Southern Rapture

by Jennifer Blake

  "And unhanged, too, thanks to you. I can treat these gentlemen to a list of your virtues, but I don't think they would be entertained. I give you my most solemn promise that when I have spoken I will see you to Colfax in time to catch your train, if you will come with me now, and if that's what you want. Otherwise, I will not be responsible."

  There was no longer any amusement in his tone. She had been offered a choice. She could go with him willingly or he would use force and take the consequences.

  "Lady, for heaven's sake," the drummer began, then fell silent at a quick, hard glance from Ransom.

  "Oh, very well," she exclaimed, a trace of despair in her annoyance. She had thought to avoid this confrontation. If she could not, then she would face it with some modicum of dignity.

  He held out his hand. She placed her fingers in his and climbed down without looking at him. He stepped back, drawing his mount aside and waving at the driver of the stagecoach. The driver shouted and snapped his whip, and the clumsy vehicle began to move.

  "My trunk!" Lettie cried.

  "It will be waiting for you at Colfax stage office."

  She stared after the stage until it was out of sight around a curve. When it was gone, she fixed her attention on the woods that closed in around them at that spot, on the silent forest of pine and oak, ash and hickory and sweet gum.

  "Lettie, look at me."

  It was the last thing she wanted to do. Her muscles were stiff with reluctance and the restraint that she held on herself as she turned to face him. She lifted her gaze to his, then went still.

  He had removed his hat. It was Ranny who stood before her with the sun shining in the soft gold of his hair and his face serious, waiting. But Ranny had never been real. A spasm of pain crossed her face. She swung away from him. "Don't!"

  "Don't what? This is me. This is who I am."

  "No, it isn't!"

  He caught her arm, turning her to him once more. "Yes, it is. What are you afraid of?"

  "Nothing! Just let me go. That's all I want!"

  "I can't, not like this. I love you, Lettie."

  "Indeed? Which one are you?" she demanded in bitter anguish.

  He stared down at her with comprehension gathering in his eyes. "So that's it."

  "What did you expect? I have seen two men and loved them both in different ways, but neither one was real."

  Almost, Ransom reached out to her because of the admission she had made and because she was so lovely standing there with dust on the brim of her hat, which was tilted forward on her high-piled hair, and the soft tulle of its veil softening the defiance in her eyes. But she had said loved, as if she felt that emotion no longer. As if it were past.

  "Is it so impossible," he said, his voice deep and quiet, "that I am both?"

  The sound of his words vibrated deep inside her, setting off waves of feelings like a rock thrown into a still pond. She wanted to believe him, wanted to fling herself against him and be held in his arms. Something prevented it. Her answer came unbidden, rising from that same hidden source.

  "You can't be."

  "Why?" There was an ache in his chest more grievous than any wound he had ever received. He could not reach her with words and dared not try to force her physically for fear of making her despise him, and rightly so. There seemed no way to prove what he said.

  "It's beyond belief that two men so different could reside in the same person. One must be false."

  "Which one?"

  "That I don't know," she said, the look in her eyes clouded.

  He watched her, his gaze steady. "If you could choose, if you could say this is the one that I prefer, which would it be?"

  "I don't want to choose!"

  "But if you could?"

  She opened her mouth to speak, to say that she preferred Ranny, only to be snared by the light in his eyes. It was a light that reminded her of a gray, rain-swept night and unbidden pleasures, of a rocking ferry and a dark dream of ecstasy. It wasn't a fair question, for the answer was an impossibility. She would prefer that he was both, wished with painful fervency that he could be both.

  There was a shifting movement at the edge of the trees to the left and behind Ransom. A man stepped out of the deep shade, moving into the sunlight. He was tall and wore a rough shirt and trousers and a pair of broken boots. In his hand was a gun.

  Lettie drew in her breath, but before she could sound a warning, he spoke.

  "I advise you to take Ranny," Martin Eden drawled. "The Thorn is too wild and full of devilment to make a comfortable husband."

  Ransom, seeing the widening of Lettie's eyes as she looked past his shoulder, spun around before the words were out of Martin's mouth. His muscles jerked to stillness at the sight of the gun. He relaxed with care, easing in front of Lettie. His gaze infinitely watchful, he said, "I'm sure she's obliged to you, Martin."

  "I thought she might be. Just as I am obliged to you for taking our Lettie off the stage for me. I was afraid she might make her escape, but I depended on you to prevent it, if I stuck with you long enough. Clever of me, wasn't it."

  "Brilliant."

  "I knew you would appreciate it. You were always so quick, Ransom. I used to wonder why you didn't suspect that I was the one using your sign, blaming you for the things I had done."

  "It occurred to me, but you were my friend—mine, and Johnny's."

  Martin shrugged. "You and Johnny, so trusting, both of you. It was hardly sport to fool you."

  "And was it sport to kill him?"

  "Hardly at all. Do you know what he did? He turned around and came back here after you had seen him into Texas. He actually came to me in the middle of the night and warned me that he was going to make a clean breast of it and that I had better prepare to take the consequences. I did that, all right. I rode out with him, and when the way was clear, I shot him. He looked so surprised. I can't think why he looked so surprised."

  His voice, so light and without any emotion beyond sneering self-satisfaction, grated on Lettie's nerves. "Because he was a man of honor who could not betray a friend, who was haunted at his betrayal of strangers. You wouldn't understand that, of course."

  "Honor? I had honor enough before the war. I was full of honor, in fact, honor and chivalry and pride. I had all that knocked out of me at Shiloh and Gettysburg and half a dozen other battles, as well as in a Yankee prison camp before I bribed a guard to let me escape. Honor doesn't fill your belly or stop your pain or give you back what you have lost. It isn't worth a damn."

  "Without it, man is nothing more than an animal."

  "All right, then I'm an animal, a rich animal."

  "And a thief and murderer." Lettie stared at him, at his narrow face and shallow eyes and his lack of breadth in the shoulder, and wondered how she could ever have thought that he might be the Thorn. She must have been blind, willfully blind.

  He smiled, a mirthless twist of the lips that did not affect the coldness of his eyes. "You left out scalawag. But I won't be that for much longer. I'm getting out. No more stepping off the sidewalk for puffed-up former slaves. No more licking the boots of carpetbaggers and being their errand boy. I'll have more money than I ever did and be a bigger gentleman. That's what it takes: money, not honor."

  "You're wrong," Ransom said.

  "Am I? We'll see when I collect on this new payroll, when I'm sitting in New Orleans with a house in the Garden District and an aristocratic Creole wife, when I stroll from coffeehouse to saloon all day and visit the opera house and my quadroon mistress on Rampart Street at night."

  "It won't happen."

  Martin's eyes narrowed. "Oh, it'll happen. You just won't be here to see it, you and Miss Lettie."

  "You won't get away with it."

  "Won't I? Being without all that honor, I've decided you will still make a fine scapegoat. As for Miss Lettie, I have a grudge to settle with her. She left me tied to a tree in my drawers with the mosquitoes feasting on my blood. More than that, she took my money and my watch and
fixed it so that Angelique's papa would find me and forbid her to go with me to New Orleans. She made a fool out of me. Oh, yes, I do have a grudge."

  "It seems to me that we are not yet even," Lettie said with a lift of her chin. "You had my brother killed."

  "That I did not."

  "Surely—surely it was you who sent the outlaws to intercept him."

  "No."

  Something cold and clammy and more fearful than the man who faced her with a gun touched Lettie. She had placed her faith in Aunt Em's theories, had wanted to believe them. Now the old suspicions came crowding back so that she felt sick and suddenly old. She turned her head slowly to look at Ransom Tyler.

  Ransom gazed back at her, aware of what must be going through her mind, aware, too, that there was nothing he could say to combat it. He had already stated his case beside the clear, cool waters of the spring where Henry Mason had died. Either she believed him or she did not.

  She swung back to Martin. Her voice laden with scorn, she said, "You must have."

  He smiled, the bright smile of a man who has achieved a triumph and wants someone to know it. "No, I didn't have him killed. I killed him myself."

  Pain robbed Lettie of her voice. She whispered, "You."

  "It was almost an accident, almost. I knew he was carrying the gold, knew he was traveling alone. I had papers to carry to Monroe, all very open and aboveboard. I caught up with him at the spring. I'm not sure what was in my mind, except that I was tired of being poor, tired of watching other people—Yankees, strangers, fat fools like O'Connor—grab everything. We went down to the water to drink. He got down on his knees to use the gourd dipper. It was so easy, so easy. I couldn't resist."

  The picture he painted was vivid; Lettie could see it all too well. She put her hands to her mouth, afraid she was going to be ill.

  "That was how it began, there at the spring. Because a pair of jayhawkers, outlaws by the name of Laws and Kimbrell, saw me. They took half the gold, damn them, and told me I had better send them news they could make use of or they would spread the tale. They didn't reckon on who they were dealing with; two could play that game. I told them I'd send them word for half the profits, or else the sheriff might learn the names of the outlaws operating in the backwoods. It worked like a charm, especially as long as the supply of locusts and thorns held out."

  "It's over now."

  He shrugged. "So it is. I think it's time we all took a little walk down into the woods there."

  Lettie stood still. "I don't see what you hope to gain by this."

  "Didn't you hear me? Satisfaction, from you. You robbed me of Angelique's favors; I think the least you can do is repay me in kind. As for Ransom here, I think I'll make it look as if you killed him after he had … enjoyed you. A pocket full of locusts and thorns and a copy of the note you no doubt found concerning the next payroll shipment will confuse the issue, make it look as if he was the messenger while I—well, I will play the dupe, one who was taken in by a friend and innocently let fall vital information. Of course, for it to work, you, dear Lettie, will have to die of your mistreatment at the hands of this foul fiend. A pity, so tragic."

  "You're mad!"

  "Am I? Possibly. These are times to make men mad. But I don't think so."

  Ransom stirred, and his voice was hard and steady when he spoke. "Mad or not, you have miscalculated."

  "Have I? You will naturally enlighten me as to how. Do you think the sheriff, poor, confused man, will suspect me?"

  "Colonel Ward has seen the evidence."

  "Oh, but I am a collaborator, and I have made it my business to have friends among the radical Republicans. I don't think he will be allowed to touch me so long as there is any doubt of my guilt. Too scrupulous an observance of the law among the scavengers would be a dangerous precedent."

  It made sense in a horrible way, Lettie thought. It was possible that Martin would really get away with it, if they allowed it. But if Ransom was worried, he gave no sign of it.

  "There is one more thing. It's important, I think you will agree. The proof has also been presented to the Knights of the White Camellia."

  The color left Martin's face so that his mustache stood out dull and rather straggly. "The Knights," he repeated, then his face cleared. "They could not have known for long."

  "A matter of some hours."

  Martin gave a sour laugh. "I appreciate the warning, then. It only means that I'll have to hurry."

  "They may be on your trail even now."

  "In broad daylight?" Martin laughed out loud. "Don't think you can stampede me. Turn around, both of you, and start walking."

  The gun was pointed unerringly at Lettie. Ransom gave Martin credit. He knew that he himself would be very careful as long as she was the target. His greatest fear, however, was that Lettie would refuse to move, would invite injury out of her unwillingness to bend to Martin's commands. He knew from experience how stubborn she could be and how wily. Now, while Martin was ready and waiting for some sudden move, was not the time.

  He reached out to touch her arm, trying to convey that warning. Whether she heeded it or was still dazed by the things she had learned, he did not know, but at that pressure, she turned and began to walk into the woods beside him.

  The shade and moist air under the tall trees closed in around them. The contrast with the hot and dusty road was so great that it seemed many degrees cooler. Last year's dead leaves were thick on the ground, along with the decayed tree limbs, large and small, that had fallen or blown down from above. Clumps of fern and briers and the ragged heads of sand burrs and beggar lice and sedge grass sprang up here and there, leaning together over the tunnels of rabbit runs. The air was heavy, however, with the smell of warm pine needles and dry leaf mold and spent grass blossoms.

  Quiet, it was so quiet and still. As they weaved among the saplings and smaller trees of the forest understory, their footsteps and Lettie's skirts made whispering sounds. The crunching of leaves under their shoes was muted, like soft cries. Somewhere faraway a bird called, a clear, pure trill that echoed away into silence.

  Lettie walked with her head down, outwardly the image of submission, but inside her anger grew and her thoughts ran at a furious pace. Martin's confidence was galling beyond words. She longed to overset it, to shock him. His point in covering her with the revolver was not lost on her, either. She realized that she was a handicap to Ransom, a hostage for his good behavior. If he was prevented from acting out of fear for her, then it must be her part to remove herself from immediate danger. But how. How?

  They came to a small clearing. Martin, his voice gloating, said, "This will do."

  Vanity. He was eaten alive with selfish vanity. That was why he had so carefully told them what he had been about, why the treatment to which she had subjected him had him thirsting for revenge, why Angelique's defection galled him. That was his weakness. Well, then.

  Lettie moistened her lips, summoned a crooked, congratulatory smile, and turned. Her voice low in her throat, she said, "Take me with you to New Orleans."

  Martin's brows snapped together. Beside her, Ransom's breath left him in a near-soundless grunt.

  Lettie paid no attention to either. As the silence continued, she went on. "I admire a man who comes out on top, regardless of the odds. I was leaving here, anyway, and I've never seen New Orleans."

  Martin actually looked shocked. "You would go with the man who killed your own brother?"

  She tipped her head to one side. "The alternative is not too attractive. If I am to make love with you, I may as well do it with some prospect of enjoyment. I'm not one of your Southern belles, you know, all swooning and shrinking and maidenly sensibility."

  "I can see that," he sneered.

  There was interest in his eyes, however. She had his attention, even if it was of a sarcastic kind.

  "I believe in facing facts, and the fact is that you are the victor here. And, as I'm sure you would say, to the victor goes the spoils. You wanted a woman
on your arm in New Orleans? I may not be a woman of mixed blood, but I have some experience at pleasing a man. You might find you would enjoy the—shall we say—turning of the tables, the Southern victory over this particular Yankee."

  "I might at that," he said slowly.

  "Lettie," Ransom said, a raw sound to the word. Sweat beaded his brow and upper lip, and his hands curled slowly into fists at his sides.

  She grimaced prettily at Martin. "You hear? He doesn't want to share me. He thinks that I should be faithful to him even unto death. Isn't that sweet? Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, I'm not that self-sacrificing. Few of us are."

  "Very true."

  She gave him a roguish glance under her lashes as she moved a step closer to him. "I thought you might agree. As for your earlier suggestion, you could certainly sample the … spoils here, but it would be much more comfortable, more invigorating when we are well away, don't you think? These things shouldn't be rushed. They should be savored, thoroughly explored to the last tingling secret place and final gasp of fulfillment."

  A flush had risen to Martin's face. The gun in his hand was aimed at a point between her breasts, but he seemed to have forgotten it. "You make a great deal of sense."

  "But of course. Did you think that we Northern women were cold inside simply because we like to maintain an appearance of coolness? How little you know us! But you will, oh, you will, or at least you will know one." She moved nearer, swinging her hips, holding her breath with her rib cage lifted so that her breasts stood out full and round. The promise in her eyes was as lascivious, as vivid, as a few hours spent on the gently rising and falling deck of a ferry could make it.

  He licked his lips. "But then, I could have a taste of what you are offering now, to see if it's worth the packet ticket."

  "Of course you could, if that's what you really want," she said, and laughed, a sound of lascivious promise she didn't know she could make. Allowing anticipation to rise in her eyes, she reached out to trail her fingers along his free arm. She encircled his wrist with her hand, drawing it toward her as if to place it around her waist and stepping nearer as she reached up to touch his slack jaw. She stood on tiptoe, her lips lifted, her eyes only half open, watching, watching. He began to lower his head. His mouth parted. She could see his tongue. She trailed her fingers lower, under his chin.