Love's Awakening (The Ballantyne Legacy Book #2): A Novel

by Laura Frantz

  “I leave in three days. Little time to be of use—”

  “You underestimate yourself—and leave me few options.” With a sigh, he set his pipe aside. “I’ve been considering riding out to Broad Oak—”

  “Don’t.” Jack felt a chill even as he said the word. He held Brunot’s gaze in warning. “Don’t cross my father.”

  The serving girl returned with a steaming plate, interrupting their unsettling conversation, but supper no longer held any appeal. He made no attempt to eat but sat and fought his rising panic that the Ballantynes . . . Ellie . . . were undoubtedly a target. Though he’d weighed and measured their motives in helping fugitives, no amount of reasoning could account for such risk.

  “Why in God’s name do you abolitionists do what you do?”

  Brunot stood, pipe clutched in his fist. “That’s just it, Jack. ’Tis done in God’s name, all of it.”

  He moved toward the door, his slow gait indicative of his injuries. Jack watched him go, his meal untouched. No doubt, like Silas Ballantyne, the doctor would continue assisting slaves till his dying day.

  No matter the danger.

  29

  What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?

  ROBERT BROWNING

  Broad Oak, framed by the fading September sunset, was awash in crimson and gold. Jack dismounted at the front of the house, but before he’d tethered Cicero to the hitch rail, Chloe came flying out the door and into his arms, nearly knocking him off his feet. Wordless, she clung to him a moment too long, and he sensed her unspoken misery, her longing to return to River Hill. His throat locked tight as he held her, one hand awkwardly patting the straw-colored braid that snaked down her back.

  She looked up at him, a plea in her damp eyes. “Pa says you’re leaving—sooner than planned.”

  “Aye, day after tomorrow.”

  “Oh, Jack, what will I do?” Her voice caught on the end, half cry. “I don’t have Miss Ellie any longer, and now I won’t have you.”

  “There’s Sally and Ben,” he said. “You can visit Sol and Mrs. Malarkey whenever you like. Go fishing, riding.”

  “But it won’t be the same.” Her chin trembled. “Please take me with you. I won’t be a burden. I’ll even mend your clothes. Miss Ellie taught me to sew, remember. We can read those books—”

  “She also taught you to pen a letter. ‘Jack Turlock, Fort Lock, Missouri Territory.’” Taking her by the arm, he went inside the house, eyes trailing to the stairwell ceiling, where oil-brushed angels played their harps, reminding him again of Ellie. Miserable, he looked away.

  Chloe followed him out the back door, voice low. “Ma has a headache and is abed. Wade and Pa are—well, you know where. Ma says they should just camp by the stills this time of year.”

  He caught the derision in her tone, fueled by Isabel’s dislike of the entire whiskey enterprise. Whiskey was too common, she often said. Far beneath her O’Hara roots. Though whiskey was made year round at Broad Oak, it was made round the clock during the fall run.

  They approached the bustling distillery, the scent of the mash tubs, seething with fermenting grain, overpowering and ripe. He much preferred the storage houses where whiskey cooling in oak barrels held the tang of ripe apples. Taking out a handkerchief, Chloe covered her nose. Ellie’s influence, likely. The smell had never bothered her before.

  “Pa says it’s the largest run so far,” she managed through the embroidered linen.

  Lights flickered inside buildings, illuminating near-ceaseless activity. A great many Turlock slaves, brought up from Kentucky, were at work, their dark faces shining with sweat and intensity. He heard raucous laughter erupt from Josiah Kilgore’s office, followed by Henry’s deeply resonant voice.

  His mood soured, fueled by Dr. Brunot’s concerns at Benedict’s the night before. When he filled the door frame of the ledger-lined office, the merriment died. Chloe stood in his shadow, and he felt an odd impulse to protect her from the epithets and crassness that flowed as freely as the whiskey.

  Jack hated the insolence on Wade’s face. The smug complacency on his father’s. An old, irrational wish buried from boyhood took hold—that the open fires necessary for producing all that whiskey would turn explosive. Fire was a constant threat, given the highly flammable nature of alcohol, and required extreme vigilance. It was his father’s only fear.

  “So, Jack, ready to head west?” Henry set an empty tumbler on the table, eyes narrowing in question.

  “Aye, the Independence takes on cargo tomorrow,” he answered, “and leaves the day after.”

  Henry refilled his glass and held the liquor, now aged a pleasing crimson-gold, to the light. “All is in order, I hope.”

  He meant the distilling equipment, of course, packed in crates and marked as something else entirely. The deception nettled Jack as never before.

  “The plan is in place for me to join you in spring,” Josiah Kilgore was saying. “I’ll bring a number of carpenters and slaves to build a replica of the distillery here on a smaller scale.”

  Jack bit down hard on his tongue, lest he say he’d not be waiting. He’d deliver the whiskey, off-load the still farther up the Missouri, and that would be the end of the Turlock whiskey enterprise. He’d then head west unencumbered.

  “By the time that first crop of wheat and rye are in, you’ll be ready for a solid run. My goal is four hundred gallons—and no opposition.” Henry’s smile was tight. “I’ve just received word that Fort Lock and its commander are eagerly awaiting you.”

  “Blast, Jack!” Wade managed a wink. “You’ll be the most popular man west of the Mississippi. Makes me wish I wasn’t tied to home.”

  Jack fought down the sickening certainty that once he’d gone, all pandemonium would break loose. His father had other motives for sending him on this mission. Henry Turlock wanted him out of the way. Jack had been a fool for protesting early on. It had sent a red flag to his cunning, farsighted father that he had Ballantyne sympathies. And Henry, determined to bring Silas down, wanted no opposition.

  Swallowing hard, he opened his mouth to utter something about Dr. Brunot being waylaid and beaten, anything that would counter the deceit and ill will that thickened the room. But a distinct check, firm as a restraining hand, gave him pause.

  Say nothing.

  The words were as clear as if they’d been spoken outside himself, yet were buried soul-deep. Blood pounding in his ears, he heeded the voice, though it took every shred of will not to knock Wade down and take his father by the throat. Violence had ever been the Turlock way and was all he knew.

  Ira furor brevis est. Anger is temporary madness.

  “You don’t look well, Brother. Here, have a drink.” Wade pushed a glass toward him, but Chloe sprang between Jack and the table, the look of Isabel engraved in every hard line of her face.

  “You know Jack doesn’t like whiskey and never has!”

  At this, Henry simply refilled his own glass in smooth defiance. “Daughter, you’d do well to sound less like your mother and remember where your fortune lies.”

  Cowed by the stern reproof, she sought the safety of Jack’s shadow as Wade’s bloodshot gaze trailed after her. Jack took a last look around the cluttered office before going out without another word, Chloe on his heels.

  “You’d better say something to Sally,” she whispered.

  But Jack’s eye was on the main house and the darkened panes of their mother’s bedchamber. He wouldn’t bid Isabel goodbye, given her dislike of sentiment or any emotional display. And given the knot in his throat, he couldn’t say goodbye to Sally either.

  Instead he tarried at the hitch rail in front where Cicero waited, dusk cloaking the grounds. Everything looked and smelled old . . . faded. Like autumn. Chloe was struggling again—he could feel it, the burden of a long separation between them. She seemed like a little girl now, braid unraveling, eyes shot through with sadness.

  “When will you be back, Jack?”

  The
vulnerability in her expression tore at him.

  He wouldn’t tell her he wasn’t coming back. That he would finally be free. Of his past. Their family’s reputation. His unrelenting anguish over Ellie. He’d keep going west, take a new name. Become lost in the wilderness, where no one knew him or cared who he was.

  He reached out and pulled her to him in an awkward embrace. “I don’t know, Chloe. There are a great many things beyond my control.” His aching head spun with all the possibilities. “I’ll write to you and you’ll write to me.” The promise of some tie, some link across the miles, was hollow comfort. He didn’t know if letters ever reached the West. “I’ve been thinking, come spring, you could plant that corner of the garden you and Ellie started.”

  She gave a little nod.

  “Sol said he’d help. Ben too.” He paused, the pain in his chest building. “It would be good to think of you there, in that sunny corner, waiting for me—” His voice broke, betraying him. His hand closed about her braid. “Maybe you can make it fine again.”

  She bent her head, her arms tight around him. “I’ll pray for you, Jack.”

  “Ellie taught you that too, I’ll wager.”

  She swiped at a tear with a quick hand. “She always prayed with me before lessons. She prayed for you.”

  He turned away before she could read the telling wetness in his own eyes and swung himself into the saddle. Atop Cicero, he felt on firmer ground save Chloe’s last, startling words. So Ellie prayed for him. He wasn’t surprised, but he couldn’t help wondering what she prayed for. The entreaties were endless, he guessed.

  He was a Turlock, after all.

  Ribbons of light lay across the oak floor of Jack’s bedchamber, gilding the contents of an open trunk and the field desk beside it. He’d taken pains to pack as lightly as he could but sensed he’d soon regret it. Leaving civilization far behind was a daunting prospect. A few things he couldn’t do without—extra quills, ink and paper, his shaving kit . . . the Bible Silas Ballantyne had given him. Freshly laundered linen shirts, dark pants, wool stockings, and boots littered the worn rug at his feet. His weapons were hidden.

  Morning would come all too soon. Straddling a chair by a window, he turned his back on the upheaval all around him and tried to quiet his thoughts. Through the glass, the Monongahela, ever fitful, winked at him with a blue eye as the afternoon sun began to slide west. Yet another reminder of his destination. As consuming as the coming journey was, it took up far less of his thoughts than the trouble at hand.

  He’d lain awake half the night pondering Dr. Brunot’s dire words, knowing he could do little to stop the coming conflict. Allegheny County was fast becoming a battleground, but what a strange battle it was. The real evil was slavery, and it drove men to extreme measures. And it would be the means by which the Turlocks and their allies brought the Ballantynes down.

  Till now he’d never felt driven to his knees. Never gave way to emotion. But there was no denying he was coming apart inside, anguish and grief and guilt forcing him to the floor. Once there, ignorant of how to pray, all he could utter were a few paltry words.

  God, help . . . Stop my father and Wade. Protect the Ballantynes . . . Help me get free of this suffocating desire for a woman I cannot have.

  He got to his feet and circled the room, tossing a few more items into the open trunk. Dusk was falling and the minutes had slowed to a crawl. He needed to go for a ride before stabling Cicero for good. Head into town for supper at Benedict’s. Check the cargo now loaded aboard the keelboat a final time. But none of it held the slightest appeal.

  He was so preoccupied, he failed to see the shadow darken the door frame till Sol’s voice broke over him, hesitant and apologetic, as if sensing his turbulent mood.

  “Pardon, sir.”

  Jack swung around and faced him. “No pardon needed, Sol.”

  “Someone’s here to see you.” He looked perplexed but pleased. “It’s Miz Ellie. I put her in the blue room. The front parlor.”

  Ellie? Jack felt surprise wash his face.

  “I’ll keep her coachman company while you’re . . . um, occupied.”

  With that, he trod away, leaving Jack to ponder the impossible. Ellie here? Why? Suspecting Chloe of some prank, he left his bedchamber and descended the stairs, noticing the door to the parlor, usually shut, was wide open. Mindful of his unruly hair, the rasp of beard darkening his jaw, he crossed the wide foyer, wishing he’d made himself more presentable.

  Ellie heard footfalls, and her breathing thinned, gaze riveted to the parlor door. It had taken all the courage she possessed to come here, knowing Jack had never wanted her at River Hill. Likely he’d see her as just another interruption today.

  Behind her was the mysterious glass armonica. In the few minutes it had taken Solomon to fetch Jack, she’d let curiosity lead her to the corner, where she lifted a dust cloth and admired the antique instrument. How she wished she could play it. That same sweet poignancy returned as she took in the beautiful, neglected room. She half expected Chloe to bound in and throw open the shutters, transforming the darkness to light.

  But it was Jack who appeared in the doorway, shoulders squared, his gaze stony.

  “Ellie.” His low voice sent a tremor through her. “What brings you to River Hill?”

  No proper greeting. No forced small talk. Leave it to Jack to come straight to the heart of the matter. She swallowed past her awkwardness and met his eyes. “I—Chloe didn’t come for lessons this week. Is she ill?”

  He took a step into the room. “She’s back at Broad Oak. She was supposed to send you a note.”

  But she didn’t.

  Embarrassment faded to confusion. Had Chloe hoped she’d come to River Hill and meet Jack instead? The obvious slid into place, but it no longer mattered. She was here, whatever the reason, her nerves on end simply standing five feet away from him. He was heartrendingly handsome in that roguish, careless way he had, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, tousled hair looking like windblown straw.

  Go, came a whisper of warning.

  As she thought it, he took another step into the room, surprising her, crossing some invisible, forbidden boundary.

  Rattled by his nearness, she let a burning question spill out of her. “Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?”

  He hesitated, locking eyes with her. “Does it matter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about Daniel Cameron?”

  “Because there’s nothing to tell.” Her voice shook when she said it, as if she’d crossed some forbidden threshold herself.

  Reaching behind him, he shut the door.

  Oh, Jack.

  Longing cut a wide swath through her. She felt as light-headed as she had the day she’d fainted at his feet. Only today she stayed standing, her heart so full she felt it would shatter. He closed the distance between them till they were a handbreadth apart. Even the dimness failed to disguise the sweetness in his gaze, so at odds with his storminess of moments before. This wasn’t the Jack who didn’t want her . . .

  Ever so slowly he brought her arms around his neck till her fingers grazed his linen collar and the silken fringe of his hair. Her resolve to keep her distance slipped away. His long, lean fingers threaded through her upswept curls, tilting her head back to receive his kiss. He tasted warm, almost honeyish, his mouth exploring hers as she melted beneath his hands.

  “Ellie . . .” He paused, sounding a bit breathless. “I’m in love with you. I’ve long been in love with you. Do you believe me?”

  Did she? At the moment she couldn’t think . . . couldn’t breathe. “I came here—I meant to see—about Chloe.”

  “For once I’m grateful for her conniving.”

  She shut her eyes, the swirl of longing too strong. “Yet you’re leaving.”

  “Aye, at first light.”

  “Chloe needs you, Jack . . . I need you.”

  He stilled. “I wonder what your father would say about that.”


  “My father . . .” She paused, trembling slightly, her skin like fire where he’d touched her. “He’s never spoken a bad word about you.”

  “He well might, knowing I’ve kissed you, compromised you—”

  “With my consent.”

  “Aye, but it’s another matter entirely to make you a Turlock.”

  “Not if I want to be one.” The breathless admission, hard won as it was, set her free. All her hopes and dreams, so long denied, gathered in one heartfelt plea. “I’d be proud to be your bride, Jack.”

  A shadow crossed his face. “Sweet agony, Ellie. If I had my way, I’d marry you here—now.”

  “Then summon a judge or magistrate.” Her voice came soft but sure. “There’s time enough. We’ll have tonight.”

  He drew back slightly, though he held both her hands to his chest. “Would you do as my mother did, then? Forsake a good life, her family name, and wed a man like Henry Turlock—”

  “You’re nothing like your father, nor Wade.” She touched his cheek, felt the rough scrabble of beard, and fought down her dismay. “You’re the image of the judge.”

  He shook his head, misery clouding his eyes. “I need to go, Ellie. You need time. Becoming a Turlock isn’t something to be decided in an afternoon . . . if ever.”

  Her voice broke. “Take me with you, Jack.”

  For a moment she thought he might heed her plea till he renewed his own. “If you feel the same when I come back . . .” He bent his head, his breath stirring a tendril of her loosened hair. “Then I’ll speak to your father. Bring you home to River Hill. Make you mine.”

  Yes. That was what she longed for. To be his and his alone. Yet in the silence of her heart, she sensed his tender words were but an impossible, hopeless promise in the face of an unknown future. She bent her head, hating her tears and the gnawing panic that whispered she’d never see him after today.