His Heart's Revenge (The Marshall Brothers Series, Book 2)

by Jo Goodman

  "Wait," Logan called after her. "I can't—" He didn't have to explain that he couldn't keep up. Her stride shortened almost imperceptibly and the pace she set slowed. "Thank you," he said when he reached her.

  Mary Catherine didn't look at him and she didn't offer any assistance. "The man who raped my sister was a Yankee," she said. "Just like you. I thought you would want to know that."

  "We're not all cut from the same cloth."

  Now she glanced disparagingly at the clothes he wore. The jacket was faded but still recognizable as the blue of the Army of the Potomac. The gold braid, more yellow than gold now, was torn in places but the chevron on his sleeve was intact. In spite of what he said, the Yankee bastards were indeed cut from the same cloth. "I don't remember you being an officer," she said. "Those stripes mean something. You're a sergeant major, aren't you?"

  "It's borrowed," he replied tersely. "The sergeant major who wore it died some time back."

  "I see." Other than that, she expressed no interest. When they reached the barn, Mary Catherine helped Logan back into the loft. "It will be better for you if you just stay there. When I finish my chores, I'll see about bringing you something to eat."

  As she was turning to go, Logan grabbed her wrist. A muscle worked in his jaw while his eyebrows drew together. "I never expected much of a welcome as long as I remained in Virginia," he said. "But I came looking for you because I thought that times being what they are and our past being what it was, you'd show me some graciousness. This isn't how I remember you, Katy. You didn't used to hate me."

  So he knew. As an actress she had so much to learn, she thought dismally. "What do you know about it?" she asked. She raised her eyes and stared at Logan hard. "You were always the enemy. Mama said so. So did Megan. We knew it, even if you and Colonel Allen didn't. Do you think Mama married him because she loved him?"

  "What are you saying?"

  Mary Catherine yanked her wrist out of his grip. "I will be back when I'm done with my chores. Why don't you think about it until then?"

  He reached for her again but she eluded his grasp. He was too weak to chase her and the thought of Aunt Peggy's shotgun was a deterrent in itself. Logan lay back in the hay, pulled the other blanket over him, and closed his eyes. Below he could hear Mary Catherine going about her work. She talked to herself as she milked the cow and mucked out the stalls. Odd, but he thought she was reciting something. He seemed to recognize a line from Romeo and Juliet. "O! swear not by the moon the inconstant moon...'" He fell asleep wondering if he had imagined it.

  When Mary Catherine finished her outside chores, she returned to the house. Aunt Peggy was still in the kitchen. The odor of sourdough bread set out to rise filled the air.

  Mary Margaret Cook was most people's idea of the quintessential grandmother. She was petite, rounded, eminently huggable. Her skin was pale and soft, her eyes gentle and her mouth stern. She had an extra chin and a substantial bosom. It had been a long time since her corsets closed over a seventeen-inch waist. There weren't many people in the community who remembered that Peg had been a blonde before her hair turned white. Too many friends and family members were gone now, taken by old age, or more recently, the war. Peggy had been Mary Catherine's age when the British set fire to Washington in 1814, but until the Yankees had overrun Virginia, she hadn't known about hate.

  "Are you feelin' all right?" she asked in her soft drawl as Mary Catherine wandered around the kitchen. "You' re lookin' a little flushed, Katy. It's not that time, is it?"

  Mary Catherine blushed. "Aunt Peggy," she admonished. "I don't' recollect anyone ever talking about personal things the way you do."

  "Stuff and nonsense. It's just part of nature. Nothin' personal about it."

  "Well, it's not my time. If I'm flushed, then it is because it's hot in here."

  Peggy gestured toward the door. "Then go on with you. I don't need you doggin' my steps."

  "Ac-tu-al-ly," Mary Catherine said, softly drawing out the single word as she danced dreamily around the kitchen table. "I was thinking about a picnic. Just me and Brutus."

  "A picnic." Peggy looked at her ward as if she'd gone mad. "It's November!"

  "It's not so cold out."

  "What about Yankees? You don't want to end up like your sister, do you?" She saw her bluntness tore at Mary Catherine's heart, but she wouldn't take it back or be sorry for it. Better brokenhearted than just plain broken. "It's not safe and that's a fact."

  Mary Catherine worried her lower lip. "What if I just went to the barn?"

  "No doubt about it, you're a strange child. Thought so from the very first. Always readin' and recitin' words from those books your mother gave you. If it makes your heart less heavy, Katy, then take what you want and go out to the barn. I'll ring the bell if I need you."

  After she packed a small covered basket, Mary Catherine went to her bedroom to get a book because it was expected of her. Though her aunt had said the words with a certain amount of fondness, Mary Catherine wondered if she was strange. It seemed likely. No other girls of her acquaintance ever talked about making their own way in the world. The more callous belles bemoaned the war because of its disastrous effect on scores of eligible men. Yet it never occurred to them they might do something other than marry. Mary Catherine, on the other hand, never seriously considered marriage. It didn't seem to suit an actor's life.

  In addition to the basket and book, Mary Catherine managed to steal away with some clothes belonging to her late uncle, a pair of scissors, a razor, and a bar of soap. There was an old copper-rimmed tub in the barn where Logan could wash. She'd find a way to dump him in it if he wouldn't go willingly.

  Logan was still sleeping when she reached the loft.

  She woke him by poking him in the ribs with the toe of her shoe. His reaction was swift. He grabbed her ankle, twisted, and set her off balance. She fell hard on the floor of the loft and hay scattered around her. Logan was on top of her, pinning her down with the weight of his body before she could even gather her breath to scream.

  The basket had overturned. One hard-edged corner of her book had struck her shoulder. The back of her head was throbbing and clothes were scattered across the loft. Bewildered and frightened, she stared at Logan. In return he looked at her blankly. She knew the exact moment when he realized where he was. The frosty, winter gray of his eyes faded and focused with something akin to interest and warmth on her mouth. Then he realized who she was and the interest was replaced by embarrassment. To Mary Catherine's way of thinking, it was proof that Logan still thought of her as a child. It angered her that she felt a pang of disappointment. Not that she would have welcomed his interest anyway, she told herself. Certainly not in his present condition. Unless she missed her guess there were probably critters in his beard. That thought was chilling.

  "You're Katy," he said slowly.

  "Very good," she responded dryly. "Now that we're both certain of it, perhaps you'll let me up."

  "I thought you were—"

  "Please," she interrupted. "Will you let me go? You're bruising my wrists and I can barely breathe." She pushed away the thought that it wasn't only his weight causing her shortness of breath. "I would very much be obliged if you would remove your person from mine."

  The request was made with such gritty dignity that Logan found himself smiling. Mary Catherine remained unamused. "Very well," he said, rolling off her. "But in the future have a care how you wake me. I don't particularly enjoy surprises."

  Sitting up, Mary Catherine began to gather the items she brought. A sideways glance at Logan reminded her how hungry he was. He was looking longingly at the heel of bread that had fallen out of the basket. Pity surfaced again as she realized it was taking all his will power not to pounce on the food. She handed him the heel.

  Logan raised the bread to his mouth. He hesitated, lifting his eyes to Mary Catherine. "Will you share this with me?"

  Tears sprang to her eyes without warning. She quickly averted her head and continue
d gathering clothes. "No. I brought it for you. I already ate breakfast. Don't worry that you have to save anything. There'll be more for supper. It's no trouble to get it out of the house." The last was a lie. Her aunt would notice missing food that couldn't be accounted for. Mary Catherine chose not to tell Logan. It was her choice, after all, to help him. Something would occur to her. She folded the clothes and placed them in a neat pile beside him. "These were my uncle's. The fit won't be too bad, and I can always do a little alteration. Do not think about putting them on until you've bathed. There is a tub in the tack room, and I'm going to fill it now. When you're done eating, call me and I'll help you down the ladder. I might as well warn you, there's no way for me to heat the water here."

  Logan shrugged. Around a mouthful of bread, he said, "I'll have pneumonia, but I'll be clean. At this point it seems a fair trade."

  Mary Catherine was not so certain he didn't already have pneumonia. His eyes were fever-bright and there were beads of sweat sparkling on his forehead. "Perhaps the bath isn't such a good idea."

  "You couldn't stop me," he said.

  She shrugged. "It's your funeral."

  "Precisely my sentiment," he agreed with dark humor.

  The bath was cold. Logan sat in the tub with his knees drawn up to his chest and clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. He started to scrub with the strong soap and brush Mary Catherine provided, but he tired quickly. Suddenly she was there, taking the soap from his hand and applying it to his back. He could not find energy for protest or indignation. Mary Catherine did not appear to be embarrassed, so why should he?

  Mary Catherine would have expired from embarrassment if she allowed herself to think about what she was doing. It helped to think of herself as Kate, Petruchio's tamed shrew. She was attending to her husband's needs, that was all. It was a wifely thing to do. In her mind she recited the lines Shakespeare had written for Kate and removed herself from the present.

  "What are you mumbling?" he asked.

  "Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper, thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee, And for thy maintenance commits his body...'" She stopped as soon as she realized she was speaking aloud. "Here, take this blanket and wrap it around you when you get out of the tub. Then sit on that bale over there so I can cut your hair." She turned away to give him privacy and missed the questioning, puzzled look he shot her.

  "You read Shakespeare?" he asked, hitching the blanket around his waist. He slipped on the clean undershirt and denim shirt she provided. They both carried the scents of lilac sachets and cedar chips.

  "Is it so surprising?" She motioned for him to sit down. When he did, she began combing out his hair.

  "I don't know. I never thought about it."

  "Mama loved the theatre. It was the best thing about living in Washington, she said. There wasn't much opportunity for that sort of entertainment when we lived at Stone Hollow, nor once we came to King's Creek. Shakespeare was her favorite playwright. We saw As You Like It just weeks before we left Washington." There was a wistfulness in her voice that spoke of her youth. Logan recognized it even if Mary Catherine was deaf to it. "We're all players, you know."

  "I've heard that," he said noncommittally.

  Mary Catherine was astute. "But you don't agree."

  "It always makes me think that I'm being manipulated. I like to believe I have choices."

  "We choose the roles we play. At least I do."

  "You?" he scoffed. The half-smile he gave her was patronizing. "What role have you ever—Ouch! That hurt!" He looked down at his feet. "God! How much hair are you going to cut off?"

  "As much as I want to," she said.

  "Brat."

  "Mr. Marshall, your hair is a haven for—"

  "Don't remind me," he said feelingly. "Cut away."

  When she was done she reached in her apron pocket and handed Logan part of a mirror about the size of a gold piece. "You do the beard and mustache," she said, once he approved. "Trust me, Mr. Marshall, you'll be better off clean-shaven."

  Logan did not doubt it. He eagerly accepted the razor. Twenty minutes later he hardly recognized the man who stared back at him in the mirror. It wasn't merely that he did not look like the man he had lived with these past nineteen months. More troubling was the fact that he didn't look like the man he had been before that.

  "You look old," said Mary Catherine.

  Logan returned the mirror. His smile was wry. "You don't mince words, do you?"

  "It's not so bad," she said. "You will look the same way when you're truly old. Even when you're thirty."

  Logan nearly choked on his own breath. "My God, you're quite the flatterer."

  Ignoring him, Mary Catherine picked up the things she had been using and dropped them in her apron pocket. What she hadn't said, what she wouldn't say, was that Logan Marshall was terribly handsome now and would be for the rest of his life. She doubted that she would be alone in thinking that. Even Aunt Peggy, before she filled his behind with buckshot, could be counted on to remark that Logan was a fine figure of a man.

  "Let's go into the loft," she said. "I can make some kind of bed for you there, block it off with a few bales to give you some privacy and keep it warmer. Later, when I come back with your supper, I'll bring Uncle Martin's greatcoat."

  "You're being very kind," he said in a low voice. "I'm not sure why. Earlier, when you showed me the graves, I thought you were going to send me away. You haven't even asked what I'm doing here, or where I've been. And, according to you, I'm the enemy."

  "You are the enemy. As for where you've been—I don't care—and if you don't get up in the loft and get dressed, it doesn't matter why you've come, because you are going to die here. I would rather not have to explain that to Aunt Peg. She wouldn't understand consorting with a Yankee, even one who was—"

  Logan waited, but Mary Catherine did not finish her sentence. "Was what?" he prompted.

  "Was a frog prince," she said quietly as she left the tack room. The memory, the poignant reminder of innocence lost, created an ache in Mary Catherine's heart. She glanced behind her and saw Logan slowly stand. After a brief hesitation he followed silently in her wake.

  Logan was sleeping again when she returned with supper and the greatcoat. This time she did not poke him in the ribs. Laying the greatcoat over his shoulders, Mary Catherine knelt beside him. She placed the basket of food near his face where the aroma of chicken and dumplings would catch his attention. He was snoring lightly, and she turned him gently on his side just as she did for her aunt. He wrinkled his nose once. Twice. The snoring stopped. Mary Catherine touched three fingers to Logan's forehead. He was warm, but not as hot as he had been before. Perhaps it was not pneumonia after all.

  Mary Catherine unwound the plait of hair at her back while she waited for Logan to wake. She combed out her hair with her fingers, examined the ends for splits and breaks, and began to rebraid it. When she finished, she was surprised to see that Logan had been watching her—probably for some time. He was staring at her hands. Self-consciously, for they were certainly not beautiful, soft, or idle hands, Mary Catherine hid them in the folds of her dress. The action seemed to shake Logan out of his reverie.

  Without preamble, he asked, "What happened to the soldier who raped Megan?"

  "I shot him."

  "He's dead?"

  "Aunt Peggy only taught me one way to shoot."

  "I see," he said thoughtfully. The softness was gone from her, he realized. If he had aged, then so had she, perhaps more so. He, at least, had had a childhood, an adolescence. Mary Catherine seemed to have leaped from child to adult. He wondered how many of the hard edges were Colonel Allen's responsibility.

  "I think your fever's down. Are you feeling better?"

  He sat up, stretched, and reached for the basket. "I'm feeling tolerably well." The greatcoat slipped off one shoulder and Mary Catherine reached across him and adjusted it. "I know it's because you don't want me dying here, but thank you
just the same."

  Feeling that he was trying to goad her, Mary Catherine didn't respond. "I can't stay and I can't come again until morning."

  "I'm not going anywhere."

  "But you do understand that you cannot stay here long," she said anxiously. "My aunt will get suspicious eventually."

  "I understand. What day is today?"

  "Thursday."

  "Then I'll be out of your hair on Monday. I promise." He stabbed a dumpling with his fork and began eating.

  "Where will you go?"

  "Home."

  In spite of herself, she was interested. "That's New York, isn't it?"

  "The city, yes."

  "What will you do there?"

  "Work for my father. He owns and publishes the Chronicle."

  "Is that what you really want to do?"

  "Yes. It's something I really never had to think about. I've always known I wanted to be a newspaperman. Now Christian—he's my older brother—he despises the business. Wants to be an artist." He paused to swallow his food and take a swig from the flask Mary Catherine had so generously provided. The whiskey burned the whole way down. It felt wonderful.

  "I thought you were a photographer."

  "I am. Christian got me interested. I want to make photography an important part of the Chronicle."

  "Things haven't changed for you, have they?" she asked. "I mean, not truly changed. You are going to go home and the paper is waiting for you, your family is waiting for you, you probably have a sweetheart who is waiting for you, and in a few months it is all going to be behind you."

  Logan's eyes had narrowed as he listened to her. "If it will be behind me, it's because I will have put it there."

  "It will be as if it never happened," she said, not realizing she was treading on dangerous ground. "One morning someone will wake you by poking you in the ribs, and you won't even budge. You won't remember why it bothered you once upon a time."

  "Get out of here," he said.

  "You won't even—"

  "Mary Catherine." There was grit in his voice. "Leave me."

  Belatedly she realized that Logan was angry. What should it matter, she asked herself. Everything she said was true. He would return to the city and forget all about the war, forget all about her and her family. She got to her feet, brushed strands of hay from her dress, and started down the ladder.