by Jenny Lykins
Survivors! Callen’s stomach twisted and her heart rose in her throat to choke her. When she glanced at Ty, he slipped his arm around her.
—a boiler exploded seven miles north of Memphis. It is estimated that approximately seventeen hundred passengers lost their lives, with only three to four hundred surviving this greatest disaster in maritime history. Because there was no manifest, it is impossible to have an accurate accounting, but this office’s source knew Col. Windsor, knew he boarded the Sultana, but I am sorry to inform you, Mrs. McCall, that our source did not find your brother among his fellow survivors.
Callen dropped the letter, not bothering to read the last two lines of condolences.
“The Sultana,” Ty breathed. “Judas Priest.”
Callen shook her head. Had she heard of such a disaster? Steamboats exploded on the river more often than anyone cared to admit, but she could not begin to imagine how over two thousand men even managed to occupy one, let alone how the boat possibly fought its way upriver at all.
She looked at Stephen.
“Had…had you heard of this disaster?” she asked, the vision of two thousand bodies in the Mississippi River sending a gruesome shudder up her spine.
And Garrett had been one of them.
Stephen rubbed his eyes with a knuckle, then drained the whiskey from his glass.
“The country was too busy mourning the death of…our…assassinated president,” Stephen said with a voice full of bitterness, “to be bothered with reporting a riverboat explosion, even if it did kill – or maybe because it killed – so many Federal sons. But, yes, I had heard of the explosion.”
And it had never crossed his mind, Callen could see, that their brother might have been one of its victims.
And why should it have?
She blinked back tears as Ty gave her a hug.
Dead for two years. He’d survived the war, survived prison camp, only to die on his journey home. He and so many other men.
Callen jumped when the empty whiskey bottle shattered against the marble fireplace. Connor jerked awake, fussing, crying something about “Unca Steeban.” She took Connor back, smoothing his hair and shushing him.
“Shh. Uncle Stephen dropped a bottle and it broke,” Callen lied, glaring at her brother who then sent the objects on his desk flying with one sweep of his arm.
“Get out,” he said with a blank, inebriated stare.
Callen would have argued with him, tried to stay and comfort him, but she would not subject Connor to a scene of her brother’s drunken temper.
She stooped and picked up the letter from the floor, then led Ty and Daniel out of the room to the sound of more glass shattering against the closed door.
*******
Pierre Chalmers waited, as usual, in the darkness. He wearied of this man, of his bitterness and fear, and his refusal to accept that Pierre would not give him assistance.
The familiar stale fumes of liquor permeated the room when the man stepped through the door. The visitor had become a slave to the drink, and guilt had borne that condition. Pierre had no tolerance for such weakness.
A heavy bag, twice the size of the one he’d brought before, landed on the table in front of Pierre.
“’S’all I have. Just make him go away.”
“They have found the child.” A foul curse confirmed what he already knew to be true. “They plan to leave on their own. To go back to his home. You’ve no need of my services.”
“He’ll tell what he knows someday. If he doesn’t remember, he’ll tell when he does.” The man staggered into a chair. “’S’impossible,” he muttered to himself. “I know the real one’s dead.”
Pierre hefted the bag of gold. Ahh. The man had added silver to his bribe, as well. He would have been better off to keep the parcel of land he’d sold for the added gold and silver. The ground would supply its new owner with a fortune in crops after having laid fallow for so many years.
Pierre said as much, then flung the heavy bag at the man’s chest, its impact knocking the air from his lungs in a whoosh. The man leapt to his feet, clutching the bag and towering over Pierre.
“I will not help you, monsieur,” Pierre interrupted the tirade about to spew from the man’s lips. “Now leave my home, and do not ever return. Ever. Or I will myself reveal the secret you so desperately strive to hide.”
*******
Estella sat where Garrett had left her, but the apron had disappeared, as well as her sewing and the magnifying jar. She’d tucked all the charming, loose wisps of hair back into place, but even as he stood there gazing at her, they slid free of their pins to caress her face and neck. She self-consciously tucked one behind her ear.
“Estella—”
“He is still considered missing.”
“It’s been over two years.”
“Yes, I know, but—”
“Do you harbor any hopes that he is alive?”
She shook her head. “No. Not for over a year. But legally—”
“Legally, we can have you declared a widow.”
She looked at him and swallowed. “Yes,” she said simply. Yes to all his questions. And then he realized that this proposal had been to have her declared a widow. His lips curved in a smile. Perhaps if he tried enough times, he would make a proper job of this yet.
He took her hand and sank onto his good knee. After kissing the backs of her fingers, he held her palm to the unmarred side of his face.
“I owe my peace, my life, my happiness to you, Estella. Could you find it in your heart to consent to becoming my wife?”
The smile she gave him was like the sun coming out after a very long, very turbulent storm. Bright and fresh and all the stronger for not having been seen in a while.
“Yes,” she said, nodding, her eyes glistening.
He lifted his hand, traced her cheek with his fingertips, then cupped the back of her neck and drew her closer. Finally, he gave in to what he had been fighting for months.
His lips brushed hers once, twice, then settled over her mouth, her kiss as sweet, as giving, as he had expected.
Here was a woman who knew how to love, and who would not give her favor to a man foolheartedly. Her other hand came up to cup his face, and Garrett lassoed her waist, pulling her closer.
Sensations he’d kept stifled for years slammed into him like a hammer to an anvil. He let them come, anxious to share them with his bride to be.
“Whatcha doing?”
Estella gasped and they jumped apart as a lightning bolt shot between them.
A lightning bolt named Mary Ella.
“Whatcha doin’, Mr. Garrett? Were you whispering to Mama?” The little moppet squeezed past Garrett’s knee and scrambled onto her mother’s lap. “Why were you whispering? There’s no one to keep secrets from. And Mama says it’s not nice to tell secrets, anyway. Why—”
“Mary Ella,” her mother interrupted with her cheeks a becoming pink, “what are you doing out of bed?”
Pale blue eyes grew wide, but the little one hesitated only a second.
“I…wanna drinka water.”
“There is a glass of water beside your bed.”
“Oh. Umm. There’s a mean ol’ Yankee under my bed.” She waited too late to try to instill any fear in her voice.
“Mary Ella,” her mother began, but Garrett stopped her.
“Let me at him!” Garrett jumped up, scooping the child under his arm and charging for the stairs. “Never fear, Estella!” he called in his best dramatic voice. “I shall save us from this danger!” He trotted up the steps, bouncing Mary Ella until she hiccuped between her giggles. He dropped her on the bed, then fell to his knees and slapped the floor. “Come out from under there, you,” – what had she called him? “You mean ol’ Yankee! Come out, I say!” He scrambled back, as if allowing room for someone to climb from under the bed. “Explain yourself, you yellow-bellied Yank— What’s that you say?” He cocked his head and sat on the bed, looking up at nothing. “You are not a Ya
nkee? And you are neither mean nor old? And Yankees are not necessarily mean?” Garrett scrubbed at his chin. “Well, I must agree with you there, since I am a Yankee. And now that I look at you, you don’t look mean, and you certainly are not old. But, here now!” He wagged his finger at the air. “What were you doing under Mary Ella’s bed? Up to no good— What? Oh. Hmm.”
“What, Mr. Garrett? What?” Mary Ella yanked on his shirtsleeve as he held his chin and stared at the air.
“He says he is your guardian angel,” Garrett told her. “And that nothing bad can get under your bed, because that is where he takes a nap while you are sleeping.”
Mary Ella nearly pitched onto her head as she hung over the side to look under the bed.
“Really?” she whispered, her blond, baby fine ringlets dusting the floor.
“That’s what he says. And I have never met an angel who lies.”
He lifted her before she fell, swinging her high, throwing back the covers, then tucking her between them.
“Drink.” He handed her the glass of water, anticipating any other excuses she might have. She took a tiny, token sip, then stretched out to place the glass back on the night stand. Garrett caught the wobbling vessel before it upended on the bed. “Now,” – he pulled the sheet up and let it flutter over her – “time to go to sleep.”
She yanked on his sleeve again, then crooked her little forefinger for him to lean over.
“Is he under there yet?” she whispered in his ear. He sat up, then bent over far enough to appear to look under the bed.
“He is already sound asleep. As you should be.”
She crooked her finger again. He leaned over her again.
“What’s his name?”
“His name? Er…Jjjjaaames. His name is James.” He stood then, kissing her lightly on the forehead and smoothing away a curl stuck to her cheek. “Sleep tight,” he said as he made his way to the door, where Estella stood watching.
“G’night,” Mary Ella said with a huge yawn, then as he and Estella crept down the hall, he heard a whispered, “G’night, James.”
Estella giggled quietly, leaning into Garrett when he slid his arm around her waist, the warmth and scent of her skin a heady sensation.
“I am so sorry about that,” she said as they descended the stairs together. “But you must be forewarned that we will never have a moment’s privacy, and they seem to have a sixth sense about when the most…inopportune times are to appear.”
“Ahh, but we are adults,” Garrett said with the assurance of a man who had never raised children. “We will find a way to outsmart them.”
Estella merely smiled.
“Before we attempt to take up where we were interrupted,” – he gave her a squeeze – “I do have something I want to speak with you about.”
She sank onto the divan, then tucked herself under his arm when he sat next to her.
“What would that be?” she asked, curling her legs up under her skirts.
“I have had an old friend near Natchez, odd but completely trustworthy, keeping me apprised of my family, and I’ve been sending money to Windsor, under the guise of proceeds from…imaginary…pre-war investments my father made on the continent. Windsor fared no better than the rest of the South, and the monthly income is helping to get the plantation back to working order.” He laced his fingers with hers. “And I have also been funding my sister’s endeavors to locate missing men and reunite them with their families.” He looked up into Estella’s eyes. “My brother believes me dead, and my sister, though ever the optimist, will eventually come to that conclusion.” He stared at their linked hands. “I have decided that that is best for everyone. Stephen needs Windsor, and if I return, it will revert to me. He would not take it from me, even if I gave it as a gift. Nor would he take the money if he knew it was from me. And Callie would mother me to death, even if I do have a wife to take on that chore.” He smiled at her soft chuckle. “Most of all, I will be viewed by the community as a traitor, and though I care little if they ostracize me, it would not be fair to you or the children, nor Stephen and Callen. Perhaps someday,” – he squeezed her hand – “when all the wounds have healed, I will contact them, but in the meantime I think it best to leave the waters unchurned. It is what I want.”
“Of course, darling,” Estella said. “Whatever you wish.”
He could tell she thought differently, but his life was here now. His family was here. He had no desire to return to Mississippi, but he would not desert his brother and sister completely.
“My contact in Natchez has sent a message that Callen has remarried, and they have found a procedure that will correct her son’s deformity. It will cost a great deal of money.” His callused fingertips trailed down her cheek. “We’ll want for nothing, Estella. I am a rich man. I want to pay for my nephew’s surgery.”
“It is a wonderful gesture.” She gazed up at him, her eyes smiling, full of love, her fingers skimming across his mouth. “And so very like you.”
Her answer was everything he’d hoped for.
*******
Stephen staggered back into the library, then poured a glass to the brim from the fresh bottle of whiskey he’d just acquired. The sight of the debris on the floor brought the news about his brother on the Sultana ringing anew in his ears.
He fell back into his chair, took a deep drink of the burning liquor, then drew from the drawer the other letter that had arrived that same day. A letter with the bank draft from his father’s investments, the same amount that arrived each and every month. The money that was putting Windsor back on its feet.
Money from the grave.
Stephen took another drink, welcomed the searing burn as it curled into his stomach and hit his blood.
His father dead. His brother dead. All of them dead. And it should have been him.
He thought of the years of secrets and the toll they had taken on him. Of Callen marrying Tylar, and then this man. This dangerous man.
He dragged himself to his feet, emptied the contents of the glass down his throat, then staggered to the door. He would settle this matter, by God. He would settle it once and for all. Permanently.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Ty and Dan changed into their own clothes, then the four of them ate a cold supper before Callen settled Dan in her oldest brother’s room. She and Ty then carried Connor to the nursery, taking turns rocking him and telling him stories. Ty could tell that Callen hated to leave her son, even for a moment, so he settled himself against the cushions on the daybed and watched his wife wax ecstatic. She’d rummaged through a box full of wooden toys, and now Connor had several heaped on his lap while Callen read from a book of fairytales.
The long day on the Trace after a night of making love, and now the soft murmur of her voice all served to lull his already exhausted body toward the sweet oblivion of sleep. He sank deeper with a sigh and his head fell against a pillow while he listened to her quiet voice.
*******
He shook himself to clear the alcohol from his head, lit the oil lamp to a low flame, then made his way down the hall to their bedroom. The door stood wide open so he stepped inside and held the lamp high.
“McCa—“
An explosion of pain slammed into the back of his head and the lamp flew from his hand, falling to the carpet with a dull thud. It rolled crazily, flinging oil and fire, sending flames spilling across the floor, licking onto the counterpane, up the bed hangings, across the wallpaper. A gust of wind from the open window fanned the flames, sent curtains billowing out to ignite like oil-soaked wicks.
He had to warn everyone! But before he could turn, another blow slammed into his head and he felt his knees jarring to the floor just before everything went black.
*******
Ty coughed, tried to sink back into the warm unconsciousness, then coughed again. He sat up slowly, his muscles stiff from lying in one position. He massaged his eyes with the heels of his hands while his mind cleared, then another cough explode
d from his chest.
His eyes flew open.
Fire!
Callen sat in the rocker, her head resting atop Connor’s as they both slept soundly.
“Callen! Wake up!” He jumped to his feet and shook her. “Callen! The house is on fire!”
She lifted her head, scrambling out of the rocker when her gasp brought on a coughing fit.
“Daniel! Stephen!” she cried between coughs.
“I’ll get them!” Ty ripped a pillowcase into three pieces, plunged them into the pitcher of water on the washstand, then handed her two. “Put these over your faces.”
Connor stirred, then coughed and started crying.
They burst from the nursery, the cotton masks over their noses and mouths, to the sight of flames eating up the wallpaper in the hall.
“Dan!” Ty bellowed, then nearly knocked his brother over as they collided in the doorway. “Get them downstairs while I get Stephen. Callen, does Magnolia or Jacob sleep in the house?”
She shook her head no as she coughed, her eyes wide above the ragged piece of pillowcase.
He pushed them toward the stairs.
“Get to the cellar if you can. If it’s too risky, get out of the house any way you can! Go!”
They raced downstairs as Ty ran into Stephen’s room. The bed had not been slept in and the room was empty. Smoke curled around him as he dashed back into the hallway and took the stairs two at a time. The fire had not yet reached the first level. Ty ran to the library and burst through the door, expecting to see Stephen passed out at his desk.
Empty.
“Damn!” He swung around, charging from room to room, finding nothing but smoke seeping into the air. Finally, he dashed into the kitchen and down the cellar steps.
“I can’t find him,” he wheezed. “He’s not in his room, or any of the rooms downstairs. Where would he be?”
Callen shook her head.
