At Liberty to Love (Texas Romance Book 7)

by Caryl McAdoo

  Suffice it to say that the classic beauty he beheld far outshone any he’d laid eyes upon before.

  “Um hum.” She worked at cutting the coat’s second shoulder seam, and didn’t look up. “You know, Major, that lying will send you to hell same as stealing.”

  “Methodist?”

  That won him a glance. Her eyes sparkled so. “Yes, as a matter of fact. And you, Major? What is your faith?”

  That time, he would not lie. “There’s a God out there somewhere, ma’am. I’m convinced of that fact. But to my way of thinking, He doesn’t reside in any church building of which I’ve darkened the door.”

  She nodded. Her lips thinned in contemplation as she returned to her alterations, expertly threading a needle.

  For a mile or better, she remained silent, and sewed, then looked up. “I’m on my way to San Francisco and should be away less than a year. If perchance, you find yourself in Texas again, I would love taking you to our meetings. The Lord is definitely there. Of that, I am convinced.”

  The stories Wallace told were true. His widow was all he’d said and more.

  “Perhaps, I’ll make a point of that. Least I could do to repay you for altering my suit.” He grinned. “Actually, I’ve got a list of questions I’d like to ask the man upstairs.”

  In no position to speak for the Lord, Rebecca refused the bait. She’d read the Bible numerous times cover to cover. Still, the few times she’d tried to debate God’s word, the scripture she knew and wanted stayed just out of her reach.

  So instead of getting into it with the handsome stranger, she concentrated on her alterations. Best she could anyway. The man’s stare proved a bit unsettling.

  “Do you know? And if you do, can you tell me?”

  Clearing her throat, she bade more time. “What was it you asked again?” She marked her spot and looked up at him.

  He grinned. “What I said was the continuation of a conversation I’ve been having over here amongst me, myself and I.”

  Blasted blue eyes! She hated herself for it. He’d only think she was encouraging his Tom Foolery, but keeping her lips from smiling proved more impossible than refusing her eyes the pleasure of his face.

  Despite her every effort not to, she played along.

  “Back up, kind sir, and tell me what it is you want to know. I may or may not have your answer, and if I do, I am in no way compelled to give it.”

  His face turned serious. “Understood. That first year we crossed the Mississippi, we were on our way east. Had one encounter with the Yank and bested them, save we lost a few good men. Two days later, your daddy led us right back to San Antonio. Never heard a word as to the how it happened or the why.”

  “I’m sorry, how could I possibly know?”

  “Let me finish, ma’am.” He grinned again and his eye twinkled so bright it took her breath. How ridiculous. “Levi and Rip were mum like they both knew, but refused to answer any questions. Wallace and I were about as dumbfounded as a calf at a new gate. How we got the plum posting, we couldn’t figure.”

  Wasn’t too plum for her. “Daddy certainly never said anything to me about it. So I repeat, I don’t know.”

  “Were you aware that the General profited from selling the cotton?”

  The coach swayed a bit more than normal, and she grabbed the windowsill to steady herself. Her cheeks warmed. “Are you calling my father a profiteer?”

  The Major shrugged. “You said that like it’s a bad word. He took the risk. Why shouldn’t he make some coin?”

  The better question remained, why hadn’t she ever heard about any of this? “What risk? Explain yourself.”

  “Once the cotton reached Mexico, he bought it then paid for it to be shipped to England. If not for Henry Buckmeyer, the Confederacy’s treasury would’ve suffered considerably.”

  Looking to her sewing, she discovered she’d totally lost her place. Glancing back at the man, she took it that he was only relaying information, not being judgmental. But he hadn’t answered her need for explanation. “So to what risk do you refer?”

  “Once the lint reached Mexico, it belonged to him to sale. But those Yanks were doing everything in their power to either steal it or destroy it. Did you know he had three thousand bales in Laredo when the Blue Coats attacked?”

  A chill washed over her. “Are you saying, sir, that my husband got shot protecting Daddy’s cotton?”

  An offhanded nod thrown indicated he hadn’t put it all together just that way before. “Oh no, ma’am. I’m not saying that at all. The Yankees had invaded Texas. You did hear what Sherman’s cutthroats did on their little jaunt to the sea, right?”

  She had. And if only half of the reports would prove true, it was horrific. Of its own, her head bobbed, while she still did her best to assimilate that Wallace died protecting stupid cotton—no matter how many bales. “Yes, I heard. Didn’t he call it total war?”

  “Exactly. We couldn’t allow them to get a foothold here anymore than we could let them stop the cotton trains.”

  His logic soothed her ruffled feathers, but Wallace’s stubbornness still troubled her. He could be with her this minute if he would just have let them take his leg. Better even, kept his head down and not stood when he did.

  Tears threatened, but she’d fought that battle too many times.

  Her husband wasn’t there, and nothing would change that.

  Concentrating on her mending again, she stared, couldn’t seem to remember what she’d planned to do next. Or even where she’d thrown the last stitch. Why was she doing this anyway?

  Where was the Major’s wife…or mother for that matter? She blinked until the moisture retreated, then glimpsed up. “Where’s your wife, Marcus?”

  Ford smiled his best do-what-I-ask grin. “Major, please.”

  “No. You’re no longer in the service, so it’s Marcus or Ford, but I refuse to call you by your previous rank. Are you going to answer my question? Any of them?”

  Normally, sass-mouthed females put him off, but not so the Widow Rusk. It appeared he’d wounded her pride, and she needed a bit of solace.

  With most folks, he would only offer that she and his baby girl were in New Orleans, but not with Rebecca. She’d know he wasn’t telling the whole of it. “She’s dead. The fever got her and our baby girl.”

  His words considerably softened her countenance. “Oh, dear. Mercy. I am so sorry.”

  “Thank you, but it happened years ago.” He studied his fingernails a bit. Didn’t want to talk about his dead. Something she’d said before came to mind. “Why are you going to San Francisco?”

  She set his coat in her lap and shook her head as if shaking the thoughts of death away. “Visiting. I haven’t seen my sisters since before the war.”

  Though certain there was more to it, he’d not pry. Except, he really would like to know if she was off to reunite with an old beau, or meet someone new. A respectable time had passed. “Mary Rachel, Gwendolyn Belle, Cecilia Carol and Bonnie Claire, right?”

  “Even their middle names? How’d you know?”

  “Wallace and I shared barracks.”

  “How did that come about? Why didn’t my husband and brother bunk together?”

  “We were Majors. Rip, Levi, and your daddy got private quarters. We lesser lights had to double up.” He lifted both shoulders. “On the other hand, Wallace spent the lion’s portion of his time with Levi and the General. Way more than me. But we had our share of long nights, and the man loved bragging on you and your family.”

  She snorted. Not very ladylike, but then her widowhood had been brought about by Wallace’s pride. He knew that full well. And that Rusk harbored tons more pride at being a part of her clan than his own.

  A lesser woman might have spit—or worse—in the same situation. Might “smitten” be the right word for the hot blood pulsing through his veins?

  “What else?” Why had he just blurted that out?

  “Sir, you need to rehearse your words more carefully
. Now please back up and rephrase.”

  Wallace was right, except he didn’t tell all of it. How could a member of the weaker sex be able to take a man’s soul captive with a look? He loved her confidence to confront any matter, but burned to match her, best her.

  “San Francisco. There’s more to your going than a visit, isn’t there?”

  She glared like he’d touched a sore spot. “Why would you ever think that?”

  Answering a question with one of her own. He grinned inside, but kept a straight face. A very sore spot.

  “Going to look up a past suitor? Wallace crowed that every eligible bachelor in the state came calling at one time or another before he wore you down.”

  “Is your mother dead, too?”

  The straight face came much harder. What a match! He nodded, but no need to exhume his dear ma. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because of your manners, sir! I’d presume that she’s been gone a long while, for you are most definitely in need of someone to give you a refresher course.”

  That time he chuckled aloud. Couldn’t hold it in anymore. “Yes, ma’am. Suppose I do speak my mind more than polite society usually allows. But then they never have dictated my actions. And again, on the other side of the creek, verbal jousting with a peer is one of my most favorite pastimes.”

  Her lips thinned a fraction. “So. You’ve elevated yourself to peerage. Perhaps more appropriate attire would positively be in order then.”

  “Indeed.” He held out his hand.

  “What?”

  “The coat, please.”

  She shrugged and handed the thing over. He took it and flung it out the window. “You’re right. I do need new threads.”

  “My needle.…”

  Rebecca bit her cheek. Though incorrigible, the man proved entertaining at the least. And quite handsome if one could get beyond his deficiency of proper manners. “Probably for the best. No doubt, it was beyond my limited abilities.”

  “I don’t know about that. Your stitches looked tight and sure to me.”

  The bugle sounded, announcing the stage’s pending arrival at Hickory Hill, the last change before Jefferson. She scooted to the edge of her seat. “Seems to me there’s a dry goods here. Let’s see if they have ready-made.”

  “No need. If the dean is put off by my dress, then teaching in Nashville is not in the cards for me.”

  “No, don’t say that.”

  Ford chuckled. “Why not? What social blunder have I just flawlessly executed?”

  The stage eased to a stop. Rebecca waited for the dust to settle, opened the door, then turned toward him. “I will enlighten you after we resume our journey.” Without waiting for a reply or a helping hand, she climbed down and made her way to the privy.

  With barely a quick run through the dry goods store, she frowned at the driver blowing his blasted bugle. The single coat offered was too fancy and somewhat threadbare. Marcus needed a new tailor-made suit for his interview, and if she didn’t see to it… The least she could do for one of Wallace’s boon buddies.

  But how? Only his inflated sense of self-worth eclipsed the man’s obvious pride.

  He stood at the stage’s open door. She took his hand and used it to climb aboard. Like a true gentleman he had offered with his fingers turned down, but even as such, a warmth spread from his hand to her heart.

  What a strange occurrence. She took her seat then turned sideways as he jumped in then flopped on the cross bench, rocking the coach.

  What a contradiction, genteel one moment, then like a spoiled child showing out to garner attention the next.

  He grinned at her, as though he’d just read her thoughts and found them humorous.

  Reins cracked over the horses’ backs, trace chains clanged, and the oversized wheels turned as the stage embarked on its last leg to Jefferson.

  “Enlighten me.”

  She shook her head. Why did he insist on not bringing her into his conversations until mid-thought? “As to what, Marcus?”

  “From your lips I don’t abhor my given name, but at least sparingly, please. Let me adjust. Besides, don’t you think Major has a better ring to it?”

  “You, sir, are insufferable. I will keep your given name to a minimum, but using your previous rank as a moniker is not an option for me. Now back to what do you want...oh, yes, I remember now. Regarding you saying that something wasn’t in the cards. You shouldn’t chalk things, good or bad, up to luck. There’s no such thing.”

  He knocked his knuckles on the wooden bench separating them, grinned his bad boy smile, then shrugged. “So? A little more enlightenment, fair maid? If not luck, what is there? Happenstance? Good fortune? Or maybe fate?”

  “None of those. There are only blessings and curses. There is no god of fortune, contrary to what Julius Caesar and his ilk believed.”

  “Ever read his commentaries?”

  “Daddy read them to us.”

  “What translation?”

  “His own; he’d throw in enough Latin along the way that we all can muddle our way through.”

  “Interesting. He never mentioned he knew Latin. So back to luck. Are you saying God is pulling everyone’s strings? That we’re nothing more than a bunch of puppets?”

  “Of course not. No. He gives us free will...along with the desires of our hearts.”

  Since she’d brought it up, over the last leg to Jefferson, Ford tried to discuss religion, but the lady would not engage. He refrained from using his most potent weapon, and instead, got her to talking about her childhood.

  Though he’d heard much of it from Wallace, but Rebecca’s telling proved way more entertaining. Just the sound of her voice would have been enough, but having the liberty to drink in her beauty as she talked…

  Sweeter than any dessert that had ever touched his lips.

  As the stage neared its destination, he carried her from the past back to the present. “Are you booked already for the next leg of your journey?”

  “Yes, I sail tomorrow.”

  “Per chance you might dine with me tonight. I have a layover myself.”

  She beamed, then a sly twinkle flashed. “I accept. On two conditions.”

  Had he ever met such a woman? “Agreed.”

  Her laughter brightened his soul. “You haven’t even heard them yet.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Your company will be worth the price.”

  She shot him her little girl smile. “Seems a third boon is in order then.”

  Ford nodded. “Indeed, but curiosity has bested me. What are your two conditions, and this bonus benefit?”

  “First, I would like the suit trousers.” Giving him the eye, she clucked, shaking her head slightly. “I still can’t believe you threw the coat out the window.”

  “But you said –”

  “Still, a stitch or twelve might make the pants acceptable, especially without the stage’s constant sway. Plus, it would help pass my afternoon.” She held her hand toward his grip.

  Fishing out the pants, he handed them over. After all, he had agreed.

  “Next…” The bugle sounded, and she waited for quiet. “I pay. Or rather Henry Buckmeyer pays for our meal. It’s the least he can do for one of his former junior officers.”

  “The General isn’t here.”

  “His coin is though. He slipped me some mad money on my way out and told me to enjoy myself.” She glanced out the window with a budding grin, then let it blossom when she looked back. “And you, sir, are a breath of fresh air.”

  What a vision! He tipped his hat, except it wasn’t there. Seemed he’d tossed the thing the way of his suit coat. “Thank you, ma’am, glad you think so. What’s the boon?”

  “If you’ll be so kind as to see me and my luggage to the steamer. Unlike my father, I don’t travel light.”

  Navigating the three blocks from the stage depot to the docks, he rehearsed her words. Couldn’t ever remember being called a breath of fresh air, but he certainly liked it. On her lips, the
compliment lifted his spirit to the moon.

  Fresh? Indeed. Outspoken? Even brash at times. Never practiced holding his tongue.

  Had the widow Rusk seen past his flaws and lack of coin, right into his heart?

  First, he carried her carpetbags and hat boxes up to her first class suite, deposited them and the lady, then returned for her steamer trunk. Though she’d offered to hire help, he waved her off like lugging the thing merited no effort.

  In the doing, he found it a wonder that he didn’t bust a gut. Still, the pleasure on her face upon delivery generously rewarded his toil.

  Pointing, she waited in the hall as he placed the trunk in her boudoir, obviously adhering to no appearance of evil. She had no reason for concern though, like he’d ever be so stupid to act less than the perfect gentleman with Wallace’s widow.

  Contemplating whether the lady’s concern or suffering the General’s wrath kept him in line, he chuckled silently.

  Once back into the hall, she extended her hand. “Wonderful! Thank you so much, Marcus. I certainly appreciate the favor.”

  “You are more than welcome.” He took it, shook ever so slightly, then backed a step. “Where and what time this evening, ma’am?”

  “Shall we meet in the lobby? Say, seven sharp.”

  He raised his hand to tip his hat, except it still wasn’t there, so he touched his forehead, rolling his finger away with a slight bow, but never taking his eyes from her face.

  Hopefully, the movement distracted her from realizing he painted her features on the canvas in his mind. As much as he wanted to stay, decorum dictated he leave.

  “Until then.”

  Rebecca turned and put her hand on her door knob, then froze until his footfalls faded. She glanced over her shoulder to the empty hall. What was it about the man?

  Inside again, she retrieved his trousers and her purse. She checked the Derringer, made sure she had plenty of coin, then strolled out. She loved shopping, especially for someone else.

  Took longer than expected, but she finally found exactly what she wanted at the haberdashery.

  Thought for a bit she’d have to go to extreme measures, but as it was, found herself with ample time for a leisurely bath and a visit to the salon for help with her tresses. She loved the way the lady piled and pinned most of her curls, leaving others to cascade and swing.