Straight For The Heart

by Marsha Canham

  “No. But I should have. And I would have if I thought either of you had put him up to proposing such an unholy alliance.”

  “We didn’t,” they declared in unison, and Amanda added, “I didn’t even know he had been to Rosalie, or that he had seen you, or that he had even wanted—or needed—a partner. Does he?”

  Ryan’s glower remained steady for as long as it took him to determine his sister and fiancée were genuinely ignorant of Michael Tarrington’s business dealings.

  “I wouldn’t know if he needs one or not,” he replied sullenly, jamming his hands in his pockets. “And frankly, I don’t care.”

  “Oh, yes you do,” Amanda said quietly. “You do care, Ryan Courtland, or you wouldn’t have even mentioned his offer. And you would leap at the chance to breed your precious horses again—with both feet stuck in tar—if it wasn’t for your damned pride standing in the way.”

  “My pride has nothing to do with it. He’s a Yankee, for God’s sake. We fought a war to keep them off our land, to keep them from destroying everything we held dear—now you want me to help him?”

  “I want you to help yourself and stop living in the past.”

  “You seem to be doing that well enough for all of us.”

  “Yes, and as you can see," she arched an eyebrow to emphasise the sarcasm, "he beats me blue every other day and locks me away in the cold cellar at night. He terrorizes Verity morning, noon, and night, so much so she can hardly wait for him to finish his supper in the evenings so she can ride his shoulders up to bed and have him read her stories and show her magic tricks. In truth, I never thought I would hear myself say these words, but … the war is over. We can’t keep hating everyone forever. There are some decent Yankees. My God, there have to be, otherwise we might as well all take out guns and shoot one another. I know what they did to you in the prison camp and I know how much you hate them—and the guards who beat and starved and tortured you deserve your hatred. But Michael wasn’t one of them. He’s fine and decent, and he isn’t here to destroy anything, he’s here to rebuild; to make a new start for himself … for us.

  “His pride is every bit as fierce as yours,” she continued, “but it hasn’t blinded him to the point where he’d cut off his own nose to spite his face. Furthermore, if you can’t bear the thought of a Yankee scoundrel making bags of money off the expertise of a Confederate ex-cavalryman, why not look at it as a clever Confederate ex-cavalryman making bags of money off an inept Yankee scoundrel?”

  She ran out of breath and steam at the same time and stood almost chin to stubborn chin with her brother, daring him to point out the flaw in her argument. He couldn’t, although his mouth opened and closed several times with the effort.

  “I think you should listen to her,” came a voice from behind a wall of shrubs. “It sounds like good advice—except for the inept part, of course.”

  Amanda whirled around just as Michael Tarrington stepped into view. His smoky gray eyes touched briefly on Dianna and Ryan before settling on hers and remaining there.

  “Michael.” Amanda expelled his name on a breath. “You’re back.”

  He looked down the length of his body and smiled. “It would seem so. I finished my business early and caught a fast packet out of Vicksburg. But … if you would rather I go away again and come back tomorrow …?”

  “No! No, I … I’m just … You surprised me, is all.”

  “Forgive me. And I did not mean to eavesdrop or to interrupt your conversation. I was on my way to the stables when I overheard voices and … to be honest … could scarcely believe the source of such an impassioned plea.”

  He saw her flush slightly at the unexpected warmth in his voice—a flush that darkened as he took his time appreciating the way the combined effects of the sun and the midnight blue of her dress turned her eyes to aqua and her hair to gleaming silver. He was tired and dusty, which made him all the more susceptible to the whiteness of her shoulders and the soft, clean scent of roses that clung to her skin. His smile remained honest in its pleasure as he moved forward and took her hands into his, raising both and pressing them tenderly against his lips.

  “You look lovely. I’m glad I came home early.”

  Amanda’s lips parted over a soft rush of breath. It was the first time she had heard any genuine emotion in his voice since the night they had spent at Rosalie. During the intervening weeks, there had been noticeable and often uncomfortable tension between them and despite her efforts, she had not been able to discern the cause. Her announced intention to sleep in Verity’s room for the first few days had met with barely a glance.

  The fact that those few days had stretched into a week, then two, then six, had roused no comment either. Indeed, there were very few comments at all outside of casual conversations about the weather, the work that was going on, the plans he had for spring. Whenever she tried to steer the subject around to more personal matters, he drew back as if she had held out a live flame and expected him to touch it. Those were the nights she could hear him moving around in his bedroom hours after he had declared himself too exhausted to keep her company in the parlor. Those were the nights when she crept into the adjoining dressing room and saw the slash of light at the bottom of his door; the nights when she would lie awake, holding her breath at every creak and whisper of sound, almost willing herself to see his shadow standing at the door.

  Those were also the occasions when she would come down to breakfast the next morning to find Mrs. Reeves waiting with a note explaining he was gone away on business again. He rarely said how long he would be absent and the only messages he left were for Verity, with instructions to give her a hug and a kiss and a promise he would return soon.

  The way he behaved toward Verity was nothing less than wonderful, however, for as cool and distant as he was to Amanda, he had gone out of his way to win Verity’s heart.

  In the beginning, the child had been none too keen on her new stepfather. She hugged the walls if he came unexpectedly into a room, or walked wide, circuitous routes if he happened to be in the path of somewhere she wanted to go. Eventually, however, his seemingly limitless patience had won her over, and now, it was more often than not Verity’s running footsteps that announced Michael’s return from the stables each day.

  Amanda wished their own difficulties could have been resolved so easily.

  The effect of Michael’s compliment was still tingling up her arms when he released her and turned to Dianna. “Cousin … you look exceptionally radiant this afternoon. Damned if you don’t look like a woman who has recently accepted a proposal of marriage.”

  Dianna’s mouth dropped. “How did you know?”

  “Then it’s true?”

  “How did you know? We’ve only just told Amanda, and she is the first … except for Father, of course. But we swore him to secrecy.”

  Michael laughed. “On a bible? Before witnesses? You underestimate a father’s joy. The Honorable Judge Moore practically fell out of the courthouse window as I passed, shouting the news for all of Natchez to hear.”

  Dianna sighed. “Oh, dear.”

  Michael laughed again and kissed her cheek, lingering to whisper something against her ear that made her blush to the roots of her hair. When he straightened, it was with a smooth, unhesitating motion that he extended his hand in Ryan’s direction.

  “Ryan. My sincerest congratulations to you and Dianna.”

  It was not a gesture or sentiment Ryan could reject without causing undue embarrassment to Dianna, but he still debated it a long moment before accepting the proffered handshake.

  Michael’s smile broadened. “It’s good to see you here at Briar Glen. Actually, I’m damned glad to see you here; I could use your opinion on something.”

  He turned and glanced over his shoulder just as Brian Foley came into view rounding the side of the house. A wave of Tarrington’s hand had the lanky groomsman veering off the path that would have taken him in the direction of the stables, and brought him to the verge o
f the gardens instead. He was not alone. Walking behind him, bristling like a high-spirited child rebelling against a handhold, was an enormous black stallion, each muscle and sinew straining with power, each hoof planted with an air of regal diffidence. He was a brute in size, standing over seventeen hands. His haunches and flanks were great slabs of muscle that rippled with power barely held in check. His mane and tail were waves of silk that lashed like ebony flames at each restless movement of his head and body.

  Ryan stared openly at the powerful lines of the stallion, his jaw slack, his gaze assessing everything from the long, beautifully formed legs to the velvet sheen of his finely flared nose. He found no fault, no flaw anywhere.

  “My God,” he said softly. “He’s magnificent.”

  “His name is Diablo,” Michael said, watching Ryan’s face. “And believe me, the name is appropriate. He put two handlers over the deck of the packet and kicked another one clear through the walls of two cabins before they managed to tie him down.”

  “Diablo?” Ryan tore his eyes away from the stallion long enough to read the expectant grin on Michael Tarrington’s face. “Not the Diablo … from the Tyrell stables in Kentucky?”

  “Brought over from England last fall.” Michael nodded.

  “Good Christ, he must have cost you—”

  “The earth and the sun,” Michael admitted ruefully. “But here—” He took the reins from Foley and offered them to his brother-in-law. “Take him for a run and let me know what you honestly think of him.”

  Ryan frowned. “If this is your, idea of softening me up, Tarrington—”

  “It is. I can’t seem to sway you with my money or my charm … I might as well try to bribe you with something I know will keep you wide awake at night.”

  Ryan stood firm, staring into equally unwavering gray eyes. He could see both Amanda and Dianna out of the corner of his eye. They were both like statues, their breaths held, their faces pale and hopeful. And he could see the stallion, his head held high and challenging.

  “He’s been eager for a good run since we offloaded him,” Michael added quietly. “If you don't think you can handle him ...?”

  Ryan looked down at the reins. “It won’t change my opinion. I still think you’re a son of a bitch, Tarrington.”

  “Good. Then you won’t be reluctant to tell me how big a fool I’ve made of myself if I have squandered the earth and the sun.”

  Ryan took the reins.

  “There are saddles in the livery,” Michael offered, but Ryan’s mouth only turned down in scorn. He slung the reins over Diablo’s neck and swung himself up onto the beast’s back, wheeling him around and away without a further word or glance in Michael’s direction.

  The stallion balked at the unexpected weight and danced sideways along the path, kicking up a spray of dust and pebbles as Ryan urged him toward the open stretch of field. In a few moments they were clear of impeding shrubs and cobblestones, and, with hard-packed earth beneath his hooves, Diablo took the bit in his teeth and stretched out into a thundering gallop.

  Michael watched horse and rider streak away into the wind and patted his pocket in search of a cigar.

  “Was it really a bribe?” Amanda asked.

  He studied her over the flare of a match and was not impressed to feel or see the tremor that passed through his hands. “Would you forgive me if it was?”

  Amanda looked up into her husband’s darkly handsome face. Into eyes that could melt her knees at a glance. At a mouth that was capable of kissing her to the edge of madness then bringing her slowly, tenderly back to reality again.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I would forgive you.”

  He stared into her eves and felt like a drowning man, like his whole body was suspended in a warm, heavy liquid and he would not have been able to move if he had wanted to.

  “Honestly,” Dianna sighed. “If the two of you gave yourselves a decent chance, I think you could truly become fond of each other.”

  Michael’s startled gaze went over to his cousin.

  “You and Ryan,” she added, her head bent over as she brushed at some dust on her skirt, “are so much alike it’s almost frightening.”

  Michael smiled slowly and tipped his cigar in her direction. “Then we’ll have to see what we can do about winning him over to our side. Hell, I like the man already. I haven’t been called a son of a bitch to my face since … well … since the last time he called me one.”

  While the women exchanged a hopeful smile, Michael turned to Foley. “Speaking of son of a bitches, see if you can find out what rock Sims is hiding under today—God forbid he should ever be doing any work around here to earn his keep. We’ll need one of the big stalls cleaned out for Diablo.”

  “He was here awhile ago,” Amanda offered. “I asked him to find Sally so she could get Verity washed up for lunch.”

  “And that,” Michael said with another sigh of honest affection, “is another reason I came home early. My ears haven’t been this dry since the summer and I miss the perpetual dampness of her whispers.”

  Foley tipped his head and started off in the direction of the servants’ quarters. Amanda followed his progress until she was distracted by the presence of Michael’s arm curling around her waist.

  She tilted her face up to his. He was hatless and the sun was playing havoc with the color of his hair, refusing to let any one shade of auburn, gold, or brown dominate the chestnut. His wide shoulders were encased in burgundy broadcloth, the collar and cuffs of his shirt bore a faint green stripe. He wore riding breeches of soft chamois tucked into tell black leather boots, and a waistcoat of brocaded green silk with a row of tiny enameled buttons that seemed designed to draw attention upward to the ever-formidable chin and soft, smoky eyes.

  For a long, breathless moment, she thought he was going to lean closer and kiss her. The look, the warm hunger was certainly there in his eyes, smoldering and speculative, confirmed by the tremor in the arm circling her waist. But it was not, she realized with another small shock, a tremor of eagerness. It was one of fear. Fear of being pushed away, rejected.

  “Mr. Tarrington! Sir!“

  Michael, Amanda, even Dianna was startled by the sight of Foley returning at a run. The manservant, normally a pillar of dispassion and competence, was as gray as a masonry gargoyle.

  “Sir!”

  “Yes? What is it?”

  Foley drew to a rigid halt and seemed reluctant to speak in front of the women. “If I could have a word in private …?”

  “Out with it, man. You look like you’ve seen one of Flora’s Little People.”

  “It’s Sally, sir. There has been … an accident.”

  “An accident!” Amanda gasped. “Is she all right?”

  Foley’s mouth worked through several answers before one cleared its way through his lips. “She’s taken a bad clip on the head, ma’am. Please, sir?”

  Foley’s obvious distress caused Michael to throw down his cigar. “Where is she?”

  “In her cabin, sir. She’s … in a bad way.”

  “Sims?”

  “Gone. And not long, I’d say.”

  “Michael?” Amanda looked from one to the other.

  “Mandy, go up to the house and find Mrs. Reeves. Tell her—”

  Amanda clutched Michael’s sleeve, cutting him short. “Verity was with her. Verity was with Sally in the cabin. If something has happened—”

  Michael rounded on Foley. “Did you see the child?”

  “N-no, sir. I just saw Sally.”

  Amanda was already running down the shaded laneway that divided the main house from the servants’ quarters. Michael and Foley, with their long, unencumbered strides, passed her easily and were inside the cabin, searching, before she arrived.

  “Verity? Verity?”

  Amanda arrived at the doorway in a flurry of midnight blue sateen and frothing petticoats. She stood frozen on the threshold while her eyes adjusted to the gloomier interior. The first thing she saw was Sally
’s body lying on a crush of scattered linen and broken crockery.

  No. The first thing she saw was the blood. It was soaked into the linens, bright crimson against the stark white, a wide, growing stain that originated from the deep and ugly gash on Sally’s temple.

  Amanda covered her mouth with her hands and was almost too terrified to look around the rest of the cabin. There was only one small window to shed light on the simple furnishings—a table and two chairs, a small stove, some shelves and a cupboard. Nothing that could conceal a child, however small she tried to make herself.

  “Verity?” The name was just a whisper on her lips, and she looked up with a desperate hopefulness as Michael emerged from the equally sparse, cramped bedroom.

  “Michael?”

  His face was waxen as he hurried to her side. “He wouldn’t have been stupid enough to hurt the child. Maybe she wasn’t even here.”

  “Michael …?” Dianna arrived at the cabin door, saw the blood and the body, and momentarily forgot what she was going to say. She gave herself a small shake, however, and pointed behind her toward the house. “It’s Mrs. Reeves—”

  Michael and Amanda both stepped outside in time to see Flora running across the last hundred feet of manicured lawns. She moved with remarkable speed and agility for a short, stout woman who still bound herself in a full spring-wired buckram corset. And for a woman who held a small, frightened child in her arms.

  Michael intercepted her in a few long strides and there was no hesitation, either on his part or Verity’s, as he relieved Flora of her burden.

  “Ma’ Sally,” she gasped. “Where is she?”

  “Inside. I haven’t had a chance—”

  “The wee one came runnin’ up to the house all in a dither,” Flora explained as she hurried on toward the cabin, “but I couldn't understand what she were tryin’ to say in ma’ ear. Sally? Sally?”

  Flora disappeared inside the cabin. Michael allowed himself the relief of a fierce hug before he passed Verity into Amanda’s waiting arms.

  “Make sure she hasn't been harmed in any way,” he commanded grimly.