aisle. As she fell, she turned, protecting Jun-li's cage and grabbing frantically for a handhold on the curtains of the nearest berth.

  Her quick reflexes saved her from a painful fall as the car jerked forcefully to one side and tilted into a slow, terrifying roll. As everyone and everything not bolted down hurtled toward one wall, Windsor managed to grasp a chair leg. The side of the car hit the ground with a bone-jolting crash and a terrible rending of metal and shattering of glass.

  In the aftermath of the derailment, moans and muffled groans filtered through the dust and darkness as stunned passengers began to stir amidst the rubble thrown into their beds. Releasing her hold on the chair, Windsor dropped and landed on the side wall of the coach, now beneath her. She crouched there, trying to get her breath and think what could have happened.

  Seconds later, an overturned oil lamp burst into flames close beside her. A whooshing sound followed as a pair of curtains ignited, and she scrambled out of the way of the fire. More hysteria ensued as terrified travelers became aware of the new hazard. Panic took hold as the flames spread and screaming, injured passengers climbed blindly over chairs, berths, and other people, all trying to find a way out of the blazing inferno.