"Do you think there will be a fight?"
"Wouldn't surprise me. Americans are used to making their own laws as it suits them. They won't long abide by somebody else's if it doesn't suit them. If Old Hickory says there'll be a fight for Texas, I reckon it'll happen, right enough. He's usually on the mark when it comes to such matters."
"You think I should go?"
"You're old enough to make your own decisions, Christopher," was the frontiersman's solemn reply. "But I don't reckon your ma will be too happy about your going."
"No, she probably won't be," agreed Christopher, downcast. "And if she doesn't want me to go, I won't. Then I'll just stay at Elm Tree and help her run the place."
"Well, you never know about such things. Rebecca has some adventure in her soul, too."
"Maybe she'd go with me!" exclaimed Christopher. "Do you think she would, Grandpa?"
Nathaniel shrugged. "Hard to say. I stopped trying to figure out what that gal would do when she was about two years old."
Christopher leaned forward eagerly. "If she did go, would you go, too?"
Nathaniel leaned back, as though putting distance between himself and his grandson's idea. "I don't reckon," he said grimly.
"Why not? You've often said Kentucky is getting too full of folks. No elbow room anymore. And you said it yourself—Texas is a big country, with plenty of room for everybody."
Nathaniel shook his head emphatically. "I'm too old to be making a new start. And, well, I just can't leave. I promised Amanda . . . "
"I see." Christopher settled back, disappointed.
"But I will ride with you as far as Elm Tree. I haven't seen Becky in quite a while. I'll even put in a good word for you about Texas."
"You will?"
"Sure. You're a young man chock full of big dreams, and you need to carve your own niche in this world. I remember how I felt as a youngster. My pa wanted me to stay in Virginia and help him with the inn. Inherit the place from him. He'd built the place from the ground up for me. But something kept calling me over the mountains. I just had to answer that call."
Christopher nodded. "I don't know what my future holds, but I'm certain it isn't Elm Tree."
"We'll leave at daybreak," said Nathaniel.
Chapter 11
"Riders comin', Miss 'Becca."
Rebecca Groves rose from inspecting the forelegs of the tall bay thoroughbred to look at the old black man coming down the carriageway between the rows of stalls.
"Who are they, Isaac?"
The bay whickered softly at the sound of her voice, and nudged her with its velvet-soft muzzle, as though trying to recapture her attention.
"I doan rightly know, Miss 'Becca. I cain't recall ever seein' them twos befo'."
"All right." She stepped out of the stall, swung the door shut to prevent the bay from following her, which it had every intention of doing. Isaac rolled his eyes at the horse. It never ceased to amaze him, the way all the Elm Tree horses acted around Rebecca Groves. They were thoroughbreds, high-spirited and unpredictable, but they followed Rebecca like puppy dogs. They adored her, and were usually completely docile in her hands. And there were some, Isaac knew, that would kill a man if he got careless with them and they were having a bad day. Yes, Rebecca Groves had a special way with horses, reflected Isaac, who was scared to death of these big, powerful animals. He was a house servant. Always had been. Didn't know the first thing about horses and such, and he had no desire to find out. He stayed as far away from the beasts as he could.
Rebecca emerged from the stables into the hot bright summer sunlight, and shaded her eyes with a hand to gaze across the bluegrass pasture at the lane flanked by stately oaks. Those trees, she remembered with a twinge of melancholy, had been planted as seedlings twenty-five years ago by her husband. She tried to force thoughts of Jonathan out of her mind. They were too painful still, even after all these years.
The two horsemen were approaching the house now. At this distance—a hundred yards—Rebecca could not tell much about them. Both of them were clad in long dusters, with wide-brimmed hats pulled low over their faces. Both of them carried rifles. Whoever they were, she got the distinct impression that they had not come to pay a social call. No this pair was here on business.
"They might be bounty men," she murmured.
"Yessum," agreed Isaac, apprehensive. "They sho' do look mean enough."
Rebecca sighed. Yes, that was probably the case. Those two men could very well be hunting runaway slaves. If so, their coming to Elm Tree was not surprising. She was an avowed emancipationist, and there were rumors afloat that she helped fugitive slaves escape their rightful owners. She had in fact helped only one such fugitive, the pregnant slave girl, Cilla, who had fled the wrath of Stephen Cooper twenty years ago. Trumbull, the Elm Tree overseer, had taken Cilia to New Orleans. Rebecca hadn't heard from either one since receiving a letter from Trumbull which had informed her of their safe arrival at their destination. The letter had also mentioned that Cilia had given birth to a baby girl. Stephen Cooper's child.
"Come on, Isaac," she said grimly, and started for the house. "We'd best find out what they want."
"Yessum," said Isaac. Like the thoroughbreds, he was devoted to Rebecca. He had lived and worked on Elm Tree for thirty some years now. Rebecca had freed him—and all the other Elm Tree slaves—twenty years ago. That was a decision which had caused her a great deal of grief ever since. This was tobacco and hemp county, with a lot of big plantations hereabouts, and the slaveowners of Madison County were not pleased to have an emancipationist in their midst.
Jacob followed her, but without much enthusiasm. He smelled trouble, and he was too old for it. In his younger days he would have been more aggressive. Would have used an axe handle or some other handy blunt instrument on any man, white or black, who so much as looked at Rebecca the wrong way. Oh, he would still defend Rebecca's life and honor to the death, but he no longer labored under the delusion of invincibility which had blinded him to danger as a youth.
By the time they reached the house the two men were dismounted and standing in the shade of the wraparound porch. Prissy was holding them off at the door, proclaiming in her loud shrill voice that they would violate the house with their unwashed and unwanted presence only over her dead body. She was a big woman, a substantial obstacle, her bulk filling the doorway, and she stood there with hands planted on her hips and her chin jutting out belligerently, and her eyes flashing defiance. Prissy was the undisputed boss of the house. She ruled with an iron hand, and kept all the other servants in line with a harsh word and, when harsh words were not sufficient, a rolling pin or iron skillet. Isaac was more terrified of her than he was of the thoroughbreds.
The two men were not terrified. In fact, being spoken to in such a manner by a black woman was aimost more than one of them could bear.
"You better watch your tongue," he growled, "or you'll rue the day you were born, you black wench."
"Who's you callin' a wench?" shrilled Prissy. Her round cheeks got rounder, and she exhaled a gust of air through pursed lips. This was the danger sign. "Why, I oughts to punch you right in the eye."
"What's going on here?" asked Rebecca.
The two men turned to face her as she came up the steps onto the porch, and in that instant Rebecca knew they weren't bounty hunters. These two wore good broadcloth beneath their dusters. Their feet were encased in hand-tooled boots. They looked travel-worn, with gaunt cheeks darkened by beard stubble, but they weren't what Prissy would call poor white trash. Most bounty men were illiterate, rough backwoods scum. These men were born into a higher class.
"Are you Rebecca Groves?" asked one of the men.
"I am. And who might you be?"
"We're looking for your son."
"Christopher?" There was something in the way the man spoke that alarmed her. Whatever they had come for, they had not come as friends. "What do you want him for?"
"Where is he?"
"Who are you?"<
br />
"I asked you a question, lady."
"Either tell me who you are or get off my property."
They exchanged glances. Then one, the younger of the pair, said, "My name is Joshua Vickers. This is my brother, Morgan."
"Vickers? From Tennessee?"
"We have some relatives in Tennessee, yes, ma'am. But we're from Mississippi."
"What do you want with my son?"
"We intend to kill him," said Morgan, coldly, "because of what he did to our brother, Adam."
Rebecca's blood ran cold in her veins. Looking into Morgan Vickers' slate gray eyes, she did not doubt for a moment that he meant precisely what he said. She knew who these two men were now. Relatives of Emily Cooper, Stephen's widow, and the woman with whom her own husband had engaged in an illicit, ten-year affair. But that was all she knew.
"I'm afraid I don't have the slighest idea what you are talking about," she said. Though she was scared—not for herself, but for her son—she appeared remarkably calm.
Joshua glanced at his brother. "I don't think she knows. He must not be here."
"Where else would he go?" snapped Morgan, squinting distrustfully at Rebecca.
"Are you calling me a liar?" asked Rebecca frostily. "And I suppose you fancy yourself a gentleman, don't you?"
"No telling what a mother would do to protect her own son," muttered Morgan.
"I don't need to protect my son. Christopher is quite capable to taking care of himself."
"She's telling the truth," decided Joshua. "She doesn't know why we're here. If she'd seen her son, she'd know."
"You don't think she knows? Then I'll tell her." Morgan turned his hostile glare back on Rebecca. "Adam and your son fought a duel at West Point."
"Christopher? A duel? That's not possible . . . "
"They fought a duel!" rasped Morgan, with such vehemence that Rebecca shrank away from him. She was a very sound judge of people, and she had Morgan pegged as the more volatile and dangerous of the two brothers. He had a hair-trigger temper and a cruel streak. Joshua was the thinker; he was calmer, more rational, more firmly in control of his emotions. That didn't mean he was any less intent than his older brother on tracking Christopher down and killing him.
"Then your brother should have had better sense then to challenge my son," she replied coldly.
Morgan grunted. "Adam is still alive. But he's lost the use of an arm. Our purpose for coming all this long way should be abundantly clear to you now. Our family's honor is at stake."
Lost the use of an arm. The words reverberated in Rebecca's brain. How strange, the games fate played. Jonathan had lost the use of one of his arms in that celebrated duel with Stephen Cooper, on the steps of the big house at Hunter's Creek, just down the road a piece from Elm Tree. Cooper had emerged from the house with a brace of pistols, blazing away. One of his bullets had shattered the bone in Jonathan's arm. Jonathan had shot him dead an instant later. Rebecca's father, Nathaniel Jones, had slain the Hunter's Creek overseer, a man named Lewis, who tried to bushwhack them with a shotgun from an upstairs window.
Now Adam Vickers had lost the use of an arm in a duel with Christopher. Had Christopher been hurt? That was the question foremost in Rebecca's mind. Maybe these two had gotten the story wrong. Maybe Christopher had lost the duel—maybe he was dead. Why hadn't she heard something? She savagely beat down the panic rising within her.
"So, it's a vendetta," she said. "I wasn't aware that gentlemen engaged in such barbaric pastimes."
"There's only so much of that kind of talk I'll take from you," warned Morgan. "Even if you are a lady."
Rebecca made a disdainful gesture in the direction of the front door. "Go ahead. Search the house, if you don't believe me. Prissy, let the gentlemen pass."
Mumbling, Prissy complied.
"Check the stables, Joshua," said Morgan. "I'll take the house."
Joshua shook his head. His intuition was better than his brother's. "We're wasting our time, Morgan. He isn't here."
"Check the stables, I said."
Joshua shrugged and left the porch. Morgan went into the house. Prissy started to follow him, but Rebecca stopped her.
"I wants to make sho' he doan steal nuttin'," explained Prissy.
"Just stay away from him."
"Hmph!" Prissy folded her arms over her prodigious chest and stood there near the door, fuming and pouting. Rebecca moved to the edge of the porch and pretended to watch Joshua crossing to the stables. But she wasn't paying attention. Her mind was racing. What would the Vickers brothers do when they failed to find Christopher on the premises? Wait for him to come home? If he had dueled at the Military Academy then he must have been discharged from the Corps of Cadets. If he was on his way home, and the Vickers brothers waited for him here, then somehow she had to warn him before he arrived.
On the other hand, these two might vent their rage on her, or on her help, or on Elm Tree. Morgan certainly seemed to be capable of such an act. She didn't care at all about her own safety, but if they meant to do harm to her home or her horses or Prissy or Isaac or the other servants they would have to go through her to get the job done.
"What's we gwine do?" whispered Isaac, standing close behind her.
"I don't know, Isaac," she admitted. "But don't worry. We'll think of something."
"If you wuz any kind of man at all, Isaac, you'd throw dem two offen this property, dat's what you'd do," said Prissy, who liked nothing better than to chide and chastise the old man.
"Hush, Prissy," said Rebecca sternly.
"Hmph!"
Morgan Vickers emerged from the house, scowling. Rebecca gave him an I-told-you-so look. He glowered back at her, and moved to the corner of the porch where he could watch the stables. His brother appeared a moment later and began walking back toward the house. Morgan cursed under his breath.
"So you see, Mr. Vickers," said Rebecca, "you've come all this way for nothing. Christopher isn't here, and if he has been dismissed from the Military Academy for dueling I very much doubt that he would dare show his face here. He would not care to have to explain his disgraceful behavior to me."
Skeptical, Morgan grunted again. "Oh, you're a clever specimen," he said. "But I don't believe you. He's coming home. And when he gets here, we'll be waiting for him." He turned his dark and hostile gaze upon Isaac. "Old man, you take care of our horses."
"Oh, nossuh. Please, Ah doan like horses . . ."
"Do what I say," snapped Morgan, raising his rifle as though to strike Isaac.
"I'll tend to your horses," said Rebecca.
"No. He will. You might just get it into your head to jump into the saddle and ride off to try and find your son and warn him. Well, I'm warning you. Anybody tries to leave this place, I'll kill him. Or her. And then I'll burn Elm Tree to the ground. Do you understand?"
"Isaac, tend to the horses."
"Miss 'Becca, Ah . . ."
"Do it."
"Yassum," sighed Jacob, and shuffled off the porch like a man resigned to meeting his end.
Morgan put his hand on his chest, smiling coldly. "I and my brother have traveled a long road. We're hungry. You, Mrs. Groves, and your smart-mouthed nigger, will prepare a meal for us."
Prissy shrilled, "Who you callin' a smart-mouthed nigger, you . . ."
"Prissy!" barked Rebecca. "Let's do what he says. We don't need to be poor hosts just because we have poor guests."
Mumbling something about poor white trash, Prissy preceded Rebecca and Morgan Vickers into the house.
Watching them eat, Rebecca had to give the Vickers boys some credit. Though they consumed the food put before them like they hadn't enjoyed a decent meal in a month of Sundays, at least they demonstrated some good manners. They used their napkins and utensils like men of good breeding. Each had several helpings of smoked ham, beans, collard greens, corn bread, and coffee. Rebecca sat at the other end of the long dining room table from them, trying to develop a plan of action.
Prissy carri
ed the food in from the kitchen. Isaac helped her. The other four blacks who worked at Elm Tree stood with their backs to the wall—three men and a woman. Rebecca had summoned them, on Morgan's orders. They hadn't been told anything about what was going on, but they could sense that something was amiss. Both the Vickers brothers kept their rifles close at hand, leaning against the table, and Morgan had placed a pistol beside his plate. While he ate, Morgan kept a wary eye on the servants, as though he expected one of the men to make a hostile move, or try to escape. There was not the slightest doubt in Rebecca's mind that he would shoot to kill, without hesitation or remorse.
"You set a fine table, ma'am," complimented Joshua as he pushed his plate away.
"Thank you," said Rebecca, barely civil. "Now that you've eaten your fill, I think you should be on your way."
Morgan's laugh had an ugly ring to it. "On our way where?"
"Home."
"We'll go home—when your son is dead and buried. And not before. We gave our solemn word."
"To who? Your father? I can't believe a father would send his sons on such a fool's errand."
"He didn't send us," said Joshua. "He doesn't know."
"Shut up," growled Morgan. "He'll be right proud of us when he finds out what we've done."
"I doubt it," said Rebecca. "I think you should go, now. You see, you're just not very bright. I'm afraid the two of you are the ones who will be killed."
Morgan scowled. "I'm bright enough to pull a trigger."
"No. For instance, that food could have been poisoned. Did you ever think of that?"
The expressions on their faces told her that they had not. Joshua blanched, looking from his plate to Rebecca and then to Prissy.
Smirking, Prissy said, "Lordy, Ah wish Ah'd thought of that."
"Fetch some more coffee," snapped Morgan.
Prissy departed for the kitchen. Morgan turned to his brother. "I think we should lock them all up in the smokehouse. Then we'll take turns standing guard."
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