Chasing the Sunset Read online

  Chasing the Sunset

  by

  Barbara Mack

  Prologue

  St. Louis

  Missouri

  February 1849

  “You have been a very bad girl,” he said softly, almost lovingly, caressing her back with his soft, pudgy hand. He seemed to be nearly mesmerized by the tears in her dress that he had just put there himself with a belt, for his hand lingered over the exposed, welted flesh that showed through them and a slight smile quivered on his thin lips. He paid no attention to the cry of pain she stifled in the rumpled bedcovers as he touched her.

  His mouth twisted up and she shut her eyes, quickly. She knew that the vile, gloating expression she so dreaded to see was in his eyes as he stared at her, face down on the bed. She could not afford to let him see her loathing or there would be no hope of reprieve. She steeled herself to let her face show no pain or fear, for he fed on those emotions and became stronger, and then the beating would last much longer.

  She was as he always liked her in these moments; down on her knees before the bed, half-reclining across it, her face pressed hard into the coverlet, her hands gripping at the material with each stroke of the belt as she tried not to cry out. She knew that he felt immense power and pleasure as he studied her prostrate pose; she had seen it many, many times in his gloating eyes and his horrid face. She jumped involuntarily when his hand pressed hard against her abused back, and he laughed deep in his throat.

  “Oh, Maggie, I love to look at you this way. I will always carry this picture in my mind, the way you look with my marks on your body.” His tone turned suddenly vicious, and he jerked her head up by her long brown hair and stared into her frightened green eyes. “You are mine, do you understand? Mine!” He shook her by the long tresses.

  “Yes, David,” she cried in a tearful voice. “I am yours, I promise! I am only yours!”

  He slapped her hard, and despite herself, tears spilled out of her glittering eyes to roll down her face. “You would be on the street if not for me. When your parents died, you had nowhere to go. I was their solicitor; no one knew that better than I. Your father was a fool, and now you are paying the price.” Maggie bit her lip to keep back the words that so wanted to come out. If she said one word in defense of her father, she knew that he would beat her viciously. This had all happened so many times before that Maggie knew the outcome of any action she might take. David could be inconsistent, but not in this; he could not stand to be contradicted and showed his displeasure in predictable ways.

  “Who else would have taken you? There was no money left. You should be grateful that I took you in, that I was willing to marry such a wicked, wicked girl.” He reached down and grasped her shoulder in a cruel hand, shaking her hard. “Instead, you flaunt yourself at every man who comes near, twitch at every man who comes in contact with you, even the stableboy! I saw you flirt with him, I saw you smile and try to entice him!”

  “No, David,” she cried. “He just carried the packages into the kitchen, and I said thank you! He is just a boy!” Her tone became cajoling. “I do not even know his name. He is not a man like you, David. He does not know anything, and I do not want him, David, only you.”

  Underneath the sweet tone of her voice lay a note of desperation, and she knew that he had heard it when he laughed under his breath. He tipped her chin up and she tried hard to smile winsomely at him, but she could feel it wobble around the edges.

  “A boy, eh?” He sounded amused. “He is a year older than you, my sweet young bride. But I see what you are doing, m’dear. You want to make up for your continual disobedience, do you not? Have I not taught you the consequences of your actions yet? Will you remember this punishment the next time that you are tempted by your base woman’s nature to flirt and beguile some poor, innocent boy?”

  She nodded slowly and tried to hold the bright smile in place, glad at least that he would not now go and attack the poor stable boy. This time, he had made it all her fault and she did not have to watch while he hurt some poor unsuspecting innocent because of her carelessness.

  “I have been quite gentle this time, haven't I, my love? You are not even bleeding. Well, why not? Everyone knows that I dote upon you. Married a girl half his age, they all say, and I do whatever you want.” He squeezed her shoulder harder and she tried not to wince with the pain of it. “But we know the truth, do we not, my dear? I am the master in this house, not you, and you will do whatever I want. Your tricks do not work on me, no matter how bewitching I might find them at times.”

  He slapped the doubled leather belt rhythmically in his hand, and her eyes followed it without volition. His expression became suddenly expansive, and she knew then that the worst of the beating was over. The relief that she felt was so intense, she felt dizzy with it. God, help me, I cannot take very much more, she thought. He will kill me some day. One day when I raise my head and accidentally catch some man’s eye, he will kill me.

  “Smile at me and only me,” he ordered roughly, and she nodded immediately. "You belong only to me. You must remember that. I am your master and I command your complete and total obedience."

  "Yes, of course, David," she cried, the lie souring in her mouth as she spoke it, her hatred of him nearly choking her. "It is only you that I care about."

  “I am the only man who will reap the benefit of your weak nature. After all, I own you, do I not, my sweet Maggie?” His tone became gloating again, and she could not stand it anymore. She began to close herself off, to think of the life that she had lived with her parents such a short time ago, for she could not bear this travesty of existence she lived with David for much longer.

  One day I will escape, she vowed to herself while he ran his hands over her back, her skin shrinking from his alternately caressing, pinching fingers. She could hear him breathing behind her; feel the hot, fetid fumes on the back of her neck as he leaned over her. She waited, tensed, for the blows to begin again, for he was ever changeable and might decide to hit her again on a whim. When they did not fall, she nearly wept with relief.

  One day, I will run and never come back. I will go far, far away and no one can ever make me come back.

  Or I will kill him.

  Southern Missouri

  June 1852

  ONE

  “Hell and damnation!” roared Nick Revelle, hurling his bowl across the room in a fit of temper. “This is the worst food I have ever been served from my own kitchens, and given the quality of the fare around here for the last few months, that is saying something! Even the pigs would not eat this swill!” He rose to his feet to storm out into his kitchen and confront the person responsible for this affront to his taste buds.

  “Jackson!” he shouted. “Where are you hiding, you mangy old bastard?”

  Jackson came staggering out of the storeroom, obviously the worse for drink. Nick scowled at him in disgust. Surely the man had not looked this unkempt when he had hired him. He had been clean then, at least. Now, he reeked of harsh spirits and looked as if he had not bathed in weeks. He swayed and stared blearily at Nick through bloodshot eyes, wiping his dirty hands on his already soiled apron. A lock of his dirty, coarse gray hair fell into his eyes and he brushed it back with one wrinkled hand, nearly unbalancing himself in the process.

  “Wot does ya want?” he slurred belligerently. “I got a lotta work to do, I ain’t got time to stand around jawin’.”

  “I would like to know,” Nick said through gritted teeth, “What kind of damn soup that is supposed to be.” He pointed an awesomely muscled arm to the pot that sat atop the stove. His stomach roiled as he looked at it. A chunk of fat floated on the surface of a cloudy liquid that resembled used bathwater.

  “Soup’s soup,” said the man, lean
ing against the wall. “I run outta stuff, so I threw the rest all together to make soup.”

  “Ran out? Ran out?” Nick kept his temper reined in with an almost superhuman effort. “’Tis funny to me that the surplus ran out so suddenly. When I left three days ago, there was a whole garden of vegetables right out the back door, a smokehouse full of meats, and household monies to supplement our larder should there be a need.” He narrowed his eyes and observed the drunken man through slitted lids. “Though I guess I know where some of that coin went.”

  “I ain’t no field hand,” declared Jackson belligerently. “I ain’t gonna grub around in no dirt like that slattern Kathleen you got working here. You got other people to do that. Buy some slaves. I am the cook.”

  Nick smiled grimly at the hapless Jackson. “Kathleen is not a slattern, she is a lady too fine for the likes of you to speak her name. And you are right, Jackson. You do not need to grub around in the dirt. As of this moment, you are no longer under my employ. Now collect your things and come to the study for the wages owed you, and be thankful that I am not taking the monies that you spent on drink out of that. Or going to the sheriff about the food that you obviously pilfered from my stores.”

  “You cannot do that!” blustered Jackson. “I never stole a thing! I worked my arse off here. And wot does I get for it? Kicked out like a nothing? Who’s gonna cook for ya now, Mr. high-and-mighty? Nobody will even set foot on this place except that hoity-toity Kathleen’s family,” he sneered. “Ever’body knows how ya pushed your lady wife down those stairs!” He spit on the none-too-clean floor. His features distorted with spite, and he even went so far as to stick a grimy finger into Nick’s chest. “You will starve to death afore you find anybody else to come and live at this place of sin!”

  Nick’s face froze. His posture ramrod straight, he used his impressive height to tower over the smaller man. “Collect your things,” he said quietly. “And get off of my property.”

  Nick spun on his heel and left the room, his mouth tight with suppressed anger. Jackson was a drunk, and he was only repeating the gossip he had heard in the town, but it was damned hard not to punch him right in his slack, drunken mouth.

  It was true that some thought him the murderer of his wife, and Nick was having a hard time replacing the cook who had just left him to go and live with her daughter in Kansas. The daughter was having another child to go along with the six other children she already had, and Mrs. Clark was worried for her. He did not blame Mrs. Clark for going to her poor daughter, he just wanted a decent meal, and he had not had one since she had left two months ago.

  The first cook he had hired was a slattern who had thought her job was to provide him with sexual favors. She had left in a huff when he had kicked her out of his bed where he had found her waiting one night after he had been up thirty-six straight hours helping one of the mares through a difficult birth.

  The second lasted two weeks, then left vowing that she had rather starve than put up with his ill-mannered criticism of her culinary skills. Nick, who had found that a steady diet of burned ham and plain boiled potatoes did not agree with him, did not miss her very much.

  The next one could not have found her way to the outhouse without a map and someone to read it for her. When he had gone to seek out a reference for her, having learned from his last two mistakes, her most recent employer had warned him off, saying kindly that the woman was a bit . . . and here he had paused and coughed delicately . . . hen-witted. Nick had waved that away airily. He needed the cook too much to worry about her intellect or the lack of it. But he had soon found out that the man had been all too kind in his estimation of her intellect. Hen-witted did not begin to describe that woman’s befuddled mental condition. He had lost count of the times he came in after working all day, his stomach aching with hunger, only to find the smell of something burning. He had let her go after she set the kitchen afire with a forgotten pie. It had taken weeks to get the smell of smoke out of the house, not to mention the expense of ordering new cookware to replace all the ones that she had ruined. Jackson was his latest try at replacing Mrs. Clark, and just look how well that had turned out. His stomach was ready to revolt if he could not find someone to cook very, very soon. Kathleen took care of the noon meal, but he needed someone here full time, to provide the other two meals. He was finding it damned hard to live on only one meal a day, and Tommy, who was a growing boy after all, looked half-starved lately.

  After Jackson had finally left, spitting and cursing, Nick poured himself a glass of brandy and stared moodily at the walls of his study. As always happened when his spirits were low, he thought back on the events that had led to the untimely demise of his wife.

  Damn Mary and her cheating, lying heart.

  Essentially all of his current troubles could be traced back to meeting and marrying that faithless, spoiled little schemer. She was probably somewhere in the afterlife laughing at his predicament in that contemptuous way that she had.

  Nick swirled the liquid in his glass, studying it moodily. Two years ago, he had been delirious with happiness, newly wedded, ready to found a dynasty and conquer the world. Well, that had all gone to shit, he thought sourly. His wife had destroyed his belief in women. Before marriage, he had thought all women like his mother; soft, and giving, and faithful. Now he knew the truth. His mother had been the exception, not the rule. Most women just did not have it in them to be truthful. Oh, yes, they were all great actresses . . . until you married them. Then you found out the real truth: Dance to their tune, or spend the rest of your life in misery. Nick’s mouth quirked up, but there was no humor in the expression. In his wife’s case, her lack of morals had been matched only by her skill at pretense.

  Mary had thought they would stay in Boston after they married. Oh, she knew that he had a horse breeding farm in the wilds of Missouri Territory, and she knew that he was chafing to go home to take care of matters there, but she thought that she could wheedle him into changing his mind. After all, she had been getting what she wanted from men her whole life by batting her lashes, flattering them outrageously, and giving them a pretty smile. She had no idea it would not work with him. And when she had finally figured it out, it was an understatement to say that she was not pleased, but she was not ready to declare him the winner just yet. Even though she had lost the initial battle with her new husband over staying in Boston, surely it would not be so bad. She had never for one moment thought that her new husband had been going to actually work on his horse farm. They had servants for that. Eventually, Nick would come around, and then they could spend all their time in Boston pursuing hedonistic pleasures, being part of the society she had loved so very much. Mary had absolutely no idea what their horse farm in Missouri was really going to be like because she had lived in staid, civilized Boston all of her life. She had romanticized it and envisioned plantations and servants to cater to her every whim, with a rousing, exciting social life.

  The reality of the matter was that small farms were scattered across the wild landscape of Missouri and the nearest town contained only a smattering of buildings. She was used to sweet-smelling gentlemen with soft hands who indulged and pampered her. What she got was a husband who worked harder than a field hand and smelled of horse more often than not. And out here, in the wild, there was no social life to speak of, and what there was had bored her. She had loathed the farm and its isolation; she had loathed the ‘common’ farmers and landowners she encountered. Mary had wanted gay parties and civilized company, and it was simply not to be found in Missouri. It must have come as a shock to her, but Nick could not bring himself to feel any pity for her. She had tried her best to ruin his life while she was alive, and even after her death he was paying the price for his decision to marry her.

  Nick had been on his annual visit to his cousins in Boston when he had met the ill-fated Mary. The fortnight he spent there every summer was the highlight of his year. Wild Missouri was dear to his heart and would always be his home, but it had no
ne of the excitements associated with a big place like Boston. Nick was a young man, and he needed to kick up his heels now and then, and Boston was just the place in which to do so.

  And he had especially needed the time away from the farm that year. His parents had both died of lung fever not six months earlier and he had been devastated by their sudden deaths. He was, quite simply, lonely for his family. His mother’s family, who had lived fairly close by in St. Louis, Missouri, was all gone except for some very distant relations that he had not heard a peep from in years. Oh, he had people who cared about him at the farm, but it was not the same somehow. Something inside of him had demanded that he be with his kin, and his aunt and his cousins were all the family he had left. He had needed to be with them, needed to be with someone who loved him and who had loved his parents.

  In hindsight, he realized that Mary had been an effort to fill the gaping hole in his life that his parent’s death had left him with. He had wanted a family to replace the one that he had lost, and a wife and children seemed like a good idea at the time. Not that he had necessarily thought of it that way when the idea of marriage first came to him. He had been head over heels in love with Mary, or rather the fantasy of her that he had concocted inside of his head. His parents had certainly set a shining example as far as married life was concerned, and Nick had naively assumed that most marriages were as happy. But it was not to be; oh, no, a shining example his marriage was not.

  His Aunt Clotilde was a no-nonsense type of woman, brusque and outspoken, but he had been so glad to see her that year that he nearly dissolved into tears right at the train station. Which would have embarrassed them both no end, because his Aunt Clotilde was not a demonstrative kind of person and displays of emotion flustered her. She was a big, bosomy lady with an air of competency that was well-deserved, but he had seen the sight of another’s distress nearly bring her to her knees.