Contents
Title Page
Copyright
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Special Excerpt: Beauty and the Bounty Hunter
Special Excerpt: By Any Other Name
Special Excerpt: An Outlaw for Christmas
About the Author
When Morning Comes
Lori Austin
InterMix Books, New York
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)
Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have control over and does not have any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
WHEN MORNING COMES
An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Kensington Books edition / May 2003
InterMix eBook edition / September 2012
Copyright © 2003 by Lori Handeland.
Excerpt from Beauty and the Bounty Hunter copyright © 2012 by Lori Handeland.
Excerpt from By Any Other Name copyright © 1998 by Lori Handeland.
Excerpt from An Outlaw for Christmas copyright © 2001 by Lori Handeland.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 978-1-101-57293-1
INTERMIX
InterMix Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
INTERMIX and the “IM” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
One
Several moments passed before Seth Torrance realized the pounding in his head was echoed by a pounding on his bedroom door. Groaning, he turned away from the sound, only to get a face full of blazing sunlight.
What time was it?
“Major?” The voice on the other side of the door was familiar. Nevertheless, four years away from home, combined with at least four glasses of whiskey, made Seth’s mind a muddle.
“Sir? Your mother requests your presence at the dinner table.”
Dinner? Damn. He’d slept through breakfast—again. His mother would not be amused. But she so rarely was.
Honoria Simons Torrance found precious little to laugh about in this world. Once, Seth had wondered why his mother never smiled. The war had changed that. Now he found precious little to smile about, either.
“Major?”
The identity of the speaker came to Seth with such blinding clarity he winced, or maybe that was just the sun in his eyes.
Beckworth. The butler.
Seth had known the man for years. Why couldn’t he seem to recall anything clearly from the time before he’d put on the Union Blue? Perhaps because the four years he’d spent at war were so much more vivid to him than anything the present had to offer.
More horrible, true, but the shouting, the shooting, the crying, the dying still lived in his mind and in his dreams. Seth had hoped to recover at home, in a place that he knew, surrounded by those who cared about him. Instead, he’d only gotten worse.
“There’s a letter for you, sir,” Beckworth continued as if Seth had answered. “From Virginia.”
Virginia? The only person he knew in Virginia was—
Seth sat up. The room spun. The cannons boomed inside his head. He wanted to lie down and stay there forever. But Beckworth had at last lit on the one thing that would get him out of bed so early in the afternoon.
Henry. His best friend from their days at West Point. When they’d graduated twelve years ago, Seth had returned to the North, Henry to the South. By then the tensions that would lead to the war had already begun to rear their ugly heads. Seth hadn’t seen or heard from Henry since. He’d often thought of him, wondered where he was, how he was.
Now the war was over and Henry had contacted him. For the first time in years, Seth looked forward to something—opening that letter.
Gritting his teeth against the pain in his head, Seth stumbled across the room and opened the door. “Hand it over.”
Beckworth’s long nose twitched and his nearly nonexistent lips tightened. But he said nothing.
Seth hadn’t shaved for several days; he hadn’t bathed either. He’d slept in his clothes and fed his nightmares with whiskey. He must look as awful as he felt, and that wasn’t easy.
When Beckworth continued to stare at him without moving, Seth snatched the missive from the gold tray perched on the butler’s gloved hand. He wanted to sneer at the uselessness of it all, but he’d discovered one thing in the last four years. Sometimes honor and tradition were all that stood between being a man or a monster. Funny, but at times they were what made a man into a monster, as well.
Seth shook off the memories and glanced at the envelope. He frowned. The letter wasn’t from Henry, after all, but from an attorney named Arthur Blair. Seth didn’t know him. He had a feeling he didn’t want to.
Ignoring Beckworth, who hovered in the hall waiting for … Seth wasn’t sure what, he tore open the envelope. As if they had a premonition of the words contained therein, his fingers trembled as he withdrew the paper.
May 1, 1865
Dear Major Torrance:
I regret to inform you of the death of your friend, Henry Elliot, at Saylor’s Creek.
However, I would not be writing you this letter had not his wife, Georgina, followed him to our Lord yesterday following the birth of his child.
Mr. Elliot’s final wish was that you, Major, become the guardian of all that was his. His will and testament in this regard are in my keeping.
Please come posthaste to the Elliot farm outside of Winchester in Frederick County, Virginia.
Sincerely,
Arthur Blair
Attorney at Law
The trembling in Seth’s fingers spread throughout his body. He collapsed into the nearest chair.
“Major? Sir? Bad news? Shall I—”
Seth slammed the door on Beckworth’s questions. Blessed silence fill
ed the room. Too bad his head still pounded with the force of Confederate artillery.
Henry was gone. Seth found the tidings hard to believe, despite the hundreds of thousands of casualties. But then his friend had always been so much more alive than anyone else.
Henry laughed louder, rode harder, shot straighter. At West Point, he’d been near the top of their class, while Seth had wallowed near the middle. Of course, when the call came to war, it hadn’t mattered where they’d placed on the list. Hell, look at Custer. Autie had finished at the bottom of the pile and it hadn’t hurt him any.
But to lose Henry at Saylor’s Creek—a horrible battle so near the end of a horrible war.
Seth got to his feet, crossed the room and reached for the whiskey again. But instead of drinking, he peered out the window, ignoring the pain in his eyes and his head, intensified by the bright and shiny sun. He stared at the loud and boisterous streets of Boston; he didn’t really see them.
He had been at Saylor’s Creek, too. Had one of his bullets ended Henry’s life? Seth would never know, so he would always wonder.
He thought back to the glory days before the war, back when everything had been simple, back when honor and duty didn’t get men killed. He and Henry had been as different as two friends could be—one a Boston-bred, wealthy Yankee, the other a Virginia-born, land-rich, money-poor farmer—but they had agreed on two things: Duty raised men above the beasts and honor elevated mere men to heroes.
Did he still believe that? Seth wasn’t sure. But there was something he did believe. True friends were forever. Henry had entrusted him with his most precious possessions, his child and his farm.
Seth placed the bottle back on his nightstand untasted, then called for a bath. He couldn’t very well go to Virginia like this.
***
“Seth, I forbid you to leave.” Honoria Simons Torrance turned away, expecting her orders to be followed without argument. They always were. “It’s time you took the helm of this family and the business.”
Seth stifled a sigh. His father had died when he was ten, and his mother had taken control of the munitions plant that had been in her family for generations. She’d done well. But now she wanted Seth to assume her position, and he didn’t think that he could.
Not because he didn’t know the business. He’d spent several years learning it when he’d returned home from his extended tour of Europe, which had followed his graduation from West Point. But four years spent seeing what a bullet could do to a person had cured Seth of any desire to make them. Not to mention that the first time he’d set foot in the plant upon his return, the sheer volume of the noise had left him pale and shaking. He’d excused himself as ill, and he hadn’t been back since.
“You’ve been doing fine, Mother.”
“Of course I have, but what will people think? You come home, hide in your room, then abscond to Virginia. I can just imagine what they’re saying about us.”
His mother had always cared more for what people thought than what he needed. Seth couldn’t really fault her for it. She’d been raised to look lovely, pour tea, and have children—then turn them over to others. Once his father had died, she’d had a business to run, and she’d done so with the same determination she did everything else.
Now she’d determined that it was time for Seth to assume his responsibilities. She’d even chosen him the perfect wife in the form of Sophie Beck, a Boston-bred heiress he’d had occasion to meet only once. He could barely recall Sophie’s face, which didn’t endear him to the prospect. He ought to remember the single meeting he’d had with the woman he was expected to marry.
“It’s far too dangerous in the South,” his mother continued. “Wait a few years until the army gets things straightened out. Then it’ll be a fine place for a holiday.” She returned her attention to the list of wedding guests.
With the war officially over but a month and certain Confederate stragglers continuing their lost fight in far reaches of the country such as Louisiana, Alabama, Mississippi, even Texas, Seth understood his mother’s concern. For a former Union officer to travel alone into what had been so recently enemy territory was ill-advised, to say the least. But then he hadn’t exactly been a model of sanity since his return.
“I’ll be fine, Mother. I managed to survive the war. I can manage a quick trip to Virginia.”
Even if he hadn’t been managing much but a bottle lately.
“Quick?” She frowned at him over the top of her spectacles. “How quick?”
“Only as long as it takes me to find out what I’m dealing with, then make some arrangements for the child and the farm. Shouldn’t be more than a month all told.”
“You’re supposed to be married in two months.”
Seth rubbed at the pain that had sprung up again behind his eyes. He had not agreed to marry Sophie, hadn’t asked her, didn’t know her. But typically his mother rolled right over any obstacle in her path by ignoring it. She wanted him to marry Sophie and provide grandchildren, so she merely arranged the wedding.
And Seth, who couldn’t bring himself to feel much of anything these days beyond panic, had let her.
“I am not marrying Sophie in two months, Mother.”
She blinked. “What?”
“I’m not saying I won’t get married. I’m not even saying I won’t marry Sophie. But I’d like to have some say in the rest of my life. Right now, I have a duty to honor Henry’s last request.”
It felt good to say no. He’d have to try it more often.
Her lips pursed. “You have a duty to your father’s legacy. Your loyalty should be to this family, not to some Rebel who got himself killed.”
“I highly doubt he got himself killed. The Union army probably had a bit to do with it.”
“So you feel guilty? That’s foolish.”
Seth did feel guilty. But that was beside the point. “I have a duty to Henry,” he repeated. “I’m honor bound to go. I’ll be back in a month.”
By ignoring his mother and plowing ahead with what he meant to do—a trait he’d learned from the master—Seth was able to leave the very same day.
Since the railroad lines had been disrupted—a fancy word for torn apart and thrown away—throughout Virginia, Seth rode his horse toward Frederick County.
The roads were filled with soldiers headed for home in both directions. Seth was polite to those he met, but he didn’t tarry to chat. As he continued south, the men he encountered were thinner, more bedraggled, less friendly. He couldn’t say he blamed them, but he wasn’t turning back.
Though he’d done his duty, Seth had never been able to see the Confederate Army as a true enemy. The faces on the other side of the war were just like his. One day they’d been countrymen, the next they’d been killing each other. He’d found it hard to fathom. As a result, any animosity he might have carried for “them” had faded with the treaty signed at Appomatox Courthouse. Sadly, he couldn’t say the same for so many others.
Seth reached Winchester near dusk, considered staying in town and riding out to the farm the next morning. However, the narrowed eyes and murmurs of “Yankee” when he passed convinced Seth to continue on his way.
But which way?
Though asking directions was near the bottom of the list of things he wanted to do, getting lost in the countryside with a passel of gun-toting Yankee haters was even lower.
Seth stopped at what looked to be a general store, though no sign was visible. A young boy and an even younger girl stared at him with more curiosity than hostility—an improvement over the rest of the onlookers.
Seth adjusted his observation on their lack of hostility when the boy sneered, “Yank,” in lieu of a greeting.
Seth decided to ignore that. What choice did he have? “Could you direct me to the Elliot farm?”
“Could,” the boy said and fell silent.
“Would you?” he pressed.
“Whatcha want with them?”
“I’m a friend of the family.�
�
The boy snorted. “Sure ye are.”
Seth reined in his impatience. He would have to get used to being treated like the enemy. Here, he still was.
“Regardless,” Seth continued, “I’ve been asked to come there. If you can’t direct me, I’ll find someone who can.”
The boy smirked. “Nah. I can tell you where it is.”
“But, Billy—”
The kid punched the little girl in the arm. They must be related. She swallowed what she’d been about to say.
“Go directly down this road.” Billy gestured with a grubby finger, “’bout two miles and you’ll see a lane to the right. That’ll take you to the house.”
“Thank you.” Seth hesitated. “Out of curiosity, how did you know I was a Yankee before I even opened my mouth?”
Billy spit into the dirt directly in front of Seth’s horse. “You got shoes and a horse that ain’t been et.”
Seth couldn’t think of anything to say to that, so he nodded good-bye and headed out of town.
Things were worse in Virginia than he’d anticipated. Of course, being in the Union army was a far cry from being in the Confederate. As Billy had pointed out, the North had shoes and food. The men who’d worn the gray had run out of both long ago. So what did that mean for the civilians ravaged by two armies for so long?
By the time Seth reached the Elliot farm, the sun had disappeared. Stars sparked to life with a brilliance he had not seen since his nights in the field. That had been the only good thing about those times, the purity of the sky above the sacrilege below.
The outline of a large, two-story farmhouse appeared on the horizon. From their talks at West Point, Seth knew that Henry came from a long line of gentleman farmers. His family had never owned slaves, depending on their own hands and that of their many children, as well as hired labor and indentured servants, to do the work.
Despite Northern propaganda, a minority of Southern men owned other men. Slaves were expensive. A large plantation and centuries of family money were needed to warrant them.
The steady clip-clop of his horse’s hooves down the dirt lane that led to the house became a soothing cadence at odds with the horrific sounds that too often lived in Seth’s head.
Lori Austin Page 1
