Dream Song

Prologue

St. Louis September 10, 1810

"You let her take my son?"

The voice was low and deadly, coated with enough ice to send a chill up Hugh Younger's spine. He shifted in his leather desk chair, reluctant to look at Luke Randall's angry face. He had been more than a little afraid of his wife's older brother, anyway, ever since Luke had come back to St. Louis. Anne had always defended her brother, but despite what she said, Luke had never been like other white men. He was as savage as the Sioux who had raised him.

Hugh finally forced himself to lift his bloodshot brown eyes to his big brother-in-law. Even now, Luke wore the garb of the red devils, his six-foot-five-inch frame looking enormous in the tan buckskins decorated with long, beaded fringe. Luke's terrible, unreadable green eyes settled on Hugh, disconcerting him even more. He needed a drink, he thought, reaching with palsied hands for the cut-glass decanter on the desk beside him. He poured a good-sized shot of whiskey into his glass and tossed it down with one quick motion.

"I want answers, Hugh, and I want them now," Luke demanded, leaning forward to brace both palms flat on the desktop. "Pete's my son, damn you!"

"It wasn't my fault," Hugh stuttered quickly, remembering well from his childhood the force of Luke's volatile temper. He nearly shook with nerves. "I told you I was drinking that night, Luke! I can't remember every detail, for God's sake! What the hell does it matter anyway? The little bitch stole him away in the dead of night! I must have tried to stop her, since she clubbed me with the poker! My head still aches from it, and it's been two weeks!"

He tipped the decanter to his glass again, drinking hastily, then closed his eyes as the whiskey burned like fire in his gullet. He looked up as Luke turned and took several impatient steps away from the desk before he stopped, running his fingers worriedly through his thick, curly black hair.

"Have the authorities picked up her trail yet?" he demanded, turning back.

Hugh's eyes shifted guiltily. "I haven't notified-"

Luke's handsome face darkened with fury. "Why the hell not?"

"Because I wanted to keep the whole thing quiet. I've got a man on it," he added quickly, "and he said Bethany Cole had some friends down on the river-front. He thinks she might have taken the boy downstream on one of their keelboats."

"Is that her name, Bethany Cole?"

"Yeah."

"And she was Pete's nursemaid?"

"Yeah, and Anne trusted her. I trusted her, too, I guess. She seemed good enough with the boy."

The mere mention of Anne sent a pang through Hugh's heart. His beloved wife had been dead from fever for six months now, six long, lonely, god awful months.

"I want a warrant put out on her," Luke Randall was saying in clipped, angry syllables. "With her name and age and description. And, I want you to notify Andrew down in New Orleans. Do you understand me, Hugh? You let some half-grown girl from God knows where steal my son, and by God, you better hope I can find them before anything happens to him!"

The whiskey burning in Hugh's stomach gave him more courage than he normally would display. "What the devil do you care, anyway, Luke?" he muttered as he refilled his tumbler. "You haven't even seen the little half-breed in three years-"

Huge, sun-browned hands caught the front of Hugh's rumpled linen shirt before he could finish, hauling him bodily out of his seat.

"You're nothing but a weak, drunken fool, Hugh. Why my sister ever married you is beyond me, but I'll tell you this-you better pray to God that I find Pete, and find him well, or I'll be back to take it out of your worthless hide!"

Luke thrust his brother-in-law away in contempt, and Hugh dropped limply back, making the hinges on the tufted leather swivel chair squeal in protest. Luke turned, his knee-high moccasins making no sound as he crossed the expensive blue-and-crimson Chinese carpet. The door clicked behind him, and Hugh Younger slumped deeper into the cushions, cradling his whiskey bottle with one arm.

How could his gentle, lovely Anne have ever been blood kin to that savage monster? he thought. Fresh tears began to form in his eyes. Luke should have stayed with the savages, along with his little half-breed son. He dropped his head to his folded arms, leaning against the desk to sob for his wife with the bitter, heart-wrenching grief that never, ever left him.

Copyright © 1988 by Linda Ladd