by Jan Watson
Darcy tied a fancy bonnet under her chin and fetched the box that held Mrs. Upchurch’s order. “Good-bye,” she mouthed. “Thank you.”
Remy dismissed her with a nod.
The moment she stepped away from the cabin, Darcy’s spirit lightened. As much as she loved her grandmother, and though she thanked God every day for her, sometimes Darcy was nearly smothered with her constant need. How would she care for Mammaw if she and Henry chanced to marry? Darcy’s mind took fanciful flight as she hitched Chessie to the light buggy. He would live here, of course. She saw him tenderly feeding Mammaw her Cream of Wheat while Darcy stitched another of her creations. When he was finished, Darcy would hand him his just-whisked suit coat as he left for the office.
Darcy’s lips tingled at the thought of his good-bye kiss. She could see herself waving Henry off before she turned back to Mammaw, who hid a tender smile behind her hand, a smile that recognized Darcy’s good fortune.
Startled out of her reverie, Darcy pulled hard on the reins when a wagon loaded with pigs approached from around a hairpin curve in the road. The buggy wheel slipped dangerously close to the narrow shoulder, the only thing between Darcy and a deadly plunge into a deep ravine. At a sharp flick of the reins, Chessie picked up speed. Gravel flew. Pigs squealed. A flock of doves lifted from the branches of a pine tree. The other driver shook his fist.
“Sorry,” Darcy called above the clamor of the doves.
“I need to stop daydreaming and pay attention to the road,” she said to Chessie. “A body could get killed out here.”
But it wasn’t just wishful thinking, Darcy knew as she righted her bonnet. It was a dream about to be fulfilled.
Henry had daydreams of his own, and they all had to do with reclaiming his heritage. His office door was propped open to the warm spring day while he did some bookkeeping. His fine script in navy blue ink filled page after page in leather-bound ledgers. At the present he was entering accounts received, his favorite task. Henry trusted numbers, especially numbers that stood for dollars. Each column on each page took up the same amount of space, nothing overlapped, and not a letter or a number was less than perfectly printed.
Henry paused to refill his pen from the bottle of ink in the inkwell. He’d have a larger income if he’d stayed in Chicago. He’d clerked in a law office to pay his way through school. They’d offered him a good position with a good salary when he graduated, but Henry had old scores to settle and they couldn’t be settled in Chicago.
Henry grew up poor as dirt and just as disrespected. His father—long gone now—had been a layabout, his mother so broken down by childbearing she hardly knew Henry existed. He remembered as a boy tagging behind her as she begged for credit at Coomb’s Dry Goods. He remembered his family being turned out of one tenant house after another when Henry’s father wouldn’t keep the place up, wouldn’t work on a bet if the odds were in his favor. The last place they’d lived in had cracks in the walls big enough to pitch a cat through.
But things were different now. When he walked down the street, folks practically bowed and scraped. “Morning, Mr. Thomas,” he’d hear. Or “Fine morning, Henry. I need to see you about a little something.” Henry was privy to the business of nearly everybody in the county, and scores of them owed him money. Sometimes he called in his obligations; sometimes he didn’t. There was power in having folks in his debt—power and control.
Taking a clean sheet of paper from a stack, Henry angled it in the middle of his desk and began to draw. From long-entertained memory he sketched the footprint of what had once been his grandfather Thomas’s farm. Carefully he blotted the ink, then further outlined a rough draft of the external border of the various Whitts’ property: Fairy Mae’s, Dimmert’s, and through Dance, Ace Shelton’s. He knew what he searched for, of course, knew the answer before pen and ink revealed it in truth: his grandfather’s lost legacy. What should have been Henry’s birthright, acre upon acre of buried coal and richly timbered land nearly touched the black-inked borders of what now belonged to the Whitts.
Over a period of time, ten acres here and twenty there, Herbert Whitt had by hook or by crook obtained most every smidgen of property once owned by Henry’s grandfather. By all accounts, Fairy Mae’s husband had been a shrewd businessman and a first-rate card shark. Obviously Henry’s grandfather had been neither. But Henry remembered his grandpa’s kindness and the stick candy he kept in his pocket especially for his namesake. He always had cinnamon, Henry’s favorite. “You’re the smartest of the bunch,” he’d tell Henry.
Henry’s pen rested too long in one place, and now an ink stain besmirched his drawing, spreading across the paper like the acid of anger stained Henry’s heart.
Opening the middle drawer of the desk, Henry withdrew a key and went to the standing display case in front of the horsehair settee. He slipped the key in the lock and opened the case with one quick turn of his wrist. Next to money, the objects there were Henry’s treasures and a reminder of his great-grandmother’s Cherokee heritage. He fingered a sharp-tipped arrowhead. The workmanship always gave him pause. He’d seen his great-grandmother only one time, but he remembered with the clarity of youth her beauty and her dignity. He laid the arrowhead in place.
Unconsciously he ran his fingers through his thick, coal black hair, then traced the outline of his fine, long nose. Though not vain, Henry was aware of his good looks. While in Chicago, at every dance and debutante ball Henry could swing an invitation to, the young ladies had flocked to his side—even the daughter of the president of the law firm he clerked for. But Henry didn’t attend parties to meet women; he went to learn manners and social decorum.
“All wasted here,” he said aloud. Taking a ceremonial tomahawk from the display, he gripped the handle, slung it over his shoulder, and brought it forward, slicing the air but with no release. The silky eagle feathers attached to the handle with a leather thong fluttered with the motion. It had been a while since he’d practiced with the hatchet. Maybe he’d take it with him whenever he had the opportunity to stake Ace Shelton’s land. He could hardly wait to see that place. It was sure to be as rich as the other Whitt properties. One pleasant thought led to another and then to the fair Darcy.
As if he’d orchestrated her appearance, Darcy peered through the door. “Henry, are you to home?”
Henry’s pulse quickened. Quickly he replaced the tomahawk, turning the key once more. Darcy stood in the doorway backlit by sunshine. In a few strides Henry was across the room, extending his hand to her. “Come in. Please come in.”
“Well,” she said, “I don’t know if that would be proper. Maybe you’d best step out here.”
“There wouldn’t be a thing wrong with you coming in. Folks will think you’re here on business.”
“Are you sure? I wouldn’t want any gossip to get back to Mammaw.”
With one hand he captured her elbow and pulled her across the threshold. Her scent reminded him of Ivory soap, so clean, so pure—just being in her presence made him feel special. Could that be love? Henry didn’t know what love was supposed to feel like. The only person who ever cared for him was his grandfather, and that was years ago. Henry’s desire to kiss her innocent lips was so strong he nearly grabbed her right there. Instead he moved back to let her in, sliding the doorstop away with his foot. “What brings you to town, Darcy Mae?”
With a little dip of her knees, Darcy placed a large box wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string on the display case. “I had to mail this package. Your office is on the way—um, just across from the post office.” She stumbled over her words. “I guess you already know that.”
Her cheeks looked like bright red apples. Henry had to hold himself back from taking a bite. “I’m glad you thought to stop by. I really enjoyed having lunch with you.”
With small movements she twisted her shoulders from side to side and ducked her head like a girl in a schoolyard. “Really?”
“Really. Come here.” He guided her to the back room, w
here he kept an Army cot, clothes, office supplies, and a big black safe.
“Henry? I don’t think . . . I shouldn’t . . .”
He silenced her with darting kisses, first her ripe apple cheeks, then her sweet, sweet lips.
“Oh my,” she said. “Henry.”
He pulled her as close as close could be. “What is it about you, little Darcy?”
She stood on tiptoe and returned his quick kisses with the softness of a butterfly’s wings. It seemed as if Henry had been hungering for this all his life.
He reined himself in. “There,” he said with a light but lingering kiss upon her willing lips. “We’d best stop.”
“Yes,” she replied, not moving from the circle of his arms, “we’d best.”
The bell over the office door dinged. He pulled away and straightened his tie. Cracking the supply room door, he edged around it. He’d get rid of the visitors while Darcy waited unseen.
Of all people, Ace and Cara stood waiting. He nearly swallowed his Adam’s apple.
“Your sign said to come on in. Sorry to interrupt.” Ace cocked his head and strained his neck, looking around Henry.
Dimmert’s wife turned her head. “Ace,” she murmured, “we can come back later.”
“No need for that. I was just counting supplies.” Henry cleared his throat. What in thunder was Ace looking at? Chancing a glance behind, he could feel the color drain from his face. A froth of skirt and petticoat was caught in the door. Inch by slow inch the skirt tail was being tugged from its trap. Stop! he thought to say, though he didn’t open his mouth, for with one more jerk the door popped open. There stood Darcy with her bonnet askew, her eyes round as wagon wheels.
“What?” Ace exploded.
“Ace,” Darcy choked.
“Oh, dear,” Cara chimed in.
“I can explain.” Henry’s calm, detached lawyer’s persona took over. “Miss Whitt was taking my measurements for a new suit coat.”
“Behind closed doors?” Ace said, his eyes narrowed, one fist thumping the other palm.
“That door swung too when you opened this one.” Henry pointed at the office door. “It always does that.” He squared his shoulders and stared back at Ace. “Sorry to put you in a bad light, Miss Whitt.”
“Goodness,” Darcy said, righting her bonnet and picking up her package. “I’d best get this mailed.”
“Perhaps another time for the measurement, then,” Henry said without breaking his eye lock with Ace.
Ace backed toward the open door, keeping Henry in sight as if he were a rabid dog. “I’ll measure you, Henry Thomas. I’ll measure you good if this happens again. Darcy! Cara. Let’s get out of here.”
As the door slammed closed behind Ace, Henry had to admit he was shaken. Shaken and embarrassed—feelings of weakness he was not used to entertaining. Those emotions took him right back to his wretched childhood. He’d allowed the fetching Darcy Whitt to penetrate his carefully constructed armor. That made him as big a fool as any other man.
He paced the room, rounding his shoulders and letting them drop until embarrassment turned to anger, an emotion Henry could deal with.
CHAPTER 12
DARCY CRIED all the way home. Chessie trotted along the familiar road, needing no direction to take Darcy’s mind off her desolation. She hoped they’d meet the wagonload of pigs again. It would be easier to be pitched over the side of the road than to face Mammaw once Ace got finished. And Dance was there with the kids and Remy, who was sure to tell Miz Copper. Oh, the shame of it all. Darcy just couldn’t stand it!
At a wide place in the road, she pulled the buggy over and waited. Soon Ace stopped his vehicle behind hers. He approached from the side. Cara trailed along.
“Ace,” Darcy pleaded, “please don’t tell Mammaw and Dance.”
Cara joined in. “Ace, does Fairy Mae need to know? It would only cause her worry, and I’m sure it won’t happen again. Right, Darcy?”
With all her heart Darcy surely hoped it would, but she couldn’t lie right to their faces. “We were only kissing,” she said between sobs. “I don’t see the harm. . . .”
Ace looked like he might bust a gut. “Darcy Mae Whitt! You know better. You’re an unmarried woman, and you were behind closed doors with a man who is no kin to you. You were raised better than that!”
“You and Cara go all over together, and nobody says a word against it.”
Darcy heard Cara’s sharp intake of breath. “Darcy,” she said like she couldn’t believe her friend would say such a thing.
Ace turned his head, took off his hat, and settled it again before he answered. His words were soft and kind. Darcy could have handled it better if he spoke in anger. “Folks don’t say anything because there is nothing to say. Cara is my sister, the same as you are. Don’t try to justify your actions.”
Darcy took a shuddering sigh. She was sorry she’d sunk so low as to hurt Cara, but they didn’t understand. “Does it help that I love Henry and Henry loves me?” She straightened her small frame and tossed her head. “We’re the same as promised to each other.”
Ace put one foot on the buggy and leaned in close. “Has he asked you to marry or made any sort of promise to you?”
Cara sat down beside Darcy and put one arm around her.
Darcy fished a hankie from up the cuff of her sleeve and blew her nose. “I know his intent. Truly I do.”
“Darcy, Darcy, Darcy.” Ace shook his head. “You’re treading deep water.”
“Is it wrong to want to be happy?” Darcy dabbed at freely flowing tears. “All I do is take care of Mammaw and go to the post office once a week. Henry is the answer to prayer.”
“You’ve got blinders on, girl. God don’t condone sneaking around, hiding your sin.”
Darcy flinched.
Ace’s voice softened. “I can see how Henry charmed you, sister. He sure had me fooled. Henry’s as smooth as a snake-oil salesman, but he ain’t the type to tie to.”
Under cover of the handkerchief, Darcy crossed her middle and pointer fingers in childish rebellion. “I’ll do better, Ace. Just promise you won’t tell on me.”
Ace’s palm rasped over his beard stubble as he gave in. “All right, this one time, though it’s against my better judgment.”
“I’ll ride the rest of the way to Fairy Mae’s with Darcy,” Cara said. “You want me to drive?”
Darcy turned over the reins and slumped back against the soft leather of the buggy seat. She and Henry would have to be more careful.
Henry cursed his own stupidity. He needed to get outdoors and work off his anger before acid ate a hole in his stomach. As he flipped through his engagement diary, he saw a one o’clock appointment with the Hanson family. Ever since the patriarch of the Hanson clan died—Orban must have been a hundred if he was a day—the family had been feuding over his thirty acres of rock, one rickety lean-to, and six coonhounds.
Henry had seen the dogs—sleek, reddish brown coats and long, pointed noses. Orban had a reputation for training the best hunting dogs. For sure they were the only thing Orban owned that was worth fighting over. Henry might like one of them himself. Maybe he’d take one or two in payment of settling the estate. If things continued according to design, he’d soon have plenty of land to run them on.
Henry had hatched his plans on a day late last fall after seeing Fairy Mae and Dimmert leaving the courthouse. With her grandson’s help, Mrs. Whitt hobbled down the steep steps. Henry had made it his business to peruse the will Fairy Mae had just filed. His mind ticked with possibility when he found what Darcy stood to inherit after the old lady passed.
Then when Ace came to Henry for legal advice after Dimmert was accused of stealing the mule, Henry saw the way to make his wishes reality. Dimmert’s land lay sandwiched between what Darcy would come into when her grandmother died and that previously deeded to Ace’s wife. It wasn’t a great leap to figure what might happen if Dimmert didn’t pay his fine. And if Dimmert didn’t pay his fine and went to
prison for thieving, would his wife be able to pay the taxes on Dimmert’s land? Fat chance.
Henry would save the day by snapping the property up at a fair price before it was auctioned off on the courthouse steps. Even Ace couldn’t question his intent if he was one of the family, if he was husband to the fair Darcy Mae. He’d work on plans for Ace’s property once the others were his. It shouldn’t be too hard. Everyone knew Dance Shelton was loco, and she was Ace’s weakness. Something was bound to happen there, and when it did, Henry would be quick to offer his assistance.
Back to the day at hand, Henry stepped to the door and looked down the street. If he moved swiftly, he could put his Out of the Office sign in the window.
No such luck, for there came the Hansons ten minutes early. Henry meant to make quick work of their complaints. It shouldn’t take long to divide up thirty acres and six hounds—minus two.
Cara stuck close to Darcy’s side as they made their way into Mammaw’s house. Darcy smiled brightly as she lifted Merky onto her hip. Merky was a great distraction, fiddling with the bow of Darcy’s bonnet, begging to try it on. Dance sat at the table with a cup of coffee while the other children ran through the kitchen screaming like banshees.
“Where’s Remy?” Darcy asked.
“She lit out as soon as I brought these young’uns in,” Dance said, giving Darcy a measured look. “Can’t say as I blame her none.”
“Is Mammaw . . . ?”
“Sleeping—or trying to. You kids hush.” Dance blew on the steaming coffee. “What’s got you all worked up, Darcy?” she asked before chancing a sip.
Of all the times for her sister to act like a sister. Darcy was dumbfounded. She couldn’t remember a time when Dance inquired about her feelings. She was always much too busy taking her own temperature to fret about anyone else’s fever. Now, the one time Darcy wanted to be overlooked, Dance paid attention.
