At Liberty to Love (Texas Romance Book 7)

by Caryl McAdoo

  “Perhaps I should have used a more feminine metaphor. Kittens wanting their mother’s milk. Would that have been better?”

  “Certainly kinder. My guess would be your pride. You were debating with yourself over me paying for the dinner and now more for drinks. But don’t let it hurt your pride. Please, Daddy would insist, and like I’ve said, it’s his money.”

  “Perhaps, but if you peered a bit deeper, you’d have found the two other major sins involved.”

  Her eyes sparkled in the lamplight. “More generalities.”

  The last word. That’s what she craved, not an answer. So he leaned back and fixed his eyes on hers, giving it to her. She stared right back like her will would prove stronger than his. He loved that game, except his hands begged to touch her.

  His arms longed to engulf her. His lips craved to taste her sweetness.

  She looked away, as if suddenly uncomfortable. “If you’d be so kind as to gather your things from my room and return my key.”

  Her eyes returned to his. He had offended her, but how? For a couple of booms of his heart, he got lost in them. What had he said to cause her to want the evening to end so abruptly?

  It finally hit him. His last word wasn’t enough. She wanted specifics and…had to win.

  “Our financial differences, and all that entailed.”

  One side of her full lips edged up a fraction. “I thought that was it, and like I said, it boils down to pride. If the tables were turned, and I was between engagements, and you were, say, a filthy rich industrial giant, then neither of us would think a thing about you paying.”

  “True.”

  “So tell me now, why should there be a difference? There’s no reason for you to think less of who you are.”

  His lips spread. So, the intriguing lady wanted to win so badly, if need be, she’d deprive him of the last hours or even minutes he had to spend with her. “What time does this old girl steam out on the morrow?”

  Her grin bloomed. “Nine, why?”

  “Want to buy me breakfast? Or rather, let the General?”

  “How about you working for it?”

  Such spoiled behavior. He shrugged then nodded a yes, but the duty he preferred didn’t pay unless the lady in question was considerably older…and the Widow Rusk, only a few months his senior, would never qualify.

  One more black mark against her name. “What did you have in mind?”

  “I’ve been thinking about a sketch. I’d love to judge your talent for myself, and…let’s say…have a souvenir if you’d be agreeable.”

  A fabulous idea. “I’d love that. So long as you’ll sit.”

  “Me?” She appeared truly flustered. “Why me? I was thinking of the river or a still life.”

  “Only you will do. I’ve itched to draw you since climbing into the coach of The Belle. Do you happen to have paper and pencil? A pad and charcoal would be even better.”

  “I have the former, but perhaps we might be able to procure the latter...and I suppose I could sit for you. So long as it’s in a public place.”

  He drained his wine then stood and extended his hand. “Come on then. Let’s get to it. I might have time to do one for myself for my own remembrance.”

  Rebecca fished out a wad of greenbacks, drained her own glass, then took his hand and let him pull her to her feet. Her big mouth! One might think of her as a silly schoolgirl infatuated for the first time.

  But…had she ever been this way before? Could that be it? No. The wine had run her thoughts around the stump. That’s all.

  In the morning, she’d feed him breakfast then never see him again.

  Silly? Yes—undeniably.

  Outside the lounge, he stopped.

  “Where are we going? Is the paper in your room?”

  “It is.”

  “Excellent. I can collect my things, then we can find some decent light.”

  Like co-conspirators, he kept a gentle grip on her hand, as she hurried with him up the stairs. A bit sweaty, but warm and firm, and holding it seemed so natural. Outside her room, he stopped, fished out her key, unlocked the door, then returned it to its rightful owner.

  “I’ll wait out here. Whenever you’re ready, then I can change. Do you have anything I can use to wrap up this most wonderful suit you brought me?”

  “I appreciate you being aware of appearances, but don’t be silly.” She put the key in her clutch. “Come inside. I’ve got two rooms, and we don’t need to waste any time. It so happens I picked up a carpetbag for you. Yours seemed a bit long in the tooth.”

  The makings of a protest threatened to form, but instead, he shrugged and followed her inside. She loved him being so uncomfortable. A proper gentleman. She retrieved his new bag and handed it to Marcus then closed her bedroom door behind herself.

  “You do know if Henry Buckmeyer were to walk in, he’d shoot me dead and ask questions later.” Even through the walls, she could hear fear in his voice.

  “Oh, relax, please. Daddy hasn’t killed anyone in years.”

  Without taking his eyes off of her, Marcus leaned back. If only he had oils and canvas—and daylight, but no matter, he loved what he had—her presence.

  The ship’s lounge proved the best light to be found, and the most comfortable seating as well…but still.… He studied his work then made a tiny extra line on the drawing.

  “So?” Rebecca cut her eyes but didn’t move her position, and only barely moved her lips. “Are you through?”

  “Yes.” He grinned.

  Melting, she wiggled her shoulders like they’d been begging all along to move, then stuck her hand out. “Let me see.”

  The part he hated. Sharing what had been only his. “How about I keep this one and do you that still life you wanted…or something else?”

  She wiggled her fingers. “Hand it over, Marcus Ford.”

  Was there any way around it? Probably not. He set the piece of paper on the table, turned it toward her and slid it over.

  Her breath caught. “How in the world? Is… is that really me?”

  “Yes, ma’am. In all your splendor. Well, all the splendor I could muster from this pencil. I can’t –”

  Her palm went up, silencing him. She finally tore her gaze off the drawing and looked at him. “You’re remarkable.”

  One shoulder hiked a bit. Why did he hate being praised?

  “My hand had…no choice.” He smiled. “With the most gorgeous female in captivity as a subject, I couldn’t miss.” Over her shoulder, the ship’s clock claimed it to be a quarter to three.

  How was that possible? Where had the night gone?

  “Sorry, I didn’t realize it’d gotten so late. Shall we call it a night?”

  “If you want.” She turned toward the clock then back. “Wow, when did it get so late? It passed so quickly.”

  For the first time in years, what he wanted sat across the table, not rotting in a dark grave. Those eyes, her lips… He loved the way her hair framed her face. “What I’d love is canvas, oils, and better light. That rough sketch doesn’t do you justice.”

  She beamed. Then, though her lips pursed, her eyes still smiled. “Marcus, you are such a flirt. Where’d you study art?”

  “My father taught me most of what I know.” Perfect. Why had he opened that door?

  “Certainly a good teacher. But I ascertain your talent is a gift. One that can’t be taught, only enhanced.”

  Hopefully, she’d change the subject. She leaned a bit to the side and stared at him. He met her gaze for a few moments then had to look away.

  “Marcus? What’s wrong?”

  Should he tell her? Why not? In just a few hours, she’d be gone and he’d probably never see her again. The thought stabbed his chest. “Father wasn’t a good teacher.”

  “Really? How so?”

  Holding out his right hand, palm down, he touched it with his left one. “See that spot there?”

  She leaned in and looked at the back of his hand. “That scar?”<
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  “Yes, ma’am. That’s where he’d whack my hand if I made a mistake.”

  “Mercy! That’s terrible.”

  “Such a perfectionist he was.” He studied the reminder for a minute then looked back up and smiled. “No matter how good I got, as far as he was concerned, it was never good enough.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “After finishing a piece I thought would surely, finally please him, I got this for my effort. All he saw were the imperfections. We argued, and he ended up breaking his stupid stick over my head.”

  “Oh mercy. That’s just awful. How old were you then?”

  “Sixteen. Never painted another thing until after his death.”

  She covered his hand with hers. “What a horrible man.”

  “You should have seen his work.” He glanced toward the door, remembering his father’s favorite piece. “Dad had his good traits, but art was.…” He shrugged. How could he explain? He missed his father alright, but even if he had the power, still would never bring him back from the dead.

  Rebecca tightened her grip on his hand. The warmth spread to his heart. “What was art to him? Finish your thought.” She released his hand and leaned back.

  Might as well tell her the whole story. He smiled inside despite the misery that thinking of his father along with art always brought. The persistent lady didn’t look like she would be put off.

  Besides, another story would keep her sitting there across the table from him, and his eyes could continue their feast.

  “One of his paintings had caught the eye of a rather well known artist in Paris. He met my mother through the man.”

  “Was she an artist, too?”

  “Somewhat, but not in Father’s class. Her talents lay in languages. Spoke seven.”

  “Very impressive.”

  “Anyway, they fell in love. After my maternal grandfather died they used her inheritance to immigrate, came straight to New Orleans.”

  “You’re French then?”

  “Mother was. He was English, I was born here. Anyway, my father was gaining a reputation, selling some of his work now and again. But he got the shakes. Nothing helped but opium. After a while, even that failed him. He never painted again after the palsy.”

  “How old were you then…when he quit painting?”

  “Twelve.”

  “So when did you start?”

  Though he surely hated the telling, he loved her interest. Could he withhold anything from the lady?

  “Early on, I fooled around with charcoal then watercolors for a while. Always on cheap paper though. He didn’t want me wasting his pigments or canvas, not until I’d proven myself.”

  “I can hardly imagine such a man.”

  “I understand that, knowing Henry Buckmeyer. At the time, I couldn’t comprehend Father’s attitude. In retrospect, appears jealousy played its part.”

  “How so?”

  “Mother said he had to really work at his art, where mine….” He shrugged. “Sometimes it just flows. Like tonight. But then how could it not, having you as a subject.”

  Her eyes smiled, but her mouth pouted. “Marcus, you must stop being such a shameless flirt.”

  He loved that expression. Made him want to kiss her.

  She’d accused him before, but he couldn’t help himself. “Anyway, after about a year of him not doing anything with his supplies, mother had suggested selling them. Nothing came of that. One sleepless night, I snuck into the studio through a window and painted ’til the sun came up. After he whipped me for stealing, he put me to work for real.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Painting for his pottery business. Before, I’d only helped with firing the kiln and mixing the slip. But he’d gotten to where he could hardly hold a brush.”

  “You painted pottery? Like dishes?”

  “Hand-painted china, dishes, cups. Individual pieces and whole sets. Sold them all over, even shipped some to Europe. He made stencils for me at first. I followed his patterns, then….” He grinned thinking how mad the old man got that first time.

  “What are you smiling about?”

  “Oh, I changed things. Painted them better without using his outlines, so it went much faster, too.” Ford snorted. Why had his dad been like that? “He never told me, but mother claimed my work brought more money.”

  “Did he ever acknowledge your talent?”

  “Not really. Mother always raved about it, but never in front of him. Anyway, guess I took a little from both of them.”

  “Where’d the math come from?”

  “Who knows? Numbers have always been easy for me, as most things.” Why had he said that? How arrogant could he be? Hopefully she wouldn’t think him insufferable.

  “Is that so?”

  His face warmed, then mercifully, a question that he’d thought of earlier jumped to his tongue. “Levi mentioned the mule story at the Titus Trading Post several times. One night I got him to elaborate. You were there, right?”

  She laughed then nodded. “One of the best days of my life.”

  “I’d love to hear your take on it.”

  “I’d already decided God sent Henry Buckmeyer to be my father—the answer to my prayer—and had been calling him Daddy in secret. Only when we were alone.”

  “How old were you then?”

  “Nine. My mother stayed mad at him most of the time, so I figured better not to be the one to tell her. Anyway, Mister Titus had just told Mama he’d heard the cotton buyers were leaving Jefferson in two days.”

  “I’m sure she didn’t want to hear that.”

  “Absolutely. We were still like five days out, and she got all catawampus, thinking she’d never make it in time after all she’d gone through.”

  How interesting that she’d picked the General before her mother. He’d never heard that, but didn’t stop her story. He leaned back and let her words fill his soul.

  What a grand gift he’d been given—the chance to meet the Widow Rusk. And here he’d kept her up through the night…there’d be plenty of time to sleep though.

  Twice, when she acted like the tale was told, he asked another question and kept her going. The thought of not spending even one available tick of the clock with Rebecca before they threw him off the ship and she sailed out of his life forever…it soured his belly.

  After she relayed the story about Henry getting them all to New Orleans, another question presented itself. “A couple of times, Charley Nightingale mentioned a fight at the Titus Trading Post, but I never could get Wallace to say what that was all about.”

  “You must be talking about the time back in 1844, the trip when he brought Sassy Fogelsong home—you probably know her as Rose Baylor. It wasn’t much of a fight though. Understandable that Wallace wouldn’t talk of it. He killed a man there who’d once been his friend.”

  “Really, who?”

  “Nick the Knife is what they always called him; I believe Ward was his last name. Anyway, Levi had his pistol pointed at the man’s nose, while Nick had his blade at a woman’s throat—an innocent shopper at the trading post. Wallace slipped in the back door and killed the man from behind with his knife.”

  “The guy had been his friend?”

  “They’d rangered together right after San Jacinto.”

  “Was Sergeant Nightingale there?”

  “Charley was only four then, or had he just turned five? Anyway, he didn’t come in until the deed was done, but he’d been having nightmares about the man. Those stopped.”

  A whole other story—one he’d love to hear, but the night’s blackness had grayed some. “Seems the new day is upon us. May I buy you a cup of coffee?”

  “I’d love some, yes. But first, I need to put this in my room.” She pointed to the sketch.

  “What? I don’t get to keep it to remember you by?”

  “No, sir. Sorry. It’s for me to recollect of this night…and your company.”

  “In that case…I’m honored you’d want to.” H
e stood and extended his arm. “Shall we then? I can collect my things from your room while you put the drawing away.”

  Instead of staying on the ship for the brew, she insisted he take her to town.

  Coffee, then breakfast followed by a leisurely window shopping stroll through Jefferson, as if he had spare money to spend, and she had all the time in the world.

  And though she hinted several times at how wonderful a hat or shirt would look on him, he ignored her offers. How could he let her sail out of his life in only a few hours?

  Then the first bell sounded. He hated the warning that soured more than his mood. The ship’s single stack bellowed white smoke, and someone pumped out a lively tune on the ship’s steam organ.

  He stopped at the gangplank and let her hand slip from his. She turned. “In your new bag there.” She nodded toward his grip. “I put a King James Bible I bought you yesterday.”

  He found a smile though every cell in his being frowned. “Thank you.”

  “In its pages, I slipped a blank note and envelope addressed with my sister’s address in San Francisco. I hope you’ll let me know how your interview turns out. I’ll be saying a prayer for God’s will to be made manifest.”

  “I will, but with that suit you bought me—I’m a shoe in. How could I not get the position?”

  The second bell sounded, sending a dagger into his heart. Footfalls pulled his attention behind him. Several couples hurried toward the gangway. “You best go on. Beat the rush.”

  She nodded then extended her hand. “Thank you for a wonderful time, Marcus. I’ll treasure my drawing.”

  Was that a tear?

  It took everything in him to resist pulling her to him and smothering her with kisses.

  Instead, he took her hand, bent at the waist, and brushed his lips over its back. He then retreated out of the way. She covered her mouth with the hand he’d just kissed and backed up the plank ahead of the folks hurrying to board.

  He sidestepped up the dock, never taking his eyes from hers.

  Once on the ship’s first deck, she walked along the rail, staying even with him, looking quite forlorn in a gorgeous sort of way. The distance between the wonderful lady and him couldn’t have measured more than ten feet, but it might as well have been a thousand miles—and soon would be.