A Time for Everything

by Mysti Parker

  She stepped aside for him to enter. “Is Lucy any better? Mama said she was sick.”

  “Bessie’s taking care of her. I’m sure she’ll recover soon.”

  She looked and sounded sincere enough. Either she was making excuses for her father’s behavior, or she really didn’t comprehend the situation. He hoped for the latter, because he didn’t want to believe she could be anything like Oliver.

  “I do hope it’s nothing serious. I would hate for you or Jonathan to become ill,” Lydia said.

  “We’re fine. Sorry if I woke you.” Beau shut the door behind him, glancing at his boots to make sure they weren’t too filthy to step off the rug onto the newly polished floors. They’d do.

  “You didn’t. I had just come down for a drink of water before bed.” She twirled both sets of fingers through her hair and tilted her head to one side, flashing her winning smile. “But I was thinking of you.”

  “Were you?” Beau removed his hat, trying to smile and play the gentleman, though he felt more like a peasant now than ever before. “Nothing bad, I hope.”

  “Of course not. My sweetest dreams are of you.” She came to him, reached up, and gently touched the stitches on his head. Her fingertips drifted down over his cheek, traced along his neck and lingered on his collarbone. “Daddy’s in his study. I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you.”

  He caught her hand and held it in a neutral position, trying to cool the embers her touch ignited before he answered, but his shaky voice betrayed him. “Thank you.”

  It dawned on him, then — the reason she thought he had come to call. She would be disappointed, but it couldn’t be helped. Or would she? How badly did Oliver want his daughter wed? Beau suddenly felt unsteady on his feet, like he’d drunk two shots of whiskey on an empty stomach. He released Lydia’s hand before she could tempt him further and strode down the expansive hall to the second door on the left.

  No second thoughts. Just knock. The door opened, and Beau took a step back, grimacing from the sudden whoosh of body odor. Grungy-headed Randal stood there, grinning at him with those rotten teeth. What that no good waste of bones was doing there, Beau could only imagine.

  “What an unexpected surprise,” Oliver said, rising from a chair across the room. “Randal was just leaving.”

  As if on cue, the nasty visitor brushed past him. “Heard ya got shot. Can’t be too careful these days.” He whistled at Lydia, who retreated into the nearby sitting room.

  “True, and we can’t be too careful about who we let into our homes.”

  Randal’s raspy chuckle followed him out the front door until it shut solidly behind him.

  “Don’t be a stranger. Come on in.” Oliver chewed on the end of an unlit cigar and gestured for Beau to take a seat on the interrogation side of his big mahogany desk.

  Beau settled into the chair and wrung his hat so hard he thought it might actually produce water. His stomach churned, and a bead of sweat ran down his temple over the wound Portia had so painstakingly sutured. A cuckoo clock hung on the wall above the desk, with a tiny carved woodcutter frozen in time with his axe held high, waiting for the clock to strike ten so he could chop his firewood. Beau still had no idea how he would secure Lucy and Tipp’s freedom. Buying it wouldn’t be an option. He would have to appeal to Oliver’s humanity, if he had any at all.

  Instead of taking the captain’s seat, Oliver perched on the left front corner of the desk. One expensively shoed foot brushed the Oriental rug, and the other swung lazily back and forth, uncomfortably close to Beau’s leg. The tick-tock of the clock filled the awkward silence with a sense of impending doom.

  Oliver lit his cigar and peered down from his seat on high. “What brings you here at this time of night?”

  No sense beating around the bush about it. “I want to know what you’d take in exchange for releasing Lucy and Tipp from their contracts.”

  Brief shock registered on the old bastard’s face. He scratched at one bushy gray sideburn. Cigar smoke puffed out in spurts as he chuckled. “I should have known this was coming.”

  “How much do you need?”

  “Did you come into a sudden inheritance, my boy?”

  “No.”

  “Then I fail to see how you’d have a leg to stand on in this conversation.”

  “Tell me how much you’d take, and we can work something out.”

  “Twenty thousand dollars.”

  “That’s twice what their contracts are worth.”

  “I’m a businessman, Stanford. Can’t stay ahead by breaking even. Besides, taking them off my hands in such short notice would be a great inconvenience. Tipp’s the best field hand we have, and Lucy’s our only house girl right now. It takes time to find good people. Can you supply me with replacements?”

  “No, and I wouldn’t, even if I could. The war’s over, Oliver. Let them go.”

  “I have to ask — why them? I have a number of Negroes under contract.”

  “You know why.”

  Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

  “I don’t make deals based on differing ideas of morality, son. You’ll have to do better than that.”

  “I’ll trade the Standardbred for them.”

  “You’d give back my daughter’s gift to you? Well now, at least you’re starting to sound like a businessman, but I’ll have to pass. We bought that horse for a pittance. It wouldn’t bring enough.”

  “Then you can put me under contract. I’ll give you a portion of everything I earn until their contracts are paid for.”

  Tick-tock, tick-tock. The minute hand slid ever closer to the Roman numeral twelve.

  Oliver slid off his perch and laughed. “You’d really trade your soul for two worthless niggers? I knew you were an unrealistic idealist, but I never thought of you as stupid. Shame my niece isn’t alive to talk some sense into you. But then, had you not gone off to fight for the damn Yankees, she might still be here.”

  “How dare you bring Claire into this, you son of a bitch!”

  “Temper, temper. Tell me this — how many times have you tried to borrow money or run a tab since you came home? How many times have you been turned away?”

  Too many damn times. Beau couldn’t say it out loud, but he didn’t have to.

  “That’s what I thought. You’re traitors to the Cause, you and Harry. Left a bad taste in everyone’s mouth. They don’t get a little pension like you do, and most of them don’t have the means to loan you anything. Those who do answer to me.”

  Tick-tock, tick-tock. The woodcutter shuddered once, as though he couldn’t wait to bring down that axe.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why do you think I went up north before the war started? Not for my health, certainly. Winters are brutal. I accumulated a great deal of wealth, and I bided my time, made connections. Our economy is in shambles, and my associates and I have ensured its survival. The South is desperate, as is Lebanon, and you’d be amazed how eagerly people will pledge allegiance to those who can feed them.”

  “You’re buying them out.”

  “I practically own the town. All that’s left are a few nobodies and you.”

  “So all this talk of coming back here to fulfill your daughter’s wishes…”

  “There’s the bright young man I once knew. I wouldn’t come back to this hellhole just to secure Lydia’s fairy tale prince. The entire South is one big business venture for the taking now. How could I not take advantage of it?”

  “When did you stop being human, or were you born a monster?”

  “Oh, come now. Most folks are grateful for my protection.”

  “What protection?”

  “Protection from unfortunate mishaps, untimely demises — whatever you want to call it. From what I hear, Lebanon’s become quite the lawless town, more than poor Deputy Bandy can handle. We had that attempted bank-robbing — your stitches can attest to that. Some niggers strung up, too. It’d be a real shame, wouldn’t it, if something happened to yours? Or to that littl
e teacher you’ve taken up with.”

  Beau’s blood turned to fire, burning its way from his gut to his toes, which propelled him out of the chair. This man had a seat reserved at Satan’s left hand, and Beau was ready to escort him to it. Randal and those other imbeciles were his lackeys, of course. He had no doubt they were the ones responsible for the lynching and who knows what else. Proving it would be another matter.

  He had to force himself to stay rooted to where he stood and hoped his words conveyed how badly he wanted to break the bastard’s wrinkled neck. “You lay one finger on my family or Portia, and I swear to God I’ll kill you.”

  Oliver seemed nonplussed and waved his cigar at him in a calm-down motion. “Easy now, soldier. This isn’t the battlefield. I’m just an old man who wants to maintain the peace and ensure I live in comfort for the few years I have left. So let’s strike a deal, shall we? Come up with twenty thousand dollars by Friday, and I’ll let Tipp and Lucy go wherever they want.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Then marry my daughter and give me the deed to your property. I’ll even forgive Harry his debts.”

  The blood-soaked dummy swung through Beau’s mind. “I should have known.”

  “He’s run up quite a big tab here and elsewhere. I’m not the only one he’s got to worry about. But I’ll try to call off the other dogs if you and I can come to some agreement. Time’s wasting, Stanford.”

  Tick-tock, tick-tock. Beau knew it would come down to this, no matter how many futile bargains he tried to strike. The worst part was knowing this snake wasn’t giving him the choice simply because he wanted to make his daughter happy. He wanted to own him in every way he could. Giving Oliver his land would mean he controlled everything, and Oliver knew Beau was a man who would never break a vow of ’til death do us part. Beau would be his new slave.

  “Come now,” Oliver said. “She’s not repulsive to you, surely. She’s young. She’ll give you more children, and her dowry will pay off your debts. It’s a rather generous offer, don’t you think? How badly do you want their freedom? You know, I think I’ll go fetch Lucy. Mrs. Clemons and I haven’t shared a bed in years. It gets rather lonely at night.”

  Ambushed, caught in a trap with Oliver on the high ground. Beau’s heart danced a drunken jig in his chest, and he felt plumb dizzy. “Give me a few more days…”

  “Can’t do it. We have to close the deal tonight. Either you agree to find a source for the money by Friday, or you marry Lydia and hand over your deed. Or you do neither, and they remain for me to use as I please. And you forfeit any protection I could provide. The choice is yours.”

  Beau looked toward the door. Each tick of the clock grew louder, more urgent, pounded in his head, counting down the final seconds…

  “Don’t worry. She can’t hear you. I’ve made certain this room is completely sound proof. Now, I want you to go out there, put on your best smile, get down on one knee, and propose to my daughter. You’ll say nothing to her or to anyone about our deal. You’ll get rid of that stubborn little teacher and carry on like before. And soon as you say ‘I do’, I’ll let them go.”

  Oliver Clemons couldn’t be trusted to do anything unless it was in ink, and even then, it was a long shot. But he had no other safeguard left in this battle. Beau was out of ammunition.

  “I want your word, on a contract, that you won’t lay another hand on Lucy between now and the wedding, and you will not interfere in nor will you threaten the lives of anyone in my household.”

  Sweat dampened every inch of Beau’s skin. He might as well have been standing just outside the gates of hell as he waited for the axe to fall.

  “We might make a businessman out of you, after all.” Oliver extended his hand. “It’s a deal.”

  Beau swallowed hard, but his mouth was devoid of spit. He stared at Oliver’s hand for a few tense seconds before raising his own. They shook. Deal closed. The old man’s grip was as strong as the devil’s.

  “I’ll get my lawyer over here first thing in the morning.” Oliver mashed the end of his cigar butt into an ashtray. “Be here at eight o’clock sharp.”

  The cuckoo popped out the door and announced the ten o’clock hour. The woodcutter lifted his axe and brought down jerky mechanical arms to hit the pretend chopping block. Beau flinched.

  He walked to the door and opened it. There was no other choice. He had gone into this battle knowing he was outgunned, but hoping this power-hungry tyrant would miraculously have a change of heart and prove to be a decent human being. He had failed.

  On the fifth chop, Lydia emerged from the sitting room across the hall and came toward him. Her eyes were wide with expectation, hope, and… love?

  Whatever feelings he had for Portia, he had to erase. She was a good teacher. Once he had the money, he would pay her what he owed her and give her more to help her start a life elsewhere. But how could he forget her heart or her spirit? How could he forget how she had saved his son?

  He took Lydia’s hands and smiled as best he could. Lydia resembled Claire so much, he tried to picture that day long ago when he had asked the question he never thought he would ask another woman.

  The woodcutter’s axe made one final chop at the stroke of ten.

  Beau got down on one knee.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  On Wednesday night, Portia picked at her supper, feeling an odd loss of appetite. Beau avoided her gaze, like he’d been avoiding her all day. Their tender moment had caused an awkward ripple in the whole household, and she feared things would never be comfortable between them again.

  Ezra and Harry engaged in their own conversation about squirrel hunting. Someone mentioned squirrel brains and scrambled eggs. Polly listened in, sipping her soup with little slurps. Portia grimaced, but the conversation at her end of the table wasn’t any better.

  Lydia talked non-stop with hardly a breath in between. “Since our home is completely restored, we’ve planned a lovely gala for Saturday night. You’re all invited, even Jonathan and Portia.”

  Well, isn’t that nice? “That’s very kind of you,” Portia said.

  Beau threw a glance at Lydia and stared down at his plate, jaw clenched. He massaged his head where the scar from the bullet wound still healed.

  “Don’t worry, Beau,” she said, nudging his arm. “I won’t make you dance… much.” She turned to Portia. “Our charity is going to be a huge success. Do you need more yarn?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Lydia touched Beau’s hand, rubbing his skin in feather-light circles. “Mama and I bought twenty more skeins yesterday and several bolts of fabric. Those little socks and bonnets you knitted are adorable.” She leaned as close to Beau as she could without climbing in his lap. “I can’t wait to dress my own babies in such things.”

  Her fingers massaged his forearm like she kneaded bread. He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. Did his head ache from the wound or from Lydia’s mapped-out future plans?

  “All you all right?” Portia asked. “I could get you some coffee or a cool cloth, perhaps?”

  He shook his head and opened one eye, then the other, training them on her. She sat up straighter and inhaled a quiet gasp as though someone had stepped on her toe during church. Pain — not simply from the wound — emanated from his eyes, and she felt it keenly. So much so that she reached for his face. Her fingers brushed his cheek before she remembered they weren’t alone.

  Beau scooted away from the table. “Excuse me,” he said and left the room without a word.

  “Beau, where are you going? Are you ill?” Lydia called, craning her neck toward the dining room door. She fought against her dinner dress until she freed herself from the table and followed after him, giving Portia a chilling glare on her way out.

  Everyone’s eyes fell on Portia. Was Beau so disgusted with her that he couldn’t even stand to stay in the same room? Guilt crawled through her veins. She’d managed to tear up this entire family with one almost-k
iss and now this.

  Before her cheeks could ignite the tablecloth, she muttered, “I’ll just clean up the dishes.” She got up and gathered the two abandoned bowls along with her still full one then hurried into the kitchen. To her disappointment, Bessie wasn’t there. Neither was Lucy. She poured her soup in the slop bucket and set the dishes in the basin. Come to think of it, she hadn’t seen Lucy all day, and Bessie only briefly. She hoped one or both of them weren’t ill. Sallie Mae had seemed fine when she joined them for lessons that morning…

  Harry interrupted her thoughts when he came through the swinging door. “It would be my pleasure to accompany you to the gala tomorrow night.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said and at his frown added, “I don’t have anything fancy to wear, and I can’t dance.”

  “You look pretty in anything, darlin’. That dress with the green stripes fits you real nice.”

  “Thanks, but…” Had she not made herself clear in letting him know she didn’t want courtship? He must have known what happened between her and Beau, so why would he still want her?

  He leaned one elbow casually on the counter. “Just friends, nothing more. Trust me, if you get invited to a Clemons’ party, you want to go.” He grinned and winked. “More food than you could ever eat.”

  Her stomach rumbled at the thought. She glanced at the slop bucket, now wishing she hadn’t dumped her soup.

  Harry chuckled. “Don’t worry about Oliver or any of the party-goers either. After a few drinks, they won’t care what you’re wearing. I won’t even ask you to dance. Jonny will be there, too. We can just eat our fill, come home, and sleep it off. What do you say?”

  She considered Harry’s offer while pumping water into the basin. Beau would be with Lydia for the evening, so she wasn’t likely to run into him and stir up a scandal. Plus, Harry talked enough for the both of them, so she wouldn’t have to worry about socializing much. And she’d never been one to turn down free food.