Page 7 of Somewhere Along The Way (Mackinnon #3)

Chapter Two

New Orleans was steamier than rice pudding and hotter than a biscuit.

In town only an hour, already Ross felt as wrung out as an old cow’s teat.

Nothing seemed to disturb the calm that comes with such heat—nothing save a volley of Creole curses that drifted his way now and then.

He looked down at his shirt. It was wet with perspiration and plastered to his skin. He’d seen fish that were drier.

He walked along narrow streets with odd names and strange little houses that were nothing more than plastered walls and ornate iron railings.

He was wondering if these New Orleans folks had something against yards, when he saw through an open door a courtyard draped in lush foliage and cooled by a large fountain.

It was something a woman would like. As for Ross, he had to have a little more elbowroom.

He’d be running into himself in a place like that.

No wonder these Creole men were so small.

He ducked into The Absinthe House and had a drink, more to get out of the sun and cool off than from any real thirst. He eyed the green anise-flavored liqueur and wondered why it was so popular.

A good shot of whisky was more to his liking.

Finishing the glass of absinthe, he reread the letter from his grandfather he had folded in his pocket and copied down the name and address of the lawyer he was told to contact in New Orleans.

He tossed a coin on the table, pausing to watch it spin on its edge, then left, heading up Bourbon Street—the first sensibly named street he’d come across—in search of one Mr. Pinckney.

CHARLES THEODORE FREDERICK PINCKNEY III, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW

Ross studied the name etched in fancy script on the brass door plaque, trying to see if he could get any hunches about a man with a fancy name like Charles Theodore Frederick Pinckney III.

After a moment or two, the only thing Ross could come up with was that a man with a name like that had to have a lot of patience.

With that he opened the door and went in.

Charles Pinckney was almost as old and massive as the intricately carved oak desk he sat behind. Judging by the plush furnishings, Ross figured old Charles Theodore to be quite successful, and rich as raisin pie.

Ross stepped farther into his office, and Charles Pinckney looked up to make a thorough appraisal of the young, dark-haired man standing before him. “My assistant tells me you have identified yourself as Ross MacKinnon. Do you have any proof that you are who you say you are?”

“No. All I have is this letter.” Ross tossed it on the desk.

Charles looked at the letter. “I forwarded that letter to you months ago. What happened to you and the letter during all that time?”

“The letter’s been sitting in Groesbeck. I’ve been away from home for quite a spell.”

“Doing what?”

“ Working .”

“Where?” Charles asked.

“Here and there.”

“Move around a lot, do you?”

“You could say that,” Ross said.

“Why is it that you don’t seem to stay in one place?”

“I have my reasons.”

“Isn’t it true that you have an itch for the ladies that tends to get you run out of town on a regular basis?”

Ross grinned. “Well, now. You might say that’s partly true.

I’ve been known to leave town a little sooner than I expected to a time or two.

Maybe that’s due to an itch. Maybe not.” Ross shifted his weight to the other leg.

“Either way, I don’t think you could say it was necessarily my itch that prompted it. ”

Charles pushed a piece of paper across the desk toward Ross. “Are you familiar with any of the women listed here?”

Ross read the list of names—ten or so women he had known intimately over the past couple of years. “I guess you could say that, although ‘familiar’ isn’t exactly how I’d put it.”

“With which women were you, er…familiar—for lack of a better word?”

Ross laughed. “All of them.”

Charles Pinckney folded his hands tent-like in front of him. He came close to smiling. “I see. And in what way are they familiar to you…that is, what is the relationship of these women to you?”

“Bluntly?”

Pinckney nodded.

“You could say we’ve shared a poke or two.”

“Where?”

“In the usual place. What do you think I am?” Ross was feeling just a little put out. He wondered if ol’ Pinckney had any Indian blood in him. His face sure was red.

“I mean where—as in the actual location, not what part of the…er…body.”

Ross shrugged. “In beds. Mostly.”

Charles coughed and cleared his throat. “Perhaps I should have said, in what towns?”

“Well…different ones.”

“Give me some names. For instance, in what town, specifically, did you encounter one Phyllis Whitehead?”

“Waco, I think.”

“And Caroline Archer?”

“Fort Worth.”

“Molly McCracken?”

Ross thought a minute. “Somewhere near Mexia.”

“Rebecca Harper?”

“Hard to remember. Gatesville, I guess.” Ross was more than irritated now, but before he could utter a protest, Mr. Pinckney, apparently satisfied, changed the direction of his questions.

“You have five brothers, I understand. Tell me where they are now—what they’re doing.”

“Actually, I have only four brothers living. My oldest brother, Andrew, is dead.”

“And the others?”

“Nick and Tavis are in Nantucket, building ships. Alex and Adrian were with the Texas Rangers for a spell. God knows where they are right now. The last letter I had said they left the Rangers and had signed on with General Zach Taylor to fight in the war with Mexico.”

“Your parents?”

“Dead.”

“No other immediate family members?”

“No.” Seeing the doubtful look on Pinckney’s face, Ross sighed and said, “Unless you are referring to my sister, who was taken during a Comanche raid about fourteen years ago.”

“Where is she now?”

“Still with the Indians, as far as I know. Or dead. All our searches turned up nothing.”

As if declaring this discussion over, Charles leveled a penetrating pair of deep blue eyes on Ross, then swallowed and rose to his feet. “All right, Mr. Mackinnon, I’m satisfied. Let’s get down to business, shall we?”

Ross nodded. “That’s what I’m here for.”

Charles cleared his throat again.

“You got the croup or something?”

“No, just a little catch in my throat.” Pinckney looked at Ross.

“I’m sure you’re just a little curious about what all of this means, and while I’m not at liberty to reveal too many details, I can tell you that your grandfather, Lachlan Mackinnon, is the Duke of Dunford and Chief of Clan Mackinnon.

He lives in the family castle, Dunford, near Kyleakin.

Your late uncle, Robert Mackinnon, was in line to inherit.

It might interest you to know that your grandfather has already gone to considerable lengths to enable you to inherit the title Duke of Dunford upon his death. ”

“What do you mean, considerable lengths?”

“Legally your brother Nicholas inherits the title, whether he wants it or not. In England it would have been nigh impossible to alter this, but fortunately for your grandfather, Scotland, although part of Great Britain, is not England. Many of the old Scottish ways still exist, and that goes for the Scottish legal system as well. English law isn’t the same thing as Scottish law.

” Charles paused, as if thinking something over.

“What I’m saying is, it cost your grandfather considerable time and money to make you his heir. ”

“What made him so certain I wouldn’t refuse like Nick and Tavis did?”

“Your grandfather is a very wise man. He allowed his youngest son—your father—to come to America, but he always knew what was going on in his life. His files on your father, as well as your brothers and yourself, are quite extensive.” Charles opened a file in front of him and studied it for a moment, his face flushed as he spoke.

“Your grandfather has known for some time that you are considered to be a rather headstrong and reckless sort of man, that you have a…er…knack for getting into trouble, usually always over a young woman, and that you are, for lack of a better word, a bit of a hell-raiser, sir.”

“Go on,” Ross said with a faint smile at Charles’ apparent discomfort.

With a nod, Charles tugged at the collar that had suddenly grown tight.

He pulled out a white handkerchief and wiped his brow.

Folding the handkerchief, he tucked it into his pocket as he said, “It has also been brought to your grandfather’s attention that you are fairly well educated—by Texas standards—and while considered a bit rebellious, you are reputed to be both honest and just. It is also noted here that you, more than any of your brothers, carry on the Mackinnon tradition of being quite handsome, and that this may have some bearing on all the trouble you seem to have with the ladies. ”

“He knows all of that?” Ross asked.

“He does.”

“You seem to be very thorough, Mr. Pinckney.”

“It’s my job to be thorough.”

“And it’s mine to be cautious.”

“If all the things I’ve read about you are true, Mr. Mackinnon, I can certainly understand why you should be.” This was said with such an expressionless face that Ross couldn’t help throwing back his head with a hearty laugh.

Then he said, “Does that report say anything about my having a mole on my left hip, or a scar beneath my left arm?”

Mr. Pinckney flushed. “Indeed…that is, we know about the scar, sir.”

Ross laughed, rose to his feet, and walked to the window. Pulling back the curtain, he was able to glance over the rooftops to the Mississippi. He stared at the muddy stretch of water, wondering what it would feel like to live on water for the next few weeks.

Crossing his arms and leaning his shoulder against the window frame, he kept his thoughts on the water as he considered what might be the most important decision of his life.

After a moment, Charles cleared his throat. “I don’t mean to rush you, but have you reached a decision, Mr. Mackinnon?”

Wordlessly, Ross turned and walked back to the desk.