by Caryl McAdoo
Her treat of all things.
She ordered a brandy and he asked for a whiskey, neat. Pa had been known to sip a little liquor now and again, but his mother would be twisting his ear and hunting a switch if she were to come around the corner and see him imbibing.
Again, a good thing there wasn’t a chance—or when he and Elijah swilled all that rice wine in China Town either.
“So, Clay, exactly how much land does your family have in Texas?”
He shrugged. “Pa started with three headrights—that’s over twelve thousands acres—but he and Ma sold off some when he had two bad years in a row. Him and the brothers only farm a section, the rest is prime timberland.”
“How big is a section?”
“Six hundred forty acres.”
“And what exactly is a…what did you call it? A headright?”
For all of that drink, and most of the next, he explained how Texas had been so hungry for settlers, the government gave away land grants to the heads of any family who would come, each one being over four thousand acres.
“You got a wife hid out somewhere, Clay?”
He looked off then back. The question knifed his heart, but somehow, he managed a smile. “No, ma’am. Uh, sorry, ma’am. I mean….”
She smiled, leaned forward and rested her hand on his forearm. “Would you like to talk about her?”
“Her?”
“The young woman who has your heart.”
“Nothing to say really, she picked a New Orleans dandy over me. So…that’s that.”
“She must have been very pretty to have hurt you so bad.”
“She was. Still is, but...well…I fell in love with her when she was only fourteen. Her father wouldn’t allow any courting until she turned eighteen.”
“Smart man.” She tossed down the last of her brandy then stood. “Thank you for such a pleasant evening, sir.”
Ready to talk more about Gwendolyn—or not—he found the lady ending the conversation so abruptly a bit of a surprise. He stood and held up his tumbler. “And thank you for the drinks. Next time, I’ll buy.”
She smiled, nodded, then floated out of the room.
Until she disappeared, his eyes followed her. An emptiness threatened to swamp him. He sat back down; another drink? But he didn’t really want one. What he wanted to do was go after her. Follow her all the way to her bed.
What reason did he have to save himself anymore? His brain wavered. Why not?
With a deep lungful of fresh air, he pressed deep into the overstuffed chair.
No, that wouldn’t do.
It’d break Ma’s heart for sure if she found out he consorted with a widow lady. No matter how good looking.
Drinking was bad enough.
Chapter Twenty-four
Disappointed Clay something terrible that the Widow Volker didn’t show for breakfast, or dinner, but as she strolled in for supper, the shadow over his heart brightened by at least two shades.
Her looks couldn’t compare to his Gwendolyn’s—except, she wasn’t his at all, not anymore. She belonged to Braxton. Had they already tied the knot?
Thoughts returned to the approaching widow. She brought a hint of sunshine to his gloom. He met her at the double doors of the first class dining hall. “Evening, Dee.”
She smiled and glanced at his hand. “Be so kind, would you?”
For a heartbeat, he didn’t understand, then realization dawned on his stupidity. He extended his elbow, and she slipped her hand over his forearm. He leaned in close. “I got here early, in time to switch the place cards.”
She nodded then nudged him forward. Taking her lead, he escorted her to her place. What? Two over from his seat…who changed them again? He held her chair out then whispered in her ear, “Someone obviously moved them back.”
Even with an elderly couple between him and her, Clay managed to arrange a night cap in the parlor.
His treat.
Once seated in the overstuffed wingback with only a small table separating his knee from her dress, again she plied him with questions. Her interest flattered him all the way into the sunshine.
Only a few times during supper had he thought of Cecelia’s older sister. Resolved not to mention the name of the girl he used to love, not even in his mind, he focused on the nearness of Dee.
Bonnie’s second biggest sister stayed in his past and off his tongue where she belonged. Became only someone from back home who turned out to be so imprudent as to choose a fancy man over him.
“You’re thinking about her.”
He focused on Dee, the impulse to lie strong, but instead, he nodded.
“What’s her name?”
“Cecelia’s older sister.”
For the first time, the widow laughed out loud. Her mirth a pleasant melodious tune that danced over his heart, but it also revealed a missing wolf tooth. “I understand, but really, what’s her name?”
“Gwendolyn Buckmeyer, Mary Rachel Risen’s closest sister.”
“Oh I see, and she’s eighteen?”
He nodded then took a sip of his whiskey.
“And you are?”
“Twenty-five.”
With a grin, she stared straight into his eyes. At first, he held her gaze, matched her boldness, but glanced away before he fell all the way into her clutches.
“Well, darling?”
The affectionate term brought him back to her glistening hazel eyes. “Well what?”
“Aren’t you going to ask my age?”
“Oh heavens, no. Jake told me never to ask that question of a lady.”
“He’s your oldest brother, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He ducked a bit. “Sorry.”
She tossed the rest of her brandy then stood. He jumped to his feet.
Extending her hand, she offered her fingers. “Thank you, Clay, for another pleasant evening.”
The huge emerald on her extravagant ring caught his eye, but he managed to take her fingers, and brought them to his lips for a slight, brushing kiss.
The coolness of her skin didn’t bring the temperature of his down one chigger. He resisted pulling her toward him. “The pleasure was all mine.”
After a soft pat of his cheek, she turned and floated toward the double doors. How did she do that? Walk without touching the floor. Then the sunshine was gone. He flopped back into the chair.
The shadow rolled over him like a storm cloud sweeping across the prairie then hovered, threatening. Menacing. Intimidating.
If he couldn’t have Gwen—barnacles, he’d thought her name. Stupid whiskey. But if he couldn’t have her, why not Dee. Had she expected him to follow? Both nights? Humph, of course not.
Why would a woman want the likes of him? Gwen didn’t. He’d said it again! But the widow’s dark lashes waved over her smiling hazel eyes. Beckoning?
So what if she really only wanted him for nothing more than a diversion? Why hadn’t he taken the bait? How old was she anyway? She’d almost seemed like she wanted him to know.
Stupid Jake.
Why had he said never to ask a lady her age?
Five days later, it surprised Mary Rachel when the boys brought in a fat envelope. She’d recognize Mama May’s sweeping hand anywhere. Eagerly, she tore the envelope’s end off.
Once she read the letter, she went herself across the street to the bank then found her husband in his father’s office—knee deep in high finance, no doubt.
“Hey, sweetness, something wrong?”
She extended the letter. “Where’s Elijah?”
He read it, passed it over to his father, then shrugged. “I think at the foundry. Been working on a plow he wants to take back with him.”
Boaz Risen handed the letter back. “This Bull Glover.” He glanced up at her. “He’s the man your father had to fight so he could buy Miss Jewel’s brother?”
“Yes, sir. Can you imagine? What hate he must harbor to send his son to Texas, and to win my sister’s heart only to break it in
to pieces? Makes me want to slap him myself! Or worse.”
Jethro touched her elbow. “Vengeance is Mine, sayeth the Lord.”
“Oh, I know, but still, sometimes the good Lord needs some help. You know, we’re His hands here, right? And those two Glovers need their comeuppance!”
He laughed. “I don’t know about that. Who can we send to fetch Elijah?”
Elijah flipped the piece over, doused it with water, then once the steam dissipated, picked the hunk of iron up with his tongs and carried it to the anvil. He loved manipulating metal to his will, but even better, would be the look in Henry’s eyes when he gave him his double, mold-board plow.
Ought to go ahead and get that one patented, too. Shame it took the government paper pushers so long to get one back. Sure be nice if he could at least get the planter in production while back in Texas.
Getting the new plow mass-produced, might be asking too much, but with Henry Buckmeyer, nothing seemed farfetched.
“There you are, Elijah. Miss Mary and Mister Risen wants you post haste, and that’s exactly the words he used. He made me say it back until I had it just right.”
Doing his best to stifle a chuckle, Elijah gave Amos a nod. The young man missed the smarts his sis got. No one could confuse Francy’s brother with a mental giant, but he worked hard and loved his baby sister to distraction.
“Hey, Amos, you bring a wagon?”
“No, sir. The surrey. Why?”
“Never mind, give me a minute. I’ll be right with you.”
Once it became evident the boy knew nothing of the why, Elijah kept his own counsel during the thirty-minute trip through San Francisco’s bustling streets. He loved the town, growing faster than he ever dreamed.
Once upon a time, land speculators split right down the middle on if it’d dwindle, be just another ghost town once the gold panned out.
But sure appeared the town would never suffer such a fate. Besides the shipping, the silver strike put it over the top. No one would ever bet against San Francisco’s survival again They’d be the fool.
He found Mary Rachel and Jethro at the mercantile. She, as usual, behind the desk, with him leaning the counter like he didn’t have a dime to spend, but couldn’t tear himself away from the beauty.
Elijah knew that magnetism all too well, been there himself once upon a time. Well, not the dime part, but that hadn’t been true love as he once thought.
Nothing compared to the overwhelming attraction and deep-in-his-heart need to hold and protect her younger sister. Imagining his life with the lovely Cecelia practically put him under with sheer joy.
“Hey, Amos said post haste, so here I am.”
His partner handed him a piece of paper. Elijah took it, read once through fast, then again to make sure there wasn’t more to it than his initial impression. He snickered then handed it back. “Seems the game of love has turned in Clay’s favor.”
Mary Rachel stood and snatched the letter from her husband’s hand.
“Maybe, but the Briggs’ place is a good day’s ride from Daddy’s. Not likely he’d go by. And since Clay’s planning on heading right back if his father’s already dead…he may not find out. Even if he makes it on time, he talked about leaving the day after the funeral.…”
“And?”
“Well…we’ve kicked it around some, and…”
“What’s she taking so long to say is, pack your bags.”
Elijah tossed it back and forth, juggling leaving his project unfinished, with seeing Cecelia’s face again and possibly saving Clay’s chance at being his brother-in-law. But…he looked at Jethro.
“Could you see to getting my plow finished and shipped to Texas?”
“No problem. Got any drawings?”
“Yes, in my room and at the foundry.”
“Consider it done.”
“Good.” He faced Mary Rachel. “Looks like I’m going to Texas.”
Mary Rachel smiled at her husband. “Care to go see how soon he can sail?”
Before he could answer, little Susie twirled into the room, her golden curls bouncing, chubby fingertips reaching high over her head. “Mama, we ballerinas!”
Francy leapt close behind one leg bowed, the other stretched behind her, bare toes pointed. “Where you going, Daddy? Can Susie and me go, too?”
“Susie and I, young lady.”
The two-year-old crawled into her mother’s lap. “Me go.”
“I’m going to the wharf and yes, you two young ladies can go.”
Elijah could hardly wait for a little beauty of his own—after a son, of course. He smiled at the baby’s mother. “You got any words of wisdom for me? How I might change your father’s mind.”
She laughed. “We used to argue who was more pigheaded, him or Mama, but no, not me. I could never talk him into seeing things my way.”
Catching some of her mirth, he shook his head. “My biggest problem is that I gave my word to do nothing more than hold your sister’s hand until the wedding. But mercy, as he’s always saying, that’s a mighty hard promise to keep.”
Took the rest of that day and most of the next, but he set sail before the sun melted into the Pacific in glorious shades of reds, pinks and purples. A good sign if the old tale proved true, red sky at night, sailor’s delight.
Mixed emotions rode with him as the harbor grew smaller. Hopefully, Henry would relent and allow Cecelia to marry before her birthday.
Mid-morning a week later, Sofia half-heartedly loaded what she and Braxton would need in a large steamer trunk. She couldn’t believe all the new clothes, and especially loved the fancy-lady dresses he’d bought her.
But the prospect of leaving New Orleans beset her something awful ever since she’d overheard the big fight between Bubba and his father.
Like Henry Buckmeyer would ever let anyone steal one of his girls. She seen it with her own eyes. The man was a cold-blooded killer. Wonder he didn’t murder Bubba that night when he tried to get Gwendolyn to run off with him.
Texas, who wanted to go there? Not her.
She’d never been anywhere and didn’t want to go anywhere. This was her home. She still got to see her mam most Sundays and already arranged the two best midwives just in case one was busy birthing someone else’s baby.
What if Braxton got lost meeting up with the Comanche? How could he know where he be with land in every direction?
Hardly believing he was taking her to Texas, she covered her head with both hands. The Indians would love scalping her…or worse. But she could never be no squaw, staying in a tent and eating nothing but buffalo meat.
Life wasn’t worth living without gumbo at least twice a week. A shiver raced down her back.
Maybe she ought to light out. But where would she go? Old Bull knew too many folks, so she couldn’t hide anywhere around town. And she did like his coin. She ran her fingers over the satiny material of her favorite dress, a shiny orchid one with black lace and little deep purple roses.
Liked his house and food, too, and Bubba’s soft mattress spoiled her good, especially when he wasn’t in it with her. How big did her belly have to get before that man stopped pestering her?
She should never have danced for him that day, but the beat…she let herself drift back to Congo Square. She’d sure miss that the most. If only every day could be a Sunday. She closed her eyes and swayed to the music that played in her head.
The door burst open. Bubba stopped cold, glanced at all her things on the bed, then at her. “Finish packing, baby. We’ve got a steamer to catch.”
She glared at him. “Why do I have to go? I hate Fort Worth, Texas.”
He laughed. “You’ve never been there. How could you hate it?”
“It ain’t New Orleans.”
“You’re going. Now finish packing. We’ve got to get to the dock.”
“Bubba, please, I don’t want to go.”
He stepped closer, grabbed the back of her neck, pulled her lips to his, and kissed her rough. He bit
her bottom lip too hard then leaned back and stared right in her eyes. “You’re going with me, and that’s that. Stop whining and get packed.”
He shoved her toward the bed.
She stumbled then righted herself and nodded. “Yes, Massuh.”
“Now you know I don’t like you calling me that.”
Should she answer?
Maybe with her sweetest voice, she might get to him. “And I don’t like you treating me that way either, Bubba. You say you love me, so why do you want to hurt me?”
He didn’t even draw his hand back or hit her or anything, just turned and left the room. When his tone got rough, she knew better than to mess with him, but couldn’t help herself.
Sure hated it that the old Bull hated Henry Buckmeyer so much.
She smiled at Bubba’s back going out the door.
She hated the little Bull, too.
But what could a slave do?
Chapter Twenty-five
Henry straightened out the oversized page, scanned several headlines, then settled on an article reporting the particulars of Cornelius Vanderbilt’s trip around the world in his yacht.
What an idiot. Why would anyone want to be gone that long just to set a record? Mercy, with that kind of money.…
Well, truth be told, his own wealth probably got close, except most of his was tied to the land. And if he started selling it off, its value would nosedive.
Not that he’d ever even considered letting go of one acre, much less enough to affect the market.
“What are you grinning about?”
He looked across what used to be his desk to May’s coy smile, as though she’d caught him at something. “Just taking stock. Do you know Cornelius Vanderbilt?”
“Of course, though not personally. We’ve rubbed elbows at a few parties. Why?”
“He’s just returned from sailing his yacht around the world.”
“What for?”
“Wanted to be the first to do it I guess, bored maybe. Doesn’t say.”
She tickled her chin with her feather. “Might be a story there, but instead of Cornelius, it could be.…” She studied a spot over his head. It amused him how she always thought about her next novel.
