Lost Yesterday

by Jenny Lykins

  In no time at all they rode through the fields, inspecting the cotton plants. His heart sank with each new acre they covered.

  "This is not good, William. We shall be lucky to only lose half the crop."

  William agreed, which was no consolation for Hunter. William knew cotton, and if his prediction was bleak then Hunter could expect a poor harvest.

  The ride back to Memphis was as bleak as his cotton future. A fine mist of moisture turned into a steady drizzle, soaking his lightweight coat and vest and causing his white linen shirt to cling to his chilled skin. By the time he arrived home, rain poured in a stream from the brim of his hat and the crashing thunder had Mystic spooked.

  Soft, yellow light glowing through the kitchen windows welcomed him, but he rode directly to the stables and waved away a sleepy Andre. His horse needed tending, and he admitted to himself that he'd rather stay in the barn and rub him down himself than go into the house and find Marin gone.

  He could not say for sure which had him more upset, the fact that she might be gone, or the fact that he cared.

  When he could delay the inevitable no longer he didn't even bother to turn up his collar or duck his head to avoid the rain. He simply waded through the downpour to the back door.

  The kitchen, which had been added to the house after the war, was filled with the smells of supper - fresh baked bread, roasted chicken, apple pie. He groaned at the sight on the table. Emmaletta, bless her soul, had left a linen-covered plate of food on the table for him, since the household had long since gone to bed. Two candles cast their warm glow across the room.

  Food, however, was not uppermost in his mind. Nor was his comfort, but the first order of business was to get out of his wet clothing. Then he would find out if his daughter still had a governess and if he still had a secretary.

  Water pooled at his boots with every step as he ducked into the pantry. With any luck, he would find some laundry from which to pilfer dry clothes. He peeled off the clinging layers of coat, vest and shirt, dropping them in a sodden heap. A bathing towel was draped over the washtub, so he snatched that up and scoured his hair dry. His water-logged boots refused to budge without a fight. Fine. They would wait until he got to the bootjack in his room.

  It seemed any articles of clothing he might possibly have use of had been efficiently put away. There was nothing for it but to go bare-chested to his room. Should he go via the back stairs? If so, he would pass Marin's room. Would she be there sleeping? Or would the bed be made up with fresh linens, waiting for its next occupant?

  Dear God, he had grown into a maudlin sap! He scrubbed his body down with unnecessary roughness, galled that this woman occupied so much of his thoughts. She was just a woman, after all, like all the rest. Hell, she'd left Kilpatrick by running to Memphis, and now the poor sap was dancing to her tune here. She was obviously a woman who avoided her problems. He didn't need another squeamish female in his life. So what, if she'd left with Kilpatrick? So what, and good riddance. The next woman he employed would be homely enough to stop a clock.

  He flung the damp towel to the floor and stormed from the pantry.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Marin screamed and dropped the tea kettle, sending water hissing across the still hot stove.

  She hadn't known Hunter was home. The events of the day, her "visit" with Ryan's and Hunter's ghosts and the confrontation with Niles, had left her with a bad case of insomnia. She'd thrown a thin wrapper over her nightgown and crept down the back stairs to make a cup of tea, assuming Hunter was still out because of the food on the table and the candles still burning. The last thing she'd expected was for him to come charging out of the pantry.

  "Miss Alexander! What are you doing here?" He very nearly barked the question at her, as if she had no right to step foot into the kitchen.

  She was prepared to knock him off his "king of the castle" pedestal with a little acid in her voice, but the sight of candlelight dancing on his well-defined torso lit a warm, mellow fire in her that betrayed her intentions. She took her time and answered him in a low, husky voice.

  "Making a cup of tea."

  He stared at her. Obviously that was not the answer, or the tone he'd expected. She smiled sweetly as she righted the tea kettle, all the while taking a long, slow inventory of him, enjoying every inch of exposed flesh.

  Her twentieth century brain took over, and she asked in the same seductive voice, "Would you like some?"

  His damp, clinging trousers failed to hide the fact that he took her question the way she meant it. To her surprise, he stiffened his spine and backed up until he leaned against the wall.

  "I don't believe I care for any," he answered, and she knew from his level gaze that he was not declining her tea.

  He might as well have slapped her in the face, even if she was only teasing him. But she'd choke before she let show the sting she was feeling.

  "Suit yourself," she said with a shrug, "but I'm going to have a cup."

  He watched her while she refilled the kettle and placed it back on the stove. When she walked into the pantry to unlock the tea caddy, he kept his back to the wall. He remained in that position while she put the leaves in to steep. If his hands had been behind his back instead of crossed at his chest, she would have sworn he was hiding something.

  "Can I get you something, Hunter?" she finally asked when he failed to move. "A drink? A bite to eat? Perhaps a shirt?" She threw in the last comment just to prick at the proper side of him.

  It worked. He jerked away from the wall and glanced at the door to the backstairs. Why was he acting so strange? He had to be hiding something behind his back. Instead of moving toward the staircase, though, he nonchalantly backed into the pantry.

  "I beg your pardon, Miss Alexander," his disembodied voice drifted in from the dark anteroom, "I attempted to change into dry clothing, but there was none in here." His irritated tone wasn't lost on her.

  When he reappeared in the kitchen, he was wearing a dripping shirt and a frown so intense Marin was sure he meant to drive her from the room.

  "Satisfied?" he said.

  Marin laughed out loud and walked around the table.

  "Oh really, Hunter. I was only teasing about the shirt. Get that thing off before you make yourself sick."

  She started to peel the shirt from him, but he shrugged her hands away and stepped back. Had he felt the same jolt as she? The fingers that had brushed his cool, moist skin tingled with heat, like she'd passed them through a flame.

  "C'mon, Hunter. Lord, can't you take a joke?" She raised her hands again to pluck at his shirt, but his voice stopped her cold.

  "The last time you were this close to me, Miss Alexander, you kissed me and then you slapped me. Do you now intend to disrobe me?"

  He was trying to make her mad. He was going for the shock value of his words, Marin knew. A dozen stinging remarks jumped to her tongue, but she bit them all back. When she glanced at his face, his self-satisfied smirk produced the tiniest crease of a dimple in his left cheek.

  Without another thought she grabbed two handfuls of the cold, wet cambric of his shirt. With one yank, her lips were on his, her tongue searching, finding his. The warmth of his responding mouth sent streamers of knee-weakening heat curling through her body. She prolonged the kiss until she had to come up for air. When she did, she released his shirt with a little shove.

  Marin forced herself to breathe evenly, and to her satisfaction, Hunter struggled with his own breathing.

  She dragged her gaze down the length of his rain-drenched body before saying in a husky voice, "Disrobing you isn't necessary, Hunter. It seems you have no secrets from me."

  He stood, his chest heaving as he studied her with intensity. That piercing gaze seemed to reach into the depths of her spirit. Before he could speak, before she allowed him to see into her soul, she turned and slowly, deliberately walked out of the room.

  *******

  Hunter sat at the dining room table, a cold, congealed breakfast
before him, a tepid cup of coffee in his hand, and his chair placed to allow a clear view of any traffic on the stairs.

  Where the devil was she? He'd heard Katie galloping about upstairs for a good thirty minutes. Was his daughter to be left swinging from the chandeliers while Miss Alexander languished in bed half the day?

  A night of restless tossing in a tangle of damp sheets had left him with the temperament of a rabid dog. But he preferred that over what he'd felt last night when Marin Alexander kissed him and then walked from the room.

  A prophetic gesture, no doubt. Especially if she had chanced to see the grotesque scars deforming his back.

  Well, he would put a stop to her forward behavior once and for all. As soon as she bothered to stir herself he'd -

  Marin walked into the room, a basket of fresh cut flowers on her arm. Her hair hung loose, as it had the night before, all soft and curling in the July heat. There was a smudge of dirt on her cheek, and the pale blue cotton gown clung to her with damp sensuality.

  Damn the woman!

  "Good morning, sleepy head," she had the audacity to say. "Did you sleep well?" Her cheerful demeanor was like pouring whiskey on an open wound.

  She chose a delicate, porcelain vase from the sideboard and began filling it with flowers. When he just sat and glared at her, she turned and studied him.

  "Did you not sleep well, Hunter?"

  The memory of the night he'd spent dragged at him.

  "I slept very well, thank you." He stood and threw his napkin on the table. "Miss Alexander, there must not be a repeat of the events of last night."

  Marin's back stiffened and a delicate pink rose in her face. Her hands stilled on the arrangement.

  "I won't have an employee throwing herself on me. Need I remind you that you've agreed to be Katie's governess as well as my secretary? I realize you took my words last night as a challenge, but I must insist you stifle such urges toward loose conduct in the future."

  The moment the words left his lips he knew he should never have uttered them. Marin hid what she was thinking well. Her only reaction was to narrow her eyes slightly, a glimmer of hurt there.

  The righteous indignation he'd been cultivating all night evaporated like morning mist against a rising sun. Perhaps he should apologize for being so blunt.

  But he was not the apologizing type.

  Marin resumed her floral arranging momentarily, then stopped and dusted off her hands.

  "I really must thank you, Mr. Pierce. You've just made it easy for me to 'stifle such urges.' In fact, I daresay you've eliminated them altogether."

  It was the first time she'd ever called him anything but Hunter. He didn't like the way it sounded on her lips, or the way it made him feel.

  He expected her now to tender her resignation and leave in a huff. He almost wanted her to, just so he could congratulate himself on being right. But he knew if she did he would have more sleepless nights looming far into his future.

  To his utter relief she placed the vase of flowers back on the sideboard and smiled at him sweetly.

  "Well, Mr. Pierce, I guess I'd better go find Katie and govern her. I wouldn't want to be accused of lying down on the job. Or even having the urge to."

  Her pointed smile held no warmth. Indeed, the gold of her eyes resembled amber ice.

  She swished her skirts away as she passed, making sure not a thread of fabric touched him.

  He turned to look back at the vase when she disappeared up the stairs. The multi-colored flowers now looked as if a carriage had run over them.

  Strange. He felt much the same way.

  *******

  Marin marched up the steps with as much dignity as she could muster. She had to get away from him before her shaky facade of haughtiness crumbled.

  As she stepped onto the landing, a familiar cacophony ruptured the silence of the house.

  The huge, golden-haired puppy rounded the corner of the staircase, yelping like the hounds of Hell were after him. The half-grown kitten was a black, hissing blur behind him. The two somersaulted down the stairs to the landing, slid to the next set of stairs and somersaulted down those. The puppy ran through the foyer, his toenails scratching at the parquet floor, then slammed into the door when he tried to make the turn into the parlor.

  The kitten wasted no time in attacking. In a matter of seconds both cat and dog disappeared into the recesses of the house, their hissing and yelping fading as they found an open back door.

  Katie clattered down the steps to Marin, her short little legs only long enough to take one step at a time. Big, glistening tears hovered on her lashes.

  "Puffy and Angel don't like each other, Mawin!" she wailed as she buried her face in Marin's skirts.

  Marin knelt beside her and dried her tears with a swipe of her thumbs. She almost laughed at the tragic little face, despite the aching in her chest, but she schooled her features into a serious expression.

  "Dogs and cats don't usually like each other, but we'll just have to teach them to get along, won't we?"

  Katie brightened and nodded enthusiastically. "Can we teach them now?"

  Animal training was not on her list of things she'd like to do right now. But maybe the distraction was just what she needed.

  "Sure. Let's go see if we can find them. At the rate they were going they could be in Mississippi by now!"

  She took Katie's tiny little hand in hers, and together they made their way downstairs.

  Marin caught a flicker of movement and looked up to find Hunter standing in the dining room doorway. She allowed herself only the briefest moment of regret, then turned to Katie and squeezed her hand. The pain his rejection caused her would stay buried with all the other pain she'd suffered.

  "So, which one is Puffy and which one is Angel? As if I didn't know."

  She had a feeling that naming this particular cat Angel was an example of irony at its best.

  *******

  The dark-haired man with the Irish accent knocked back his third shot of whiskey and signaled for the waiter to bring him another drink. He turned back to the man sitting across from him.

  "She turned me down, Richardson. I tell ye, Pierce is holdin' her there with the excuse that his by-blow needs her. She'll not be nanny to another man's whelp if I can help it."

  The man across from him showed a bit more interest.

  "Pierce has a child born on the wrong side of the blanket? Who is the mother?"

  "Was. She's dead. Died a few days ago of consumption. Her name was Delia Cabot Branson. She dropped the child off, announced she was Pierce's, and neatly died during the night. Now Pierce has me Mari playing nursemaid to the chit. Well, I'll sue for breach of promise, I will."

  Harold Cabot drew on his cigar and rose from the chair in the exclusive men's club. This may be the opportunity he'd been looking for.

  He'd just been sitting there, savoring his last cigar and planning how to duck out of his lodgings without paying the rent he owed. He had to admit, the only reason he'd gotten past the sacred doors of this establishment was thanks to an acquaintance who was too drunk to walk in on his own.

  He polished the toes of his shoes on the backs of his trouser legs, smoothed his hair back and walked up to the two men on whose conversation he'd been eavesdropping.

  "Forgive me, gentlemen, for interrupting, but I happened to overhear you mention the name of a cousin of mine whom I've lost contact with, and I thought perhaps you could tell me where to find her. Delia Cabot Branson? My name is Harold Cabot."

  The two men glanced uneasily at each other, then stood.

  "Niles Kilpatrick, at your service, and this is Bernard Richardson."

  Harold shook hands with the men, then took the chair they offered.

  "Do you know where I might find my cousin? Has she returned to Memphis?"

  Kilpatrick downed another shot of whiskey and cleared his throat.

  "Well, Cabot, it's sorry I am to tell ye your cousin passed on several days ago."

&nbs
p; Harold forced his face to register shock, then sorrow.

  "Oh. How very distressing. Did she leave a husband and family behind? Someone to whom I can offer my condolences?"

  The two men exchanged another uncomfortable glance. Kilpatrick spoke again.

  "She has a daughter here. She's staying with her...Hunter Pierce at Pierce Hall."

  "Thank you, gentlemen. I appreciate your help. Terribly sorry to have interrupted you."

  Harold was on his feet and out the door before the others had a chance to respond. He had some serious thinking to do. With the right plan, he might never have to work another day in his life.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It had been two weeks since he'd told Marin to remember her position in this house, and she had done an exemplary job of following his wishes.

  He could kick himself.

  God, how he missed the sound of her voice saying "Hunter." Just hearing it made him feel as if he'd been caressed. She hadn't addressed him as anything but "Mr. Pierce" since that day. Even then, there was no emotion. No anger, no hurt...no caress.

  He tossed his pen aside and scooted the chair backward as he rose from the desk. He'd been working on the books for hours, hoping to find a way to cut expenses in the event the crop yield was as bad as he anticipated.

  Perhaps some fresh air would clear his head and get his mind off Marin.

  A breeze from the front door carried in the sound of childish giggling and yipping puppy. He followed the noise, mesmerized by the sound that had been so foreign in this house. He stopped himself in the doorway, not wanting to disturb the scene. As he watched, the walls around his heart cracked, then crumbled into dust, and his heart slowly melted and trickled into every pore of his body.

  Marin and Katie sat on the lawn in front of the house, two colorful splashes on a verdant, green background. Marin's pale peach gown billowed in the breeze around her drawn-up knees. Katie's tiny pink frock was decorated with a number of grass stains.