by J. Rosemary Moss
Genre: Fan Fiction (Bonanza)
Rating: PG
LINK TO PART ONE
~
“What brings you to San Francisco?” Adam asked.
Some time had passed since we last spoke. I had drifted off for a spell, but now I had my face toward the window flap, enjoying the breeze. But I turned back to Adam when he spoke and considered his voice. His question, I judged, was comprised of equal parts of politeness, curiosity and business acumen. He had probably guessed already what deal I was after.
I smiled at him. “The Riehn-Jameson business. And yourself?”
“The same,” he owned. I could hear the smile in his voice. “I take it you want to buy Jameson out?”
I nodded. “His circumstances are so poor that he’ll have to sell cheap--though I suppose he’ll make out a bit better if we compete for his business.”
“I’m not competing for it,” Adam corrected.
I cocked my head at him. “You just said that’s why you’re going to San Francisco.”
“No--it’s Jameson that’s bringing me to San Francisco.” Adam paused, allowing me to hear the determination in his voice. “He still has a chance to get back on his feet, Drew. I’m not going to let you drive him out of business the way you drove Richard Wills out of his.”
I curled my lips at that. Adam and I had different notions of what constituted ‘fair play’ when it came to competition. He despised my methods. But I wondered how he managed to conduct any business at all--after all, his heart bled for every sob story that crossed his path.
I know for a fact that my treatment of Richard Wills disgusted Adam--but I didn’t lose any sleep over that. I had made out too well to let my conscience trouble me.
I had made a deal with a railroad baron to inflate the prices of any cargo Wills wanted to transport. The deal wasn’t illegal; our laissez faire government, after all, doesn’t restrict such practices. And it’s not my fault that Wills didn’t have the sense or the resources to make the railroad a better offer.
There was no other reasonable way for Wills to transport his goods. He was forced to sell his business--and I picked it up dirt cheap. Eventually I resold it for a tidy profit.
I meant to do something similar to Jameson--and I was fairly certain that I could pull it off. Jameson, poor fool, had worked hard at his business, building it from the ground up, but he lacked the ruthlessness he needed to make a success of it in such a competitive market. With a few quiet deals I could make it impossible for him to climb out of the debt he’d gotten himself into--unless he sold me his business well below the market value, of course.
Adam’s involvement would complicate matters. I had thought that he meant to offer Jameson a higher price for his business than I would, softening the blow of his failure. It hadn’t occurred to me that Adam meant to stop the man from failing in the first place.
“Do you know Jameson well?” I asked. “Is he some dear friend of the family?”
“I know him about as well as you do,” he answered. “No better.”
“Then why are you trying to rescue him?” I demanded.
I can’t tell for certain--but I think he was giving me a wry grin as he responded. “It’s not Jameson I’m trying to rescue,” he said.
My eyebrows shot up at that. Was he implying that I needed rescuing?
I knew Adam’s habit of picking up strays. He took the Cartwright trait of interfering in other people’s affairs to new heights. He would find fellows who were down on their luck and help them back to their feet, or--better yet--men who were guilty of some crime or other, in which case Adam would seek to rehabilitate them. From what I’d heard, his success rate wasn’t sterling with either sort.
As for me, I wasn’t down on my luck and I hadn’t crossed any legal lines. So I narrowed my eyes in Adam’s direction, not bothering to disguise my annoyance.
“I’m not one of your strays,” I said softly. “I won’t speak against your, ah, rescue missions--I suppose everyone needs a hobby--but kindly reserve your efforts for those who need them.”
There was a smile in his voice as he answered. “You may need rescuing from The Monstrosity,” he pointed out.
I bit back a grin. That called for a clever retort--but before I could make one the coach swerved, tossing all of us up against each other and up against the side of the vehicle.
Someone--my valet, I think--slammed into me. At the same time, my ears were bombarded with curses and oaths from inside the coach, shouts from the driver and his companion, the neighing of horses and the sickening sound of wood snapping and splintering.
The next thing I knew, the coach heaved over on its other side, but as best I could figure the team of horses was still dragging it. I couldn’t hear the voice of the driver any longer--he must have been thrown.
I clutched the seats and tried to brace myself, but that did no good when the coach plunged off the road and down a steep slope. God knows what happened to the horses. I couldn’t tell if they had broken loose or were dragged down with the coach.
The coach itself couldn’t stand the impact of the crash--I heard it breaking apart. For a second I felt the rush of wind against my face and then I landed with a thud hard on the ground. From there I tumbled down the slope, cutting my face and hands against stones and brambles along the way.
I can’t say how long I lay sprawled there once I stopped myself from tumbling. I was too winded and dazed to move or even to think straight. But at length I managed to take stock of myself. Apart from the cuts and bruises, I was uninjured. I could hear one or two men groaning a short distance from me, so I pushed myself to my feet and started to walk toward them.
That turned out to be a mistake; the ground was too steep and tricky. I tripped and tumbled farther down the slope. I didn’t try walking again. I crawled toward the voices instead.
I shook my head at myself. It was a damned humiliating position, crawling like an animal. But at least my hands could give me some warning of the pitfalls that lay ahead.
LINK TO PART FIVE
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