by Cindy Nord
The man bent forward, made a perfunctory glance at the document, and then straightened, his massive shoulders leveling. “I’s borned free right here in Kaintuck’, suh. Mista’ Chiswell never owned me a single day in my life. I’s worked for him, and among other chores, he hired me to watch over da place.”
Brennen glanced at the dilapidated veranda once again, and then back. “Well, looks like you’ve slipped a bit on the job, Mister…?”
“I’s Jones, suh. Jubal Jones.”
“Well, Mister Jones…” Best get off on the right foot with this weathered giant. “May I call you Jubal?”
The man nodded.
“A lot needs fixing up around here before I can sell the place…painting, relaying bricks, other things.”
You can’t put down roots on the foundation of a pack of cards, brother, Emaline’s oft-repeated warning returned to blister his mind. He knew better than to pin his hopes on a far-fetched dream of owning something more than peace of mind. But, he could invest a week or two here…nothing more. After he’d signed over the deed to the new owner, with a clear conscience he’d escape into another winning hand the way he treated all his fantasies.
Jubal shuffled backward a step. “Mista’ Chiswell’s been gone for near two years, suh. With no monies comin’ in, wasn’t much I could do but stay on and keep my eyes open, like I’s promised him I’d do.”
Strong.
And loyal.
Two attributes hard to find in a man nowadays.
Silence lengthened between them as Brennen took in the behemoth’s threadbare shirt and pants, the buttonholes sewn by hand, the scuffed and worn boots. “Looks like times have been tough, Jubal, but I thank you for holding down the place. Tomorrow, I’ll be bringing in supplies and a few workers. I’d be agreeable to employing you as my foreman, double what Chiswell paid…if you’re interested.”
Dark-brown eyes widened in disbelief. “D-Double, suh?” He cleared his throat, then straightened…nearly six-and-a-half-feet of pure muscle that Brennen intended to utilize. “Seein’ as I’s got a wife over yonder to feed, your offer comes as a blessin’. And foreman sure sounds good to me.”
Brennen slipped the deed back into his pocket. For an inexplicable reason, he trusted Jubal Jones. More so, he wanted to count him as a friend. “Glad to hear that, because I’ve got more than enough to set things straight in quick fashion…with your help that is.” Good luck had smiled down on them both this day. He extended his hand. “So, what do you say, Jubal? Do we have a deal?”
A calloused, bear-sized palm slid against his, and squeezed. “Mista’ Benedict, you’s got yo’self a deal. Yes, suh, a mighty fine deal, for sure.”
* * * *
The next morning, Brennen drew his horse to a stop before a narrow building, then dismounted and tossed the leather reins around a hitching post. Behind him, several wagons rumbled down Main Street.
He inhaled, straightening his jacket. As well as being a great cook, Miss Cleo, obviously the town’s gossip per se, also recommended this business. That was good enough for him. Brennen scanned the simple façade, his gaze pausing on the gold-painted lettering that swirled out the words, Wissner & Wise, Attorneys-at-Law across the front window. A mahogany door hugged the far right of the building.
So far, so good.
He crossed the boardwalk to the entry. As he reached for the handle, the wooden panel swung open, and he shuffled sideways to avoid colliding with a petite form exiting the lawyer’s office.
An ethereal scent of lavender swirled around the fashionably-dressed woman. In one gray-gloved hand, she clutched a closed parasol. Across the wrist of her other hand dangled a crocheted reticule.
Brennen’s gaze narrowed on dark, upswept curls that framed her face. A scrap of hat with fluttering ribbons perched at a jaunty angle atop the glorious mass. His pulse kicked faster.
Owensborough just perked up.
He tipped his hat and smiled. “My apologies, ma’am. I wasn’t expecting such a delightful surprise.”
Their gazes connected…and his breath caught. Mesmerizing green. Eyes he’d seen before. He bit back the ridiculous burst of excitement that exploded inside him.
The nun!
Confusion smothered his pleasure the exact moment her remarkable eyes widened with recognition, then narrowed as a rush of panic darkened their striking depths.
“E-excuse me, ne vous déplaise…” She swept open her parasol and tipped the miniscule black canopy between them to block her face.
“Wait…” She’s ignoring me…but, why? Brennen leaned forward, eager to stop her. “I’m certain we’ve met before.”
She sidestepped around him, her head bent. “Non, monsieur.” Her words were low, barely registering. “Y-you must have mistaken me for someone else.”
Like hell. “You’re one of the sisters I met on the riverboat. I donated to your cause a few days ago.” He reached out, then thought better of grabbing her shoulder and instead curled his fingers into his palm and lowered his arm. “But,” he scanned her much-too-perfect body as she pushed past him in a fashionable rustle, “why aren’t you in your…nun’s get-up?” He stared at the swell of bustle that anchored her back side. A large fabric bow spread extra-wide across the spill of expensive gray and bobbed with each one of her determined footfalls away from him.
His gaze traveled upward. The corset she wore sculpted her body, and the evocative image sent a wave of heat crashing through his veins. By any man’s standards, she was a goddess.
“I am sorry, monsieur,” she tossed the words in a hurried rush over her shoulder, “I must go.”
The same Parisian voice.
The same elegant demeanor.
The same haughty lift to her chin.
Sunlight glinted off expensive pearl earrings that dangled from her lobes. Brennen thinned his lips. He would never mistake this woman. He turned, and followed her. “I’m rarely wrong when recalling a beautiful lady.”
She peered left down Main Street, then right.
He stepped forward, blocking her view. From the moment he’d first spotted this captivating angel, things had not added up. “I also remember those who’ve been on the receiving end of my money. What I’m most curious about now, however, is why you’re pretending otherwise?”
A sigh reached his ears as she straightened. “Fine,” she snapped. An anxious tone scraped out the single word. Her parasol tilted and she faced him. “Yes, we’ve met.”
Another sizzle shot straight up Brennen’s spine. He grinned. “Glad to hear we’re in agreement. What brings you to town?”
“I…,” she faltered, her gaze darting around them as she drew her parasol closer. Her chin lifted, deception darkening further her eyes. “I am enjoying a…a day off from my duties. Yes, that’s it.”
Brennen stared into the pair of bewitching green pools, bright now from the cockamamie lie. His brow arched. “Since when do nuns get days off?”
“Well, you see…” Another quick scan around the area followed before their gazes reconnected. She’s lying. And worried about being spotted. But why? This woman’s intrigue grew by the moment. “We are…umm…” She searched for words, and a moment later, her face brightened as she smiled. “Yes, we are a most-progressive order. On occasion, Mother Superior allows us to venture back to the worldly side of things.”
She took a step away from him, then another, purposefully edging toward the lane.
“How…open-minded.” If this minx weren’t so striking, he might’ve laughed out loud at her brass.
The morning breeze off the river ruffled the silky fringe trimming her parasol, and tugged at several locks that had slipped from her chignon. With a mumbled curse, she scraped back the misbehaving wisps and tucked them beneath her hat.
Fascinated, Brennen ached to slip his fingers into the stern confinement and shake every splendid raven strand free of hairpins.
She readjusted the strings of her reticule, trepidation reflected in her shaking hands.
“I-I really must be off, monsieur. Perhaps we’ll meet again.”
Brennen tipped his hat. “Perhaps we will.”
With parasol aloft, she dashed across the bricked street, then stepped into a small buggy that waited before the mercantile. The horse pulling the basket-like gig stood patiently as the off-duty nun retrieved a slender whip from a tube on her right. A moment later, she tapped the horse’s rump and the animal set off at a quick pace. Without a backward glance the duplicitous coquette headed westward out of town. Only her hat ribbons fluttered a taunting goodbye on the morning breeze.
He watched until she faded from view.
They’d meet again?
Brennen’s gaze narrowed.
Count on it.
The scent of lavender lingered as he opened the door and stepped inside the law office. His gaze swept over dark-paneled walls graced with a handful of hunting dog portraits. On the opposite wall, dozens of legal volumes bowed the book shelves. Heavy blue curtains covered the front window from ceiling to floor, and several oil lamps on side tables scattered about the room sent wavering light into the corners.
A bearded man near his own age sat behind a desk stacked high with papers. “Mornin’, sir,” the gent said, shoving to his feet. He leaned over the mess and extended a palm. “How can I help?”
Brennen shook the man’s hand. “Looking for a lawyer. Are you Wissner…or Wise?”
“Wallace Wise, at your service. My partner, Archibald Wissner is holding down our Louisville office. And you are?”
“Brennen Benedict. Pleased to meet you.”
Wise straightened, tugging on the bottom of a maroon vest. “And from that fine southern drawl you’re sporting, Benedict, I’m guessing you’re from Virginia. Am I right?” Warmth filled his voice.
“You are...Richmond, in fact.”
“Having been in your vicinity for a while during the war, thought I recognized that accent.”
Brennen shot him a quizzical glance. “How so?”
“I served as an officer with the 14th Kentucky Cavalry, the third regiment, part of Duke’s Brigade. Fought mostly in western Virginny ‘til late ’64 when a Yank sunk his saber in my thigh. My commanding officer sent me to a Richmond hospital where I was patched up, then sent home. The occasional ache still reminds me of my lost cause loyalty.”
Feeling an instant affinity for the man, Brennen smiled. “I, too, fought for the south. Captained a cavalry unit called The Grey Ghosts. Great soldiers, every one of ‘em.” Pride flooded through him and he stifled the ache that returned whenever he thought of the war. “We were attached as scouts in Stonewall’s brigade in the Valley, till later on when I ended up under Rooney Lee near Five Forks.” He clutched the brim of his hat. “Eyes and ears of the Confederacy, you know. Made things quite unpleasant for the Yanks.”
Wise nodded on a chuckle. “Well, now the bastard’s are claiming their reconstruction plans will patch things up that we rebellious sonsofbitches tore apart.”
“It’ll take a helluva lot more than fancy words to straighten things out.”
“You’re correct, of course, but, the war’s over. We’ve all moved on, right? I’ve become part of a nice little business here.” He motioned to two chairs before his desk. “Please, have a seat and tell me how I can help a fellow veteran?”
Brennen settled into the closest leather wingback.
The lawyer sat in the other opposite him.
“I’ve come north to check on some property I recently acquired.” He handed the lawyer the deed. “Just found out there’s a damned lien on the homestead, though, which needs to be cleared away so I can sell the place.”
After a perfunctory glance at the paperwork, the lawyer looked up and smiled. “Well, you’ve come to the right place. We at Wissner & Wise specialize in land deeds, acquisitions, and so forth. So, let’s talk fees, and if all is agreeable, I’ll get to work.”
“Sounds fine with me.”
With retainer arranged, Brennen agreed to return in a few hours for an answer to his concerns. He left Wise and headed to the mercantile to purchase the necessary paint and supplies to be delivered to the estate in the morning. He even managed to hire a couple of workers to assist Jubal with the renovations.
Following lunch at Cleo’s, he reentered the law office.
Wise glanced up from his paperwork. “Took me awhile and I had to visit the courthouse, plus send a few telegrams. Even brought my partner in Louisville in on this one. Between the lot of us we finally figured out who holds your lien.”
“Excellent,” Brennen said, crossing to the chair. “What’ll make this damned thing go away?”
“Well,” the lawyer said, pausing to lean back in his chair. He threaded his fingers together across his burgundy-vested stomach. “Looks like your lien is held by the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.” He centered his gaze on Brennen. “More specifically, the Ursuline Order of the Sisters of the Cathedral Basilica of Saints Peter and Paul.”
“The…what?” he blinked, staring at the man.
“Ursuline nuns, to be exact.”
“Nuns?” Brennen’s exasperation rose tenfold as the image of bewitching green eyes returned. “What in the Sam Hill do nuns in Pennsylvania have to do with my place?”
“Well, aside from the fact that a group of them just arrived to our fair part of Kentucky, we’ve also located a signed and binding contract registered by the Ursulines at the state capitol which shows the former land owner agreed to provide them bricks for a church and an orphanage compound they’re wanting built. He’d already been paid in advance for the job, but evidently the goods were never delivered.” He waggled a long finger westward. “The nuns are at Mount Maple, a small settlement just up the road a piece on land that bumps against yours.”
Brennen shoved aside the queasiness in his belly, anger dissipating the confusion. He surged from his chair and towered over the lawyer. “They set up something with Chiswell. As I won the deed in a card game, shouldn’t that negate his deal with them? I mean, why in the hell do I owe the nuns anything?” That he’d cursed about something involving blessed saints irked at the back of his mind. Regardless, these same good sisters had already hornswoggled him out of donation money.
They sure as shit wouldn’t get his land.
“The way you acquired the estate doesn’t change legalities, Mister Benedict. The lien is on the property – not on the individual owner. My partner, as well as the state’s attorney, are in full agreement on this one – the place can’t be sold until the debt is settled. So, I’m afraid you’re locked in good and tight on this bastard.”
On a groan, Brennen dropped into the chair. Losing this particular point irked. He despised being on the losing end of a good deal.
More time. More money.
“Look,” he snapped, his mouth pulling thin, “before I entered your office, I ran into a woman who’d just paid you a visit.”
“Miss Annabelle Swan? Yes. I’ve many clients visiting me from time to time.” He smiled, leaning back. “I am in the business of helping others.”
“Well, yesterday, on the riverboat ride down from Louisville, I met your Miss Swan dressed as a nun and traveling with those same good sisters who hold my half-baked lien. And then, this morning, this Miss Annabelle’s all gussied up in silks and a bustle and strutting herself down Main Street.” Brennen’s throat constricted around the truth of her duplicity.
Progressive order, my ass.
The lawyer’s features darkened. He leaned forward as earnestness filled his voice, “I’m sure you understand I shan’t be discussing anything pertaining to another client, Mister Benedict.”
Brennen snorted. “She’s about as much a damned nun as I am.” The woman was somehow tangled in all this mess, and he wouldn’t rest until he found out just how far up her silken drawers that involvement went.
Wise again leaned forward. “That aside, sir, I strongly suggest you try talking to the Ursulines. Perhaps, given the
circumstances of your deed acquisition, they might be willing to negotiate something that would allow you to sell the place.”
Brennen smirked. Good advice. He could charm the rattle off a snake, so getting the nuns to see things his way should prove little problem. “I’ll do just that…and sooner rather than later.” After shaking hands with his attorney, he headed for the door. As he turned the knob, he glanced back. “And keep my tab open, Wise. Before you can whistle “Dixie,” I’ll have everything settled and will return for you to draw up my closure.”
Sunlight glinted off the door’s gold lettering as Brennen exited the building. With a determined sigh, he tugged the reins free from the post, swung into the saddle, and headed west toward Mount Maple.
* * * *
Annabelle sighed, placed her hat beside her dress on the wardrobe’s narrow shelf, and then rested her forehead against the rough-planked wood. Though the kind lawyer in Owensborough had promised he would uncover the truth, would her murderous brother-in-law think to search for her in Kentucky? As a Pennsylvania congressman, Edward wielded immense power, and his spies, his money, his wicked influence reached far and wide.
Corruption had always proven his hallmark.
Enough!
She swept up the bustle, stowing the fancy tape-and-wire contraption alongside her clothing. A quick glance in a hand mirror assured Annabelle she’d properly situated the black veil atop her curls. She crammed a misbehaving lock beneath the white crown band just as the cabin’s door eased opened.
Sister François Clare lumbered backwards into the room tugging a trunk across the threshold. Her backside wobbled with each one of her shuffling footsteps. A mumbled oath filled the small cabin. “Monstruosité.” On a steadying inhale, the sister straightened, then jumped as she spotted Annabelle. “Ah, mon amie. Tu as retourné…” Pausing, she whacked her forehead with a palm. “I mean, you have returned.” With a laugh, she plopped into a nearby rocking chair. The curved maple creaked beneath her weight. “We must remember…English only, if we are to teach the little ones. And this morning, more shipping crates delivered.” She patted the trunk’s curved top. “Yours included.”