By Any Means

by Cindy Nord

  “Merci,” Annabelle scolded. “You should’ve waited for my return to assist with this one.” She grabbed the chest’s leather sidestrap and tugged the heavy piece the remainder of the way to the wardrobe. How well she remembered that night a week after the murder when she and a priest had crept back inside the mansion while Edward was away with a mistress. Under the cloak of secrecy, she’d crammed most of her belongings into the trunk, then made arrangements for shipment to Kentucky.

  With a shudder, Annabelle shook away the recollection and sat atop the sturdy piece. “I’ll put away my things later. First, I want to share that my visit with the lawyer went rather well.”

  “C’est magnifique,” the sister remarked, clasping Annabelle’s outstretched hands. “Verity will prevail.”

  Annabelle squeezed her fingers, then resettled her hands in her lap. “I’m touched by your assurance, ma chère amie, but my brother-in-law is a prominent figure. Proving my word against his shall be a ghastly task. Nonetheless, Monsieur Wise just hired for me a Philadelphian agent to help unravel the truth.”

  “C’est bon…” Sister Clare stopped, lifted her chin with a huff, then began again in English. “That is good. Perhaps you are no longer suspect.”

  “Non,” Annabelle whispered. “Edward’s cronies are everywhere. I shall never be safe as long as he walks free.”

  The nun patted Annabelle’s knee. “Have faith, mon amie.” An inrushing groan followed as she wobbled to her feet. “Now, enough of being fearful…Come along. We have wagons to unload.”

  Nodding, Annabelle pinned the rosary to her belted waist, then followed her new-found friend outside the tiny cabin.

  Overhead, the mid-afternoon sunshine filtered through the canopy of trees and laid dappled shade across the settlement. On her right, a few more rustic huts, one for each nun, lined the worn pathway that led to a marked-off clearing.

  The spot for their church.

  Two more discernable areas nearby proclaimed the future sites of their schoolhouse and an orphanage.

  A breeze rich with the scent of earth and the hint of flowers brushed her face.

  Annabelle smiled. “Kentucky sure is beautiful.”

  “Oui…,” her companion replied, moping a hankie across her damp brow, “but only in the shade.”

  Annabelle chuckled as they passed the rusty cast-iron hand pump. A bucket filled with water sat beneath the large spigot. Sister Clare cupped her fingers, dipped her hand into the liquid, and then drew the scoop to her lips.

  Slurps echoed around Annabelle.

  She stifled a grin and plunged her own hands into the water. Lifting, she gulped, the cool slide quenching her thirst after the ride back from Owensborough. She dried her hand on her backside as she rounded the corner of the last hut.

  In the distance, a trio of delivery wagons, which also must have arrived while she’d visited the lawyer, were stuffed full of boxes and furniture. The drivers and remaining sisters were busy unloading the goods. Soon, this little piece of Kentucky wilderness would come alive with the merriment of children.

  Children.

  The desire for her own cut deep. At thirty-three, she was long past having a family of her own.

  Spinsterhood.

  Annabelle cringed at the word, then shoved away the painful truth as she rushed forward to help. She shouldered one end of a crate marked school supplies while Sister Clare lifted the other side. Time and again they toted and fetched, placing everything into a large canvas tent for storage, until all wagons had been emptied and the drivers paid and gone.

  Shimmers of an orange and red sunset fell across the weary sisters resting at last on several wooden benches that eventually would seat the congregation.

  The rumble of wheels upon rock down the lane drew everyone to their feet. Moments later, a wagon pulled by a rugged pair of Percherons rounded to a stop before them beneath an overhanging cathedral of maples, pines and lofty oaks.

  Annabelle sidestepped as dust eddied around her, filling her nose and burning her eyes. She skimmed the high-sided contraption. Faded over the years, a well-worn logo proclaimed the wagon’s maker, Weber: King of All.

  A black man sat on the right side of the high-perched, single-sprung seat. Never had she seen such a mammoth person. Her gaze settled on the driver who’d rammed home the brake, and then tossed aside the leather traces.

  Frozen motionless in place, Annabelle gasped.

  Him!

  She stifled a curse. Still, her heart thundered into a hard gallop.

  With a single bound, the agile riverboat scoundrel dropped to the ground. He resettled his hat as she took in his rumpled brown coat, his hair long and curling over the dusty, black-velvet collar. A quick tug removed leather gauntlets, and his tightened jaw betrayed his grim determination.

  Somewhere in an overhead bough, a crow cawed. The breeze stirred the tree limbs. As he advanced, late-afternoon sunlight spilled around him in great, dappled streaks and emphasized his tall frame.

  His eyes flashed fire.

  She gulped. They’d shared maybe a dozen words since they’d met, but he made her pulse ramp…and, everywhere she ventured, it seemed she came across this much-too-handsome rogue.

  With brown eyes narrowed, he drew to a stop.

  Heat flamed her cheeks.

  This grubby blackguard had purposefully singled her out. A fear of recognition – and something more, something Annabelle could not identify -- seared her throat. He towered over her, dwarfing her in his shadow. Her skin tingled, her own breathing ragged. If the smooth-toned gentleman he’d presented to her this morning existed anywhere beneath this chiseled beast, he’d pretend they’d never chatted.

  As his face skewed into a cool scowl, all hope withered.

  “We meet again, Miss Swan,” he said, a most-unchivalrous, steely tenor flooding his voice. “And, oh look…you’re back on duty now.”

  Chapter Four

  Compelling eyes glistening with emotion held Brennen’s. This close, he spotted the faint dusting of freckles across porcelain skin, the narrow, straight nose, the scarlet staining her cheeks. He also saw confusion…and something akin to fear grace her face.

  Brennen couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe as the beauty of the enigmatic woman spiked through him. Unbidden, his gaze dropped to her lips.

  Pink…and trembling.

  He strained for another lungful of air. Jeezus…he’d lost his bloody mind where this pretty little liar was concerned. She glanced down, breaking the disconcerting hex her eyes held over him.

  The face of an angel.

  The secrets of a devil-spawned shrew.

  With a much-needed gulp of air, he doused the burn. A derisive exhale raked him back to sanity’s safer shore just as a clipped voice in broken English emanated from behind the temptress.

  “Monsieur?”

  Brennen’s attention shifted to the elderly abbess who’d stepped to the forefront of the group. Creases fanned from the corners of intelligent, sky-blue eyes and etched deep across the Ursuline’s concerned expression. She could’ve been a hundred if her face spoke testimony to her age. Yes…focus on the reason I’m here.

  Be charming.

  Dredging up a smile, he swept his hat from his head and bowed. “Your Reverence,” he said, straightening. “Forgive my brash intrusion, but I believe I’m indebted to you good sisters from Pennsylvania.” He scanned the small group: Two middle-aged nuns and a towering scrawny one stood behind the abbess. On their left stood another as short as she was wide and who now peered back at him from narrowed eyes.

  And, of course, the Frenchy little non-nun, Miss Swan, if that was even her real name.

  He didn’t dare look at the minx again. There was no telling what his traitorous body might do. Brennen turned to the face the abbess. “I’m the new owner of the Chiswell place over yonder,” he said, angling his thumb backward. “Just discovered you Ursulines are holding a lien on my property, ma’am.” The horses behind him blew hard and their rat
tling harnesses underscored the agitation clattering through him at the wasted time and absurdity of this conversation. “I’m here to straighten this mess out as quickly as possible since I’ve plans to sell the place.”

  An intense, whispered discussion in French ensued between the women. Finally, on a sigh, Miss Swan nodded, then stepped forward, her fingers interlocking in a tight clasp upon her habit. “Mother Mary Agnes thanks you for your timely arrival, monsieur.”

  “Of course, ma’am.” He nodded at the others and smiled. “Please assure her I’ll do whatever’s necessary so I can be on my way.”

  Miss Swan nodded, then faced the elder nun. He knew some French, but the garbled words that passed between them spun faster than a Mississippi water spout. A moment later, the other nuns joined in and the hens all cackled in wild abandon. With a headache beginning, Brennen gave up trying to follow along, and instead scanned their compound.

  Shadows lengthened over a collection of huts and a yellowed military wall tent, no doubt used years before in some Yankee encampment. Several marked-off areas proclaimed a spot for…something. A church, perhaps. And maybe the orphanage he’d already helped to fund. A lean-to stable stood in the far distance. The doorless opening revealed a pair of sturdy Morgans and a wagon tucked alongside the gig he’d seen Miss Swan use early this morning in Owensborough.

  “Monsieur…”

  He glanced back and her gaze swept over him like a soft summer breeze. “Yes?”

  “Quel est le vôtre? S’il vous plaît?” Miss Swan paused, then repeated. “Your name, please?”

  He nodded. “Name’s Benedict.” He enjoyed the way she dipped her chin. “Brennen Benedict.” With another smile, he added, “Nice to officially meet you.”

  The disconcerting look on her face told him she wanted no part of his smooth attempts to charm. “Monsieur Benedict, we’ve no official reason to ever meet. Regardless, Mother Mary Agnes says thank you for responding so quickly to our crisis.”

  The little imp. For whatever reason she wished to keep their earlier meeting outside the lawyer’s office a secret. For now, he’d keep quiet about their surreptitious meeting, too. As a gambler who didn’t trust her, he might one day have use of this tasty tidbit.

  “My pleasure. I can clearly see the need for more substantial housing and such around here.” He nonchalantly pointed around the area before reconnecting his gaze to the abbess. “So, ladies…how much money what will it take to dissolve this ‘lien’ thing between us?”

  Nearly starving to death during the lean years of war had converted him into a believer of dealing in cold hard cash now whenever possible.

  Miss Swan translated his words to the others, and then a moment later, turned back, a smug smile shifting her lips sideways. “Mother Mary Agnes does not want your cash, Monsieur Benedict. She wants bricks.”

  Ah, yes…bricks.

  Brennen held back his growing frustration and resettled his hat. “All right, no cash. That’s fine,” he said on an exhaling rush of air. Whatever they required to move his pay ‘em off plan into quicker action was fine by him. “I’ll just have some shipped down from Louisville, then. You fine ladies just tell me how many bricks you’ll be needin’, and they should arrive by month’s end.”

  French words flew in a tangle around him.

  More money. More time. He’d definitely have to make a quick run to Shawneetown and withdraw his funds. He might as well open an account in Owensborough, too, what with the renovations on the place, Jubal’s new salary, and now all this bullshit with the nuns. The horses snorted again. And somewhere overhead another crow cawed.

  A brick-buying trip to make the arrangements would delay his plans by another week or so. Still doable. But, after that, he’d sell and return to the Robert E. Lee faster than these French squawking sisters could sing Beethoven’s ‘Alleluia.”

  Yes, indeed, the blasted curse that had yoked him to Kentucky would soon become a foggy memory. Lesson learned, anchored on the backside of a forward-going decision to accept only cash as payment on all future winning hands.

  The non-nun turned to face him. “Je suis désolé, monsieur. Mother Superior does not want bricks delivered from Louisville.”

  What?

  Brennen shot a heated glance toward the abbess.

  The old woman held his gaze, her blue-as-ice eyes expressionless.

  “And why not?” he quipped, fighting to keep the growing rancor from his voice. His gaze scraped back to the pint-sized French tart. “You needn’t worry. They make exceptionally fine goods in the metropolis. And with enough cash pressed into an appropriate palm, I can even speed up production and get those first-rate bricks delivered here within two weeks. Money talks, you know.”

  Miss Swan crossed her arms. “This is not about your money.”

  The nuns behind her nodded in agreement.

  Unease slid through him as his gambler’s intuition sent out a warning salvo. “What’s this all about then?” He rolled his shoulders, then swiped a knuckle along his jawline to remove a trickle of sweat. The week-old growth of beard irritated with its hellish itch. Sweat! “Hell’s bells, don’t you women know I can buy any kind of bricks you want?”

  At his curse, high color rose to their cheeks.

  Miss Swan recovered first. “That may be true, monsieur…but the abbess does not want Louisville bricks.”

  “All right. So you don’t want those particular bricks.” He tamped down his growing impatience with the lot of them, and their unwillingness to cooperate bit off a big chunk of his proper Virginian charm. “Then how about I find you some goods a little closer to home perhaps? You know, to help out the local folks.” He offered their leader an encouraging nod before reconnecting his gaze with Miss Swan’s. “Some premium bricks made down river in Evansville…surely that’ll make the woman happy?”

  Fading sunlight glinted gold off her crucifix as she shook her head. “No, Monsieur Benedict. Mother Mary Agnes will not accept those bricks either.”

  His affability disappeared faster than the setting sun as the last shred of his charismatic tolerance evaporated. “Look,” he snipped, his hands splaying wide. “I’m not sure what you all are up to here…” he paused and scowled at each Ursuline hoodwinker. “…but I intend to settle this lien thing this very day, so something I’ve got to offer had better work…and soon.” He bunched the gloves in his hand and narrowed his gaze once more on their leader. “You won’t accept my money.” His words were converted to French as rapidly as he spoke. “You won’t accept any well-made manufactured goods.” He stepped closer. “So, what in the hell will you accept to make this damned thing go away?”

  Without removing her scrutinizing gaze from his, the abbess replied in fluent French…and Miss Swan promptly translated, a faint reproach in her voice. “Mother Superior will only accept your bricks.”

  “Mine?” he blurted as anger exploded inside Brennen with all the fury of a Reb brigade charging a Union battle line. Bloody hell. He would not be outmaneuvered by these black-shrouded charlatans who supposedly followed the word of God.

  Love thy neighbor, my ass.

  Brennen loomed over the aged nun, not caring if his action was proper or not. “I’m finished playing your game.” Gone was any scrap of southern charm. “I’m a gambler, madam. I don’t have the ability to manufacture bricks, neither do I want to learn. For all I care now, at this point, you can lead your righteous nuns to the riverbank and make your own damn bricks.”

  The good sisters standing in the back gasped.

  And behind him, Jubal interrupted, his foreman’s whispered declaration barely heard above the surging pulse that pounded in Brennen’s ears. “But, suh…we do. We have a way, I mean.”

  Brennen rounded on the man, his eyes narrowing. The momentary rush of indignation welled into disbelief. “What?”

  Jubal scooted to the edge of the seat. “We can make bricks, suh. ‘Dere’s good clay, too, over near da creek.”

  This entire fiasco w
ould be laughable if not for the fact his sanity depended upon a quick return to the Robert E. Lee. Brennen blinked, wishing he could be anywhere else but here. “Y-You’re joking, right?”

  “No, suh. I’s tellin’ da truth.”

  A sickening numbness settled in the pit of Brennen’s gut. “We…have a kiln?”

  The man beamed. “We surely do. A mighty fine one. And we’s bricked most every street in Owensborough, too. But, da kiln’s probably gonna need a bit o’ sprucing up to get things going again.”

  The pounding in Brennen’s head grew as he gritted his teeth. He didn’t care two bollocks about any of this shit. “Why am I just now finding this out?”

  “Well…suh…y-you never asked, or I would’ve told ya.”

  From some ominous place inside Brennen, a snort bubbled out. Ever-so-slowly, he turned to glare at the old battleax, taking note of Mother Superior’s wisp of a grin. “Why my bricks?” he snapped.

  And Miss Swan promptly translated.

  At the elder nun’s silence, his irritation grew. Would the black-veiled nut listen to reason? “Look ladies...be reasonable here. It’s in your best interest to accept quality bricks from a company who knows what to do. And that’s not me. Since the war, I’ve done little else except win money and lose money, so you don’t want my bricks.”

  Miss Swan raised her chin. “Reverend Mother believes you’re more than just your money. She thinks you need this to help find your way back to…life.”

  “Life?” he snapped. Good gawd. The heat inside Brennen spilled out through clenched teeth. “I’ve got a perfectly good life waiting for me back on the riverboat. And I’m happy there. Ecstatic, in fact. What I don’t need is you all trying to redeem me with your manipulating, nunnish ways.”