A Reluctant Belle

by Beth White

  “The same as you, I imagine. Trying to right some wrongs.” Schuyler let that assertion simmer, then said, “And I’ve earned the trust of General Forrest, if that tells you anything. I know you’re looking for Lemuel Frye, and I know where he’s hiding.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. And I don’t know Senator Maney. At least, I know who he is, but he’s most likely at his home in East Tennessee. I certainly don’t recognize the name Lemuel Frye nor care why or where he’s hiding.” Maney—or whoever he was—signaled his horse to move.

  Schuyler grabbed the reins. “Wait. I understand your reluctance to take my word. But ask Forrest about me. And if you decide you want to know Frye’s whereabouts, send word through Kenard Hixon. I’ll arrange to meet you.”

  The big man laughed. “I’ll give you credit for a lot of nerve, young man. Now let go of my reins before I put a bullet hole in your arm.”

  Realizing there was indeed a pistol aimed at his shoulder, Schuyler released the man’s horse and executed a mocking salute. “At your command, sir.” Giving the bay his heels, he wheeled and cantered off into the darkness, halfway expecting at any moment to be taken down by a bullet in his back.

  He was almost 100 percent certain that man was Alonzo Maney. Whoever he was, he certainly knew Schuyler’s father. And he was a very forceful, dangerous, and influential man.

  Now that Schuyler had actually talked to him, his dread oddly diminished. He knew he could not relax his guard. But a known enemy held less power. Perhaps there was hope that he might come out of this snarl with his life and reputation intact.

  Joelle sat up in bed with a start. It was broad daylight, the sun streaming with obscene cheerfulness through the crack between the drawn curtains. Some noise had awakened her, but she saw nothing immediately amiss.

  She had been awake, still writing, when the sun cleared the eastern treeline, and she’d fallen into bed at last, eyes grainy and body achy and weary, shortly after that. She glanced at the notebook on her bedside table next to the guttered candle. If she was doomed to insomnia for the rest of her life, at least there might be a novel to show for it one day.

  Then the noise came again, a shower of plinks against the windowpane. Someone was throwing pebbles at her window. Only one person would do something so nonsensical and unnecessary.

  Scrambling out of bed, she snagged her robe off the bedpost and yanked it on over her nightdress. She jerked the curtains open, squinting against the onslaught of sunshine. “Why didn’t you just come to the front door and knock like a normal person?”

  Schuyler leaned on the open windowsill. “They wouldn’t wake you up, and I needed to talk to you.” He was hatless, his hair a wild and uncharacteristic mess. His clothes looked like they’d been unearthed from the bottom of the rummage bin at church. The bruises on his face were now a livid purple, and he smelled distinctly horsey.

  A host of excoriating remarks lined up on her tongue, but she was so relieved to see him that she found herself unable to respond in an appropriately irate fashion. “Where have you been?”

  “Out and about.” He gestured in the direction of town. “Reese said you ended the engagement. Is that true?”

  “When did you talk to Gil?”

  “Last night. There was a . . . man thing in town. He was there, I was there, it’s not important. But I wanted to hear it from you. Are you upset?” His eyes were red-rimmed, but they were steady on her face. He seemed to care about her answer.

  She moderated her tone in the direction of nonchalance. “I’m fine, just really tired. I couldn’t sleep last night. You either?”

  He rubbed his hand over a chin bristling with blond stubble. “Yes. I mean no. I’m sorry I woke you up—I was just worried. Did you hear about the newspaper office?”

  “How could I? I just woke—”

  “Oh, right. Well, there’s been a break-in at the Journal office. Some mob destroyed the press and wrote awful things on the walls. I know you like Mr. McCanless, so I thought you’d want to see what you could do for him.”

  Joelle stared at Schuyler. “Broke in? Destroyed the press?” How could she comprehend such a thing? “That’s—that’s—I don’t know what to say! Why? Mr. McCanless is such a nice man! Who would do such a thing?”

  “Someone who doesn’t like the things he’s been printing since the new legislature took office. An article by someone named Hanson apparently hit a nerve with the Klan, and it’s pretty obvious they’re behind this attack.”

  Feeling the blood drain from her face, Joelle dropped to her knees. “Oh no. No no no.”

  “Joelle? Don’t faint! I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have sprung that on you, but I wouldn’t have thought—”

  A roaring sound filled her ears, and the next thing she knew, Schuyler was inside the room. She lay across his knees with her head cradled in the crook of his arm, and he was dripping water from the basin onto her forehead with a washcloth.

  “Are you all right? I’m so sorry!” He dropped the cloth into the basin.

  She blinked up at him. “I’m T. M. Hanson.”

  “I’m going to get ThomasAnne. You’re delirious.”

  “No, I’m—I really wrote those articles.” She struggled to sit up, swiping away the water dripping down her face. “Mr. McCanless said he wouldn’t tell anybody it was me, but somehow Mrs. Whitmore found out, and she went right to Gil . . . What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “So that’s what Reese meant. He said something about the newspaper being caught up in trouble, right after he mentioned your speech in church, but I didn’t have any reason to connect the two.” Under his breath he called Gil a very uncomplimentary name. “He knew you were in danger, but he decided to hang you out in the wind and run for the hills.”

  She sighed. “That is the most mixed metaphor I’ve ever heard. Never mind. I knew what I was getting into when I wrote those pieces. I didn’t think about anyone retaliating against the newspaper itself, though. Not physically, anyway.” She put her hands to her face, sick all over again. “Sky, it’s just words. Words on a page.”

  His mouth was grim. “Words on a page started a revolution back in 1776, remember.”

  “I suppose you have a point.”

  “Of course I do. And I’m serious—you are in big danger. If that Whitmore woman knows you’re the author of those articles, the whole town knows by now. I wish you’d told me.” He looked more hurt than angry.

  “You told me not to—”

  “I know. I already told you I’m an idiot.” He looked around uneasily. “And I’m in your bedroom. I’m going to climb back out, and we’ll pretend this conversation never happened.” He got to his feet. “You didn’t tell anybody about the bathhouse, did you?”

  Should she lie to him? The silence went on too long. “I might have told ThomasAnne.”

  His blue-gray eyes widened. “Joelle! I’m going to have to marry you and make an honest woman of you! Which is criminal, since I never even got the benefit—”

  She grabbed the washcloth out of the basin and threw it at his head.

  He caught it, laughing, and slung one leg over the windowsill. “Don’t leave the house without one of the men with you. I mean it.”

  “Where are you going to be?”

  “I have a short trip to make. But I’ll be back before you can say ‘I’m a loose woman.’”

  “I am not! Wait, Schuyler!”

  “What?” He paused, looking impatient.

  “Levi told me to write an article, announcing your candidacy for Congress. I have some questions.”

  “I’m a little busy right now,” he said. “We’ll do that some other time.”

  He disappeared, and she had to content herself with cursing his birthright as she mopped up the water he’d slopped all over the floor. He came and went whenever he pleased, leaving her lonesome and anxious and . . . itchy. A very dissatisfactory state of affairs.

  twenty-three

  SCHUYLER LEFT THE MA
NAGER’S COTTAGE and took the path through the garden to the back porch of the main house, sifting through his priorities as he went. He’d been a fool to think talking to Joelle would ease his mind.

  When he’d told Levi he would attempt to lure Harold Moore out of Itawamba County, he’d had no idea Joelle was so deeply embedded in this snarl. Now he was forced to leave her unprotected for two days, while that bunch of vampires roamed the countryside, burning and crushing anyone who opposed their agenda. Levi insisted he’d left enough manpower established on the hotel property to keep the women safe. Still, he couldn’t help worrying.

  Also if Maney tried to contact Schuyler while he was on the road, the opportunity to infiltrate that top ring might be lost. Time was of the essence, but conferring with Hixon before he left was critical; if Hixon was conscious, he would most likely be found in the informal breakfast room.

  Approaching the house, he found Mose sitting on the back porch steps with Wyatt, both of them occupied in cleaning hunting rifles.

  Wyatt grinned and laid his gun across his knees. “Morning, Mr. Schuyler! You just now up and around?”

  “Always a day late and a dollar short,” he replied lazily. “Any sign of Hixon and Jefcoat this morning?”

  Mose removed his pipe from his mouth on a fragrant puff of smoke. “Yes, sir. They both inside, having a bite of breakfast. A big bite. One of the maids just took in another tray of biscuits.” He grinned. “Miss Selah say she’ll be glad to see the back of those two—they eating us out of house and home!”

  Schuyler rubbed the back of his neck. “Hixon can put away some food. At least when he’s not suffering a hangover.”

  “Sounded to me like there might be one of those involved too,” Mose said. “Mr. Jefcoat seems to be over the worst of it.”

  Sighing, Schuyler continued up the steps. “Y’all going hunting, or already been? Wish I could go with you.”

  “We got a couple of nice coons and a wild hog last night.” Wyatt pointed at the smokehouse. “Already got ’em dressed and drying. We’ll go again tonight, if you want to join us.”

  “I’m headed over to Itawamba County in a little bit. Needed to talk to Hixon before I go. But I’ll take you up on it when I get back.” Comforted at the thought of those two competent gun handlers standing guard over the hotel, Schuyler opened the screen door, calling out as he entered the breezeway, “Selah! Aurora! Anybody home?”

  “In here, Schuyler,” came Aurora’s voice from the breakfast room. “Selah took Levi to the depot in town. There’s plenty left, if you’re hungry.”

  “No, there’s not,” Hixon said around a mouthful of biscuit as Schuyler walked in. “Go get your own.”

  Schuyler took a cup off the buffet, poured it full of steaming black coffee, and stood blowing on it to cool it. He couldn’t talk Klan business in front of the women. Besides Aurora and Hixon, Delfina Fabio, Poldi Volker, and both Forrests sat at the table.

  The general looked well rested, perfectly groomed, and sated as a hound gnawing on a clean rib bone. He toasted Schuyler facetiously with his coffee cup. “Another of the younger set has arisen from the dead, I see. Us older and wiser heads have managed to obtain a full night’s sleep!”

  Schuyler took that to mean Forrest knew about the previous night’s activity but disassociated himself by remaining at the hotel. He caught Jefcoat’s eye, noting the unshaven chin and general air of post-debauchery. “How are you feeling? Mose said you’d been ill.”

  Jefcoat belched. “Who?”

  “Never mind. I see you’re in your usual health.” Schuyler frowned at Hixon. “Kenard, if you’re done with breakfast, there’s something I need to show you in the stable.”

  “You only call me Kenard when you want something.” Hixon reached for the preserves. “I think I’ll stay here.”

  Ignoring Aurora’s giggle, Schuyler set down his coffee with a rattle of porcelain. “Since I’ve been footing the bill for your room and board for several days, I think you owe me a few minutes of your precious time.”

  “Good Lord, what a bear it is before noon.” Heaving a put-upon sigh, Hixon got up, grabbing another biscuit, and ambled out of the room.

  “Excuse us both.” With a quick apologetic bow in the direction of the ladies, Schuyler followed Hixon out onto the porch. Acknowledging Mose’s and Wyatt’s curious looks with a nod, Schuyler hustled Hixon back through the garden, past the pagoda and icehouse, then on around to the stable.

  “Slow down, you barbarian,” Hixon panted. “You’re ruining my digestion.”

  “You ruined your digestion, breaking in to destroy a man’s property while he slept.” Schuyler jerked open the stable door and shoved Hixon in ahead of him. “I may not be able to eat again for a week.”

  “Are you still angry about the beating? You wanted in, remember?”

  “I’m not angry about the beating, and I did want in. But what if the other side broke into your business and took an ax to it? Oh, that’s right. You don’t have a business. You just ride all over Mississippi, cadging off other people’s food and liquor.”

  Hixon leaned against the wall, looking genuinely hurt and puzzled. “If I remember correctly, you were right there with me, riding and cadging. Now you get up on your high horse and try to make me feel bad that my old man doesn’t—didn’t fund my ventures like yours does—did, I mean.”

  Reminding himself that he needed this pathetic numbskull, at least for the moment, Schuyler moderated his sarcasm. “I’m sorry. You’re right. For the record, I’m trying to live up to my old man’s expectations and example. But I do need a favor from you, if you can manage it.”

  “Of course, just name it,” Hixon said as if he were making some great sacrifice.

  “Can you keep this just between us?”

  “Don’t insult me. Mum as an oyster.”

  Schuyler laughed. “All right. It’s just that this is very sensitive. I have to leave Tupelo for a couple of days, and I’m expecting a message from a man who’s very high up in the order—probably at least a Grand Titan. I told him he could reach me through you. If he does, I need you to take the message and hold it until I get back.”

  “You won’t trust me with his name?”

  “He didn’t give me his name.”

  Hixon blinked. “Then how will I know—”

  “You’ll know. Just keep any messages that come for me without explanation or identification. Please, Kenard, this is life-and-death important.”

  Hixon nodded. “I understand. You want me to stay here?”

  “Yes.” Schuyler hesitated. “Hixon . . . Have you ever seen General Forrest attend one of the meetings?”

  “Not since we’ve been here.”

  “But he did in other locations?”

  “Maybe. I’m not sure. As you said, everyone is always masked, so it’s hard to identify anyone.”

  “That’s true.” Schuyler took a close look at Hixon’s vacant face. The boy might be an alcoholic slob, but he had also been a loyal friend for a long time. If Schuyler himself had made radical changes in his life, wasn’t it possible that Hixon could be encouraged to make better choices as well? But what could he say in five minutes that would make any possible difference? Sighing, he whacked Hixon’s thick shoulder. “Thanks for your help, old man.” He swung toward the door, then hesitated, looking back at Hixon. “You’d tell me if you knew of something bad about to happen, wouldn’t you?”

  “Bad? What do you mean by bad?”

  “Bad, as in something that would hurt the people I love. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep an eye on Joelle. She means a lot to me.”

  “The tall redhead?” Hixon’s eyes went wide. “I’m not getting near her. She scares me. Can’t understand half what she says.”

  Schuyler laughed. “Same here, brother. But watch her anyway. I don’t want her getting in trouble.”

  He had to hurry. He’d forgotten to grab food for the trip while he was in the house, so he’d have to stop by the kitchen after
all. Horatia could be counted on to load him up with biscuits and salt pork.

  Women did like him, which was a comforting thought. Maybe Joelle did too. She was indubitably a woman.

  Joelle took her time putting the room to rights. As she made the bed, her thoughts bounced from Schuyler’s sudden appearance, to his information about the destruction of Mr. McCanless’s office, and back again. He was gone again, leaving her to deal with the aftermath of his energy. It was like standing in an electrical storm, then trying to explain why she hadn’t just gone indoors to get out of it. Perhaps she was crazy after all.

  She walked to the mirror and tried to see what he saw. Masses of red-blonde hair twisted into a sleep-mussed braid hanging over one shoulder. Faded floral robe that had definitely seen better days, hanging over long, skinny bare feet. Puffy blue eyes and a pillow crease on one cheek. Oh dear. No wonder he’d left town.

  Laughing at herself, she unwound the braid and picked up her hairbrush.

  As for the newspaper situation, T. M. Hanson had stirred up a hornet’s nest, and people were getting stung. Her instinct was to drive to town and see for herself, maybe try to help. But what if that just made things worse? And what could she do, anyway? She didn’t know how to fix a printing press.

  Suddenly depressed, she looked at the hasty, crooked knot she’d fashioned at the top of her head and decided it would have to do. Clothes. One had to wear clothes. By the time she’d dressed in a clean brown skirt and one of her ubiquitous white blouses, then shoved her feet into the first pair of shoes she found under her bed, it was nearly eleven o’clock. Breakfast at the big house would be over by now. But Horatia always kept food warm in the kitchen for the hotel workmen and maids.

  She headed that way. Her students would soon arrive for their noontime lessons, but she would have time to find something to eat and prepare the schoolroom if she hurried.

  She’d made it as far as the kitchen garden when one of Schuyler’s friends—she never could keep their names straight in her mind—fell into step with her, coming from the direction of the stable.