Straight For The Heart

by Marsha Canham

  The remaining two fingers on his left hand scratched thoughtfully at his crotch as he mentally stripped Amanda Tarrington to her bare skin. He grinned slowly, envisioning her legs wrapped around his waist and her breasts bouncing back and forth as he pumped himself into her, and he wondered if she made those funny little choking sounds or if she let it all out in a scream at the end.

  No, he decided with a chuckle, he wouldn’t let a door or a runny-nosed brat stand between them for six days, let alone six weeks. He wouldn’t let her out of his sight for too damned long either, or go on buying trips upriver that kept him away from Briar Glen for days at a time. Tarrington was gone now, up to Vicksburg, so Sally said, and was not expected to return until the end of the week. Plenty of time for a beautiful woman to get up to some mischief, especially when she was no stranger to the excitement of the riverboats.

  He watched Amanda snip a perfect pink rose and hold it to her nose for a moment, savoring the aroma before she continued down the path. When she turned, she saw Ned Sims standing like a stone watching her.

  “Afternoon, ma’am,” he drawled, his grin widening.

  “Ned. I didn’t see you there.”

  “No’m, I didn’t reckon you did. Didn’t mean to startle you, though. Would’ve coughed or somethin’, but I was kinda takin’ a rest, you know; enjoyin’ the view. Warm day, ain’t it, ma’am? "

  “Yes, it's a beautiful day.”

  "Here—” He stepped forward and reached out a hand toward the handle of the basket. “Let me take that for you, ma’am. Must be gettin’ kind of heavy with all them flowers an’ all.”

  He stood close enough to smell the perfume in her hair and sneak a good close look straight down into the cleft between her breasts.

  “Thank you,” she said, backing a step away and angling the basket out of his reach. “But I’m fine. Have you seen Sally and Verity? I am expecting a visit from my brother this afternoon, and I’m sure Verity will need tidying up before then.”

  “Saw ’em down by our cabin awhile back. Foldin’ linens, I think. I’m goin’ that way in a minute or two. I can fetch ’em out if you like.”

  “I would appreciate it. Thank you.”

  “No trouble a’tall, ma’am. Any time you want me for anything … anything a’tall, you just give me a holler. Day or night, don’t matter.”

  Amanda smiled weakly and hurried on down the path as if he had suggested she take a hot coal in her mouth.

  Rebel bitch, he thought. Maybe there was something wrong with her and it was Tarrington keeping his door locked at night.

  Ned hawked and spat a yellowish wad of phlegm on the ground. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and turned his back on Amanda High and Mighty Tarrington. She had given him an excuse to get out of the sun, though, and he took his sweet time sauntering out of the garden and following the neatly groomed path to the servants’ quarters. He and Sally shared the last one in a long row of cabins. It was small and neat, with two rooms she had painstakingly tried to cheer up with gingham curtains and lace doilies.

  The door was partially ajar and he shoved it open with the flat of his hand. Sal was there, the brat too. Both looked up in surprise as the door slammed back against the wall; Verity dove behind Sally’s skirts, narrowly missing being beaned by the small cup of water that was startled out of Sally’s hands.

  “Ned! What are you doing here?”

  “Live here, don’t I? Cain’t a man come into his own house when the urge takes him?”

  “Of course he can,” Sally demurred quickly.

  Ned snorted and walked over to the table she was standing beside. They were sorting linens, dampening some and rolling them into tight sausages to wait for the iron.

  “Slave work,” he snorted again. “I’ll bet that Rebel bitch had a dozen slaves did nothin’ but wash and iron her fancies all day long. Look at this—” He snatched up a delicate foulard chemise and swung it from the mutilated claw formed by his thumb and forefinger. “Probably cost an honest man a month’s wages. More!”

  “Ned, stop. Put it back,” she hissed.

  “Why?” he demanded, holding it up out of Sally’s reach. “Too fine for the likes of me to touch? Afraid I’ll get my sweat all over it? Well here, what do you think she’d make of this!” He balled the chemise and stuffed it down the front of his trousers, making a good show of rubbing it against himself and groaning with feigned pleasure. “Give it to her now,” he said, throwing it onto the table, “and see if she can notice the smell of a real man.”

  Sally blanched and pushed a stray wisp of dull brown hair back behind her ear. She put the chemise into the pile that was waiting to be washed and kept a wary eye on her husband as she did so. He headed straight for the shelf that held his whiskey jug and poured himself out a brimming cupful, drinking it without a break for air. He poured another and when he looked across at Sally, she lowered her head quickly and concentrated on the linens.

  “What’s wrong now?” he asked. “Did I fart?”

  “Please don’t start with your drinking,” she said softly. “You know what it does to you. And if Mr. Michael ever found you—”

  “Mr. Michael ain’t here, is he?” Ned sneered. “He’s off whorin’ upriver somewhere, ain’t he? And if I want to have me a drink, I’ll have me a drink.”

  Sally became aware of Verity’s hands clutching her thigh. “You … shouldn’t say such things around the child.”

  “Why not? She must know what a whore does—she’s got one for a mama, doesn’t she?”

  “Ned, please.”

  “Ned, please,” he mimicked in a whining falsetto. He took another long pull of whiskey and tilted his head toward the bedroom. “Get on in there with me, woman, an’ I’ll please you, all right. I’ll please you till you cain’t sit proper for a month.”

  Sally moistened her lips and glanced at the open door. “Mother is waiting for these linens.”

  Ned narrowed his eyes. “Let her wait. Your man is here and has an appetite.”

  “I … can fetch some biscuits and ham from the kitchen if you’re hungry.”

  He grinned. “It ain’t that kind of appetite I’m talkin’ about, gal.”

  Sally stared at him in growing apprehension. It didn’t take much to get him going these days, and she had to tread carefully. Her ribs were still bruised and sore from the last time she had tried to refuse him.

  “I’ll just take these linens back, then, so Mother doesn’t send someone looking.”

  He grunted over his whiskey and watched her collect up the neatly folded bundles, but when she crossed to the door, her arms fully laden, he was there ahead of her, blocking her way.

  “I’m hungry now,” he said evenly.

  “Ned … the child.”

  He glanced down and saw one blue eye peeping around Sally’s skirts. She was as pretty and angelic as the mother, and it only pushed his resentment a notch higher. “Get rid of her. Tell her you and I got to have a little play time together too … and tell her if she tattles, why, next time”—he leaned over suddenly and wagged his deformed hand in front of Verity’s face—“I just might make her dessert.”

  “Ned, for heaven’s sakes—”

  He bellowed out a curse and swung his fist up and across her chest, knocking the pile of folded linens out of her arms and scattering them across the floor.

  “Why in Christ’s name you always gotta argue with me?” he shouted. “I said get rid of her! Get rid of her and get your skinny ass in that bed before I get a notion to take my belt buckle to you again!”

  Sally reached quickly for Verity’s hand and all but pushed her out the door. “Go, darling. Run on up to the house.”

  Verity scampered two steps into the sunlight, then turned and looked back at the cabin. Sally let out a small, anguished cry and tried to follow but Ned was too quick and too determined. He grabbed a handful of her hair and spun her around, away from the door, slamming it shut behind him and shoving the bolt home.


  “Why?” he snarled. “Why do you always fight me, bitch? I bet all that Tarrington bastard has to do is crook his little finger at you and you go running.”

  “N-no, Ned!” she gasped. “No! He’s never touched me, I swear it.”

  “And you’ve never wanted him to, I suppose.”

  “I have never been unfaithful to you, Ned. You know I haven’t!”

  “That wasn’t what I asked,” he spat, grabbing at her arm. “I asked if you ever wanted to be.”

  “No! No, I have never wanted another man!”

  “Liar!” He yanked her up against his chest and spat into her face, “You’ve wanted any other man but me, haven’t you? Haven’t you, bitch!”

  “No!” Sally screamed. “No, Ned!”

  He flung her in the direction of the bedroom, shoving her with such force she bounced off the wall and fell heavily against a shelf laden with dishes and pans. The shelf broke, spilling crockery onto the floor, and Sally went down with it, landing heavily and awkwardly on her outstretched arm.

  Ned, panting and enraged, glowered down at her. “Get up! Get up!”

  When she didn’t move, he reached down with both hands to haul her to her feet. It was like lifting a rag doll. Her head lolled and her limbs flopped limply side to side, and it wasn’t until he saw the ugly red rosette of blood on the floor that he stopped shaking her and saw the deep gouge in her temple. A hasty glance at the broken shelf identified the cause of the wound; a second, horrified glance down at his wife told him why she wasn’t moving.

  “Jesus!” he muttered. “Jesus H. Christ!”

  He dropped her back onto the broken crockery and looked around in a panic There were linens scattered everywhere, even twisted around her ankles, and he thought for one wild moment he might be able to make it look like she had tripped and fallen.

  But then he remembered the kid. She had seen them fighting. She would tell her mother and her mother would tell Tarrington, and Ned Sims’s life would be worth shit.

  In a panic, he stepped over Sally’s body and ran into the bedroom. He shoved aside the rag rug at the foot of the bed and pried up the loose floorboard beneath it. He retrieved the small tobacco pouch and tucked it into his shirt. The string tying the neck broke and a handful of coins scattered across the floor, but he was in too much of a hurry, suddenly, to worry about hunting them all down. He gathered up what he could and ran back into the main room. He grabbed his hat, his coat, and a battered old squirrel rifle and, after a careful peek through the door, darted outside and started running for the road.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Amanda turned at the sound of her name being called. Her eyes widened and her face wreathed instantly with a smile as she saw Ryan and Dianna Moore standing at the edge of the garden. Heedless of the roses that tumbled out of her basket, Amanda hurried to meet them, dropping the awkward burden altogether a moment before Ryan caught her up in his arms and spun her around with enough enthusiasm to lift her skirts and petticoats in a graceful bell.

  “Now there’s a greeting I could happily accept every day,” he said, laughing as he set Amanda down and was subjected to a further moment of fierce hugging.

  “Ryan! Dianna!” She released her brother and exchanged an equally fervent hug with Dianna Moore. “I’m so happy you came.”

  “Happy?” Dianna’s face beamed. “I could just die with happiness every time I think of you here at Briar Glen. And just look at what the two of you have accomplished!”

  Amanda followed Dianna’s rapt glance around the gardens, the terrace and house, the rows of whitewashed stables in the distance, and the acres of rolling fields that stretched on either side. In the six weeks Amanda had been at the Glen, Michael’s army of workers had swarmed the grounds like ants on a sugar pile. He had spared no expense to haul away the ravages of war and restore the plantation to its former elegance and beauty. The old slave quarters had been completely razed to the ground and neat new cottages built for the workers and household staff. Long lines of stables had been constructed, with fenced paddocks and corrals spreading out across the gentle roll of the hills. He had a stable of forty horses, two dozen of them broodmares, all beautiful, sleek, powerful animals, some of mixed bloodlines, some pure Arabian, some of the thoroughbreds English born and bred and shipped to Natchez at considerable expense and trouble.

  He was away on another buying trip now, which was the only reason Ryan Courtland had deigned to come near Briar Glen.

  “Amanda?”

  Her head snapped around and she saw Dianna’s expectant grin. What the devil had they been talking about? Oh, yes, dying of happiness.

  Amanda smiled. “As you can see, it is all still a little overwhelming. I confess I have to pinch myself at times to believe I am really here.”

  “I know exactly how you feel,” Dianna said breathlessly. “I have been pinching myself all week.”

  Her smile, if it was possible, became even brighter and her grip on Amanda’s arm would probably leave bruises. Ryan’s mocking scowl confirmed his sister’s sudden suspicion their visit was not as casual as their note implied.

  “All week? Has something happened I don’t know about?”

  “Oh!” Dianna’s nails verged on drawing blood and her knees bounced her through several nervous little jitters as she looked to Ryan with huge, imploring eyes. “I know you said I had to wait. I know you said you wanted to pick the right moment to tell, but … I can’t wait. I simply can’t wait!”

  “Apparently not,” he said dryly. “Go ahead, before you burst something.”

  Dianna steadied herself and clutched Amanda’s hands fervently in her own. “I took your advice. I told him if he didn’t ask me now he may as well not ask me ever, because if he didn’t think enough of me to have me when he was poor, he certainly wouldn’t be worth having when he was rich.”

  “The logic of which still escapes me, I might add,” Ryan interjected.

  Amanda and Dianna both ignored him.

  “He asked you to marry him.” Amanda gasped.

  “Yes.”

  “And you accepted.”

  “Yes!”

  Both women uttered a little screech and flung themselves into each other’s arms. Ryan maintained his stern expression until he found himself engulfed in hugs and flounces again.

  “High time too, Ryan Courtland,” Amanda declared. “When is the wedding?”

  “I have always wanted a Christmas wedding.” Dianna sighed. “And just imagine … Christmas is only a month away.”

  “Imagine,” Ryan murmured wryly. “I suppose if it was May, you would have always wanted a summer wedding?”

  Dianna rose on tiptoes to kiss him. “Always. Amanda and I have been plotting the demise of your bachelorhood for too long to let weather stand in the way. You were just a little more stubborn than we anticipated.”

  “Obviously not stubborn enough.”

  Dismissing the comment with a simultaneous twirl of wide, colored skirts, Amanda and Dianna hooked arms and started walking back toward the house, their heads tilted together to discuss the details of the upcoming nuptials.

  Ryan rescued the basket of roses and followed at a more leisurely pace, taking advantage of their preoccupation to cast a critical and grudgingly admiring eye around the work that had been done to Briar Glen since his last visit. Tarrington was pouring a great deal of money into the plantation —a strong sign he was serious about his commitment to establish the Glen as a fine racing stable. Ryan tried not to show much interest, but the Yankee had managed to acquire some pretty damned impressive bloodstock, and a rush of the old excitement throbbed unwittingly through his veins.

  Horseracing was once again a premier sport both north and south of the Mason-Dixon line. People were sick of war and eager to recapture the spirit of former good times. There was money to be made, recognition to be won, standards to be established in the breeding and bloodlines of thoroughbreds, and Ryan was not too proud to admit he craved the adventure, the excitemen
t of watching a powerful animal become more powerful, more efficient under his tutelage. His hands might be into making Rosalie a working cotton plantation once again, but his heart was on the back of a sleek thoroughbred, racing for the thrill of the finish line.

  “Your husband stopped in at Rosalie to speak to me before he left on this latest buying trip—did you know about it?”

  Amanda halted and turned to stare at her brother. “No. No, I didn’t know. What did he want?”

  “He wanted to make me a new offer.” Ryan clenched his jaw. “It seems he hasn’t been able to find himself a Southern boy willing to manage his four-legged investments. Not one who’s willing to work for a Yankee, at any rate.” He paused and looked off toward the paddocks. “The bastard had the nerve to offer me a partnership.”

  “A partnership?”

  “So I could tell myself I wasn’t actually working for him, but with him. In exchange for being a trainer, manager, breeder, I would earn a split of the profits.”

  “What did you tell him?” Amanda asked quietly, aware of Dianna’s equally anticipatory hush beside her.

  “I told the damned Yankee bastard to get the hell off my land—what did you expect me to tell him?”

  Amanda’s lungs deflated like a bubble of dough. “Oh, Ryan,” she whispered. “You didn’t.”

  “Damned right I did.”

  “What did Michael do?” Dianna asked.

  “Considering he was looking down the barrel of my gun,” Ryan said, glaring directly into her soft blue-green eyes, “he got the hell off my land.”

  Dianna’s fingers fluttered up to cover her lips. “Your gun? You threatened to shoot him?”