Darby: Bride of Oregon (American Mail-Order Bride 33) by Bella Bowen Page B

along streets that appeared freshly painted. And the smell of
sawdust filled the air as if every house and structure had been recently
erected. But then large old buildings insisted the city was nearly as old as
the trees.
    The carriage carried her across a wide bridge
spanning a swift river. The Willamette, if she remembered correctly. The
Columbian River was the larger one she’d noticed from the train yesterday,
before they’d actually reached the city.
    On the other side of town, they passed a few
warehouses, but the area looked practically abandoned compared to the sprawling
city across the river. Though she watched for some sort of hospital, Jacobs
turned the carriage through a small stock yard and inside a warehouse.
    The door opened immediately. “What’s this, then?”
A filthy man dressed in rags poked his nose through the window. “Hardy? Who’s
this?”
    “His wife,” grumbled the driver. “Do it.”
    The filthy man smiled at her with the aid of very
few teeth. “If you’ll follow me, mum?”
    Jacobs helped her climb down, then folded the
step, tugged on his hat, and climbed into the driver’s seat again.
    “You’re leaving me?”
    He nodded once and lowered his voice. “Just do as
you’re told, no matter who tells you, and you’ll be fine.” He snapped the reins
and turned the team to exit the way they’d entered.
    The filthy man gestured toward the opposite end of
the warehouse. “This way, then. Mind the manure, mum.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
     
    Rand’s bones shivered uncontrollably and he
wondered, if he stopped resisting it, if the shaking might stop. But with every
wave that rolled through him, he found it impossible. His muscles tightened on
their own. He was helpless.
    “There is infection,” Shadow said, holding his
hand above the wound on Rand’s thigh as if he could sense just how bad the
infection was. His friend always had a sixth sense about things. “The leg is
hot, you fool,” he said.
    Rand laughed. “Well, then, cut it off and let me
hold it. I am frozen to the bone.”
    “You need a doctor. And as soon as your fever
makes you delirious, I will send Foster to kidnap one.”
    “Kidnap a doctor?” Foster frowned from his
position just inside the hideout. Every few minutes, he would slide a knob and
snap open the cover over a tiny window in the metal door. After peering out for
a few seconds, he would slide it back again and the cover would click into
place.
    Slide, snap.
    Slide, click.
    Slide, snap.
    Slide, click.
    It was like listening to Harrigan limp his way
through the tunnels, searching for him. But at least Rand wasn’t the only man
who had limped away from the fight at The Port Queen last night. If
Harrigan hadn’t, again, underestimated the loyalty and resourcefulness of ten
women and one black man, Rand wouldn’t have been able to crawl away.
    Slide, snap.
    Slide, click.
    If the bastard decided to storm the place, there
were plenty of men to stop him. But Rand didn’t want anyone else to be sliced
open by Harrigan’s filthy blade. It might as well have been dipped in poison.
    “Poison?” Foster parroted again, and Rand realized
he’d been thinking out loud. The man clicked the cover shut, cocked his gun,
and pulled the door open a crack. He stumbled back as the door opened wider
than he liked, to allow a woman in a floor-length cape inside. Nero followed on
her heels, then the door was secured again.
    He knew that purple cape! “Jezebel,” he said,
relieved to see she had recovered enough to be out and about.
    “No.” Slender hands rose and pushed back the hood.
“I am not your Jezebel.”
    He couldn’t have been more shocked if the bloody
Queen of England were standing before him. His lovely, surprising, misguided
wife stood as easy as you please in the middle of The Phantom’s lair, only
yards from the nearest Shanghai tunnel.
    She surprised the chills right out of him.
    “Mrs. Beauregard,” he sputtered.
    “Lady Beauregard,” she corrected