By Any Means

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By Any Means Page 5

by Cindy Nord


  Miss Swan’s disapproving scowl somehow squeezed passed his justified malice to lay a black-as-night blotch upon his soul. “Be that as it may, Monsieur Benedict, bricks from your property is the only way Mother Mary Agnes will lift the lien. Furthermore,” she added, a touch of hauteur in her voice, “you must participate in the actual production, or the Reverend Mother will not accept them. And…she will be stopping by, from time to time, to inspect your progress.” She glanced at the abbess, who nodded. “She believes there’s more to you than even you know.”

  Oh she does, does she?

  He gritted his teeth so hard he heard the grinding in his ears. She had him good and tight over this insufferable barrel. He wasn’t some muck snipe needing charity, nor would this galling turn of events prove his downfall. He’d never created bricks before, never once worked with clay…Hell’s fire, he’d never even touched a hot kiln. And, truth be told, not since the war’s end had he so much as raised a sweat doing anything more strenuous than lovemaking.

  But, this crafty goat would not best him.

  He leaned closer, his nose nearly touching the Reverend Mother’s. Hell hath no fury like that of a slick old nun in charge. “If playing this game your way is the only thing that’ll make the lien go away, then, by God, that’s what I’ll do.” He straightened, tugged his cuffs into place, and then swept his palms down his jacket front to remove the dust.

  He’d be polite.

  He’d be courteous.

  He’d provide her damned bricks.

  But that was where his involvement with these schemers would end. He needed redeeming like he needed another head. And there wasn’t one more word left to say that could be shared with these black-shrouded shysters. Although doubt slid through him that they were even who they claimed to be.

  Rather, more like The Holy Order of Swindlers.

  On a mumbled curse, Brennen stormed to the wagon. A well-placed boot upon the wheel hub and he clambered to his seat. As he gathered up the reins he shot Miss No-Nun a heated glare. “As soon as possible, I expect a total in writing…just to keep things all nice and legal-like…of exactly how many bricks I’m to make. Once this asinine obligation is met, my lawyer will deliver the lien-dissolving paperwork for a signature. You tell your Reverend Mother all that, too.”

  He should’ve never gotten off the damned boat.

  With a sharp crack of the reins, he turned the horses down the dusty lane, refusing to look back, focusing on the long shadows ahead that signaled an end to this hellish day.

  Brick making for redemption.

  He released another rancorous snort as cynicism tightened his shoulders. Tomorrow would arrive soon enough, and he’d begin the horrendous twist in his more-than-happy-thank-you-very-much life. For tonight, however, a redeeming bottle of Old Forester, alongside a winning hand of cards, awaited him in an Owensborough saloon…and that was a siren’s call he’d never ignore.

  Chapter Five

  The following morning sunlight beat down upon Brennen and Jubal as they hunkered over the remains of a large kiln. Years of neglect, rain, and foraging animals had eroded the furnace into nothing more than a crumbling pile.

  The damp shirt clung to Brennen’s shoulders as a breeze rustled a row of oaks at the meadow’s edge, and the peaceful gurgling of a nearby stream conflicted with the heat and humidity that rose in stifling waves around him. He swiped away the sweat rolling down the side of his neck. On a heavy sigh, he turned to his foreman. “I thought you said everything here was in fine, working order.”

  “Well, suh. I’s not been ‘dis way since last December. Didn’t know wild critters had claimed ‘dis as dere home.” With a confident nod, he knocked aside clumps of dried leaves and twigs used as nesting material, then lowered to one knee and began stacking bricks. “All ‘dats needed is a bit o’ work, though. We’ll whup things back into order lickety split.”

  “Lickety split?” Brennen growled. “What the hell does that mean?”

  As if oblivious to his fury, his foreman continued the assembly of bricks until a small wall formed. “See?” He swept a work-roughened palm toward the crude partition, then the calm-voiced giant glanced up at him and smiled. “Afore ya knows it, dis’ll be up and firing again.”

  “Don’t mince words with me here, Jubal. How long will this take to rebuild?”

  “Well, suh…” --he rolled his gaze skyward in calculations-- “…a week, maybe less, if we push hard. And we’ll need fresh mortar and new bricks for the inside o’ the furnace.”

  More money he didn’t want to waste on this Godforsaken place. A cloud drifted across the sun bringing instant relief from the heat. Brennen squatted beside him and tapped the closest brick. “Can’t we just reuse these?”

  “No, suh. Heat’s weakened ‘em over ‘da years. ‘Now dey’s best used only for da kiln’s outer shell.” He motioned toward the rubble. “Like I tol’ my sons, both full-growed now, ‘bout people, da only thing dat matters is strength. Weakness begets failure, like dese here used bricks.”

  Brennen snorted. Ain’t that the damned truth? He rarely allowed weakness in his soldiers during the war. He sure as hell wouldn’t tolerate any in himself now. The wealth he’d acquired from gambling these past few years had brought ease to his life, but at great cost to his patience.

  A fact Jubal Jones had unwittingly pointed out.

  Brennen shoved to his feet. He’d absolutely become an edgy, irksome ass where the lien was concerned. In one man’s plight lay another man’s opportunity. Where, exactly, he stood in regard to that truth he wasn’t yet sure.

  “All right, Jubal. Let’s get started. After all, this thing won’t rebuild itself, right?” The faint rap-rap-rapping sound of hammers on the manor house carried toward him on the breeze, assuring him renovations were in full swing.

  Last night’s visit into town had brought him a win at cards, along with an enjoyable tryst with Cleo, one that had him lingering too long over breakfast. He’d arrived at the homestead mere minutes before his hired help.

  “I’m heading to Shawneetown this afternoon to close out my account,” he said. “Shouldn’t be gone more than a couple of days. On the way back, I’ll stop off in Evansville and purchase the new kiln bricks.”

  “Sounds good, Mista Benedict. And whiles you’re gone, I’ll be gettin’ things ready here.”

  Brennen nodded, then crossed to his horse. He’d head into town early. Not to visit Cleo, but rather to call upon Wise and bring him current on the lien developments. He liked the lawyer, a veteran same as him; they had a lot in common. With an exhale, he swung into the saddle, and pondered the likelihood of running into Miss Swan. Negligible, at best. And yet, he couldn’t quite shake the feeling she possessed an uncanny awareness of one’s nature…including his.

  The little liar’s nothin’ but trouble.

  True -- except the enticing image of the minx lingered in his mind, the spark of a possible reconnect in town warming his heart, along with another spot further down that he’d rather ignore in regard to her. On a mumbled curse, he reshifted to banish the pressure, and then turned his horse eastward. However much he wished this woman from his life, instinct told him they’d meet again.

  * * * *

  Several mornings later, Annabelle rapped upon the weather-roughened door of the cabin used by the Reverend Mother. She stared at the wood grain pattern, worn and swirling, much like her nerves these past months. What had she done to prompt this summons? Perhaps, she should have asked for permission the other morning before changing clothes and heading to the lawyer’s office in Owensborough.

  “Enter,” the abbess said.

  Easing open the panel, Annabelle stepped across the threshold. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light as she spotted the abbess, wire-rimmed spectacles perched atop a stern nose, seated before a desk near the small window.

  “You wished to see me, Mother Mary Agnes?”

  “Yes, my dear…come in,” the woman replied in perfect English as she waved
her forward. “And do leave the door open. It’s rather warm in here.” She nodded to a ladder-back chair beside the desk as she resumed her writing. “Please sit. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  Annabelle settled onto the hard seat, her gaze wandering the sparsely-decorated room. No pictures. A simple wardrobe by the hearth. A metal-framed bed against the back wall. A crucifix hanging near the window. Light from an oil lamp spilled across several other journals and stacks of papers on the desk. The flickering flame of burning oil matched the undulating gratefulness inside Annabelle.

  She owed the Sisters of St. Joseph her life.

  Silence deepened around her, broken only by the scratching of pencil across paper. Now that they’d reached Kentucky would she be asked to leave? She strove to calm her thumping heart as she clasped her hands tighter. Her continued safety rested squarely on this nun’s now-bent shoulders.

  Moments later, the aged woman lay her pencil aside, closed the journal, and then glanced up with a smile. “There.” She removed her spectacles and placed them on the desk beside the brown-stained leather. “Another task completed.” The abbess reached for a sealed envelope as their gazes connected. “I understand Mister Benedict has returned from his trip downriver and is making arrangements to begin his brick-making. In this endeavor, I want you to act as my liaison.”

  “M-Me?” Annabelle stammered in an attempt to hide her shock. Still, a rush of heat blazed over her cheeks. She’d expected anything but this request.

  “Yes, my dear. You,” the nun remarked, a trace of something strange…joy, perhaps, disguised as sternness in her voice. “I shall be much too busy overseeing things here. And I know you’ve already made an acquaintance, of sorts, with the man.”

  The knot in Annabelle’s throat squeezed tighter as she stared at the Reverend Mother. A few clipped words and several hard glares with the riverboat scoundrel hardly constituted familiarity. She tallied up a dozen reason why she would gracefully decline, and would’ve shared her refusal had the good sister not chosen that moment to pat her on her serge-covered knee.

  “Now you mustn’t worry, my dear,” the abbess continued, offering a reassuring smile. “He seems a nice enough man once you’ve pushed past his portentous blusterings.”

  Annabelle fought back an unladylike snort. The man was a blackguard. A gambler. The worst sort of sinner in Kentucky. Plus, he edged toward being controlling, if his insistence the other morning that they’d meet again held any bearing. Truth be told, she still didn’t know if he might be one of Edward’s spies sent to find her.

  Every single thing inside her shouted a warning.

  Still, how could she voice her disapproval, or even consider declining after everything these kind people had done for her? Helping her escape under the cloak of darkness. Keeping secret her location. Allowing her to infiltrate their holy order.

  She leaned back in the chair. “Of course, Reverend Mother. Whatever you ask of me, I’ll do. But, I’m certain he’ll be more swayed by your appearance than mine.” Even as she spoke, however, a momentary flare of amusement burned through Annabelle at the look of disgust that surely would darken the rogue’s face upon her arrival.

  “Nonsense,” the abbess said, tapping the envelope on the desktop. “After everything you’ve endured in your life, you’re far stronger than you realize. And you’re also the perfect one to bring this man to task.” The intensity in her gaze lightened. Her mouth tipped upward as she handed over the vellum. “Now…this is the letter he has requested. I’ve deduced the total number of bricks we’ll need comes to 300,000…and due to his inexperience, this includes an added 10,000 to allow for damages. Advise him that 25,000 will be used for our two-story rectory. Fifty-thousand for our orphanage and four-room schoolhouse, and the remaining bricks allocated for our church. And since we’ve already paid the previous owner at eight dollars per thousand, let Mister Benedict know that should any additional bricks be needed above and beyond this assessment, I shall pay him ten dollars per thousand. That figure is more than fair, considering the unusual circumstance thrust upon him.”

  Doubtful she’d remember all of that, Annabelle glanced at the envelope. She lifted a quick prayer in hopes the same accounting had been scribed inside.

  “Everything he needs to know is in there. And here…take this, as well.” The abbess handed over a small ledger. “Keep all your notations in this.”

  The envelope fell to Annabelle’s lap as she reached for the journal. The puzzlement inside her expanded into a hot rush of frustration. Confusion lifted her brows. “My notations?” “Yes. During your visits. I’d like you to journal Mister Benedict’s progress.”

  For the life of her, Annabelle couldn’t understand why a continuous accounting of how a man crafted bricks mattered. “Yes ma’am. I shall make copious notes and will report back to you.”

  “Let me clarify, my dear. That would be daily visits, from just after breakfast ‘til just before dusk, until the task is complete.”

  The words hit Annabelle with an icy fist. The Reverend Mother didn’t understand the tension already simmering between her and this man. Her presence on an everyday basis would only agitate an already irritating scoundrel, and further fray the situation.

  The abbess cocked her head. “Is there a problem?”

  Yes. “No.”

  “Excellent,” she said, a sly grin tipping her lips. “And be sure to chronicle how he works. His moods. His outlook. His frustrations and sorrows and…” she paused and glanced at the crucifix, “…his growing joy. These things I will find most interesting.”

  ‘But…w-why, Your Reverend?”

  “Why?” the prioress whispered, folding her hands together upon the desk. “Trust me, my dear. One day you’ll know the why.”

  Annabelle tamped down another rush of annoyance. She wanted to know now. Not later. Anything to make sense of this harebrained situation. After all, Mother Mary Agnes wouldn’t be the one following the lazy prig about each day collecting bizarre information that didn’t matter in the least. His moods. His outlook. His…joys? Confusion spurted through Annabelle’s veins. Did the abbess really expect this shirker to change his spots? She nearly snorted aloud. Slinking night leopards like him rarely did.

  Furthermore, she wanted no part in such an antagonistic scheme. But, then again, the good nun hadn’t asked for her opinion...or her pleasure-level at all.

  The lump in her throat thickened.

  “And, if you wish,” –their gazes reconnected-- “you may also assist him in any way you feel is appropriate.”

  Annabelle tightened the grip around the leather volume, her eyes widening. Assist him? She could scarcely tolerate the ne’er-do-well for even one minute. The mere thought of sweating in the blinding sun with him for an entire day…every day…held no place on her ‘things to do’ list. She stared at the Reverend Mother. Had the woman suffered some kind of an apoplectic episode that twisted her usual common sense into such a strange request?

  The woman seemed normal enough as she opened her journal and scrawled a few more notes. A moment later, the abbess glanced up. “You’ll begin your daily visits in the morning.”

  With lips pressed tight, Annabelle rose from the chair.

  “Oh…and one more thing,” the Mother stated as she turned in her seat. “Since you are not truthfully part of the Sisters of Saint Ursula and Saint Joseph order -- as your trip the other morning garbed in your finery revealed to the general populace of Owensborough -- I now must ask that you dress in something more appropriate. I know you understand.” She nodded toward the bed where a plain white blouse and brown skirt lay across the faded coverlet. “Please wear those, instead, my dear. They’ll be more comfortable for you.”

  Panic streaked through Annabelle; she’d been comfortably hiding inside the habit for months. Treasured, in fact, the refuge that wearing the garment had provided her. Her eyes slipped closed as a suppressed moan edged past her lips. If she could retract the foolish impulse that had moved
her to change her clothing into something more fitting her true lifestyle for the outing to the lawyer, she would do so in a heartbeat. And her untimely bump into Mister Benedict had only complicated things. She’d worsened his misperceptions of her identity, which further sparked the scoundrel’s acrimony. Blasted man. Then again, her lying to him probably hadn’t helped matters, the on-duty, off-duty ruse ridiculous, even to her.

  She lifted her eyelids, her gaze settling once more on the serviceable garments. Mother Superior had every right to rescind the use of the Ursuline habit.

  Annabelle swallowed, but the lump in her throat refused to move.

  More frightening than trailing after the gambler, or chronicling his every mood, she’d now be swathed in cotton…yet, fully exposed.

  Apart from the other nuns.

  Vulnerable.

  A stupid, frightened, lonely spinster…again.

  “I’m sure you’re safe now, my dear,” the abbess continued in a soft and considerate tone. “We are a long way from Pennsylvania, and you’ve made good your escape from evil.”

  Unable to stop herself, Annabelle dispensed a snort.

  A rustling echoed within the small cabin, and she gazed at the wrinkled, blue-veined hand resting atop an envelope upon the desk.

  “When the monsignor inquired as to our journey to Mount Maple,” the abbess added, “he also mentioned that newspapers no longer post articles involving your sister, or her death.”

  Her beloved Bernice gone…and now forgotten. The journalists back east might well have lost interest in the murder, but Annabelle still lived every horrific moment.

  Edward must pay!

  As retribution percolated through her veins, she straightened. “Thank you for letting me know, Your Reverence. I completely understand, and shall change my clothing, straightaway.”

  She swept up the garments, then rushed across uneven planked wood, praying the abbess wouldn’t add anything more to the must-do list. As she clasped the door’s cool iron knob, Annabelle glanced back.

 

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