by Cindy Nord
“Slow and torturous.” Brennen stubbed out his cheroot in the tin cup. “I’m better suited to slinging cards than mud. Jubal’s helping, though. He’s my foreman. Hell of a great guy, and a hard worker. Glad for his company.” He omitted the part about Annabelle, her fear of the storm, or the way he’d pushed the minx up against the wall and devoured her mouth. Why in god’s name hadn’t he prepared himself against such a possibility of how she’d affected him, of the sensation of their kiss, their connection, as if destined for one another?
His body trembled at the thought of again feeling her sweet curves.
Stop this madness! Flummoxed, Brennen curled his fingers into a tight fist beneath the table. Her and whatever in the hell this was between them was nobody’s damned business but his. Besides, for whatever reason known only to her, Wallace Wise, and the good Lord Himself, Annabelle was also this man’s client; the lawyer would surely ask questions if he knew she lived at the estate due to some damnable twist of fate.
The tightness in Brennen’s chest grew.
Forget about her.
Wise chuckled. “You’ve still got plans to sell as soon as the lien’s fulfilled, right?”
“Absolutely,” he growled, assuring himself nothing was going to make him remain in this hellhole, including her. “I’ve poured a shitload of money into the place. Need to recoup my losses.” He reshuffled the cards…the whooshing slide comforting in his hands. He enjoyed the feel of them. Arched them upward. Let them sift together, settling back into position. And these particular Squeezers were his favorite make, the corners of each card smoother, slightly rounded. He’d had ‘em since before the war.
“Good,” Wise continued, “’cause I’ve got my partner in Louisville keeping his eyes open for you, too. There’s lots of moneyed folks upriver so you never know what’ll turn up.”
“All I know is each brick I make brings me one step closer to freedom.”
“Well, come by the office tomorrow and we’ll order that bricking machine you’ve been talking about. That should speed things up a bit for you.”
“Sounds great,” Brennen said. “The damned thing can’t get here fast enough.” He took another swallow from his whiskey. He’d been nursing this drink for hours in order to keep his mind sharp, his thinking alert. “Any word on when that might be?”
“Haven’t heard a thing, but I’ll keep you posted.”
He nodded just as the front door opened. More patrons poured inside the tavern. Fresh blood. Full pockets. Brennen smiled. Like him, all were eager for another fine evening of forgetting.
The tantalizing aromas of Cleo’s bar-b-que swirled in around the new arrivals. He inhaled deeply, savoring the delicious scents that permeated the air. Spicy. Sweet. On a groan, he shook his head. Hell’s bells, I’m startin’ to like their damned sheep. Escaping the snare of the nuns and their lien could not come fast enough.
He might even stay in town a bit longer. The brickmaking business could just damn well go piss up a creek for a day or two. He grimaced. Kissing Annabelle Swan sat squarely at the top of the most-asinine-things-he’d-ever-done list.
Yep…Cleo would help him forget his godawful mistake. Although the anticipation he’d expected at the thought of the upcoming tryst fell flat.
Shit.
He scanned the room, his gaze landing on the whore who worked the saloon. As quickly as the thought had arrived, the foolishness dissipated.
Not a chance in hell.
Catching his gaze, the wench smiled and headed his way. “Glad to see you back in town, Mister Benedict.” She fluttered her grubby fingers over Brennen’s shoulder. “And I ain’t seen you in here in a while either, Mister Wise.”
“Been busy, sweetheart,” Brennen supplied, irritated at her touch, annoyed at yet another facet of his life that Annabelle had tainted. “Me with brick building, and ol’ Wallace here defending the innocent.”
The whore laughed, and with a coy look smoothed back a dull, limp curl over her shoulder in silent invitation.
“Now, Mabel. You know you’re wasting your work time with me. I’m still not in a samplin’ mood.”
“You never are,” she whined, gripping tighter. “A woman’s gotta make a livin’, you know.”
“I know, honey,” he said, patting her hand before slipping a seated liberty dollar into her palm. “Just not with me.” She gasped with delight, then hugged him before pocketing her easy-won coin.
“Off you go,” Brennen said.
With another grateful smile, she wandered to the next table.
Brennen chuckled, as did Wallace.
“I steer clear of her particular kind of soiled souls,” his friend stated. “They might provide a man momentary release, but they also delivered a heaping dollop of disease.”
“Likewise,” Brennen agreed. Dirty whores aside, he’d nonetheless done his fair share of drinking with the rest of the God-fearing heathens who comprised this sinfilled side of Daviess County.
He snorted and kept reshuffling – Daviess County. The name so bestowed in honor of the lawyer Joseph Daveiss who’d unsuccessfully prosecuted the country’s ex-vice-president, Aaron Burr who got away with killing Alexander Hamilton in an illegal duel under the code duello rules. The luckless bastard Daveiss’ couldn’t even get his name recorded correctly in the annals of time either due to some clerk’s mistake in reversing the e and i in the poor schmuck’s name. Still, politics aside, the citizens of this backwater burg truly enjoyed their gambling. And he was all too happy to relieve them of their hard-earned cash.
“You gonna keep shuffling,” Wise asked. “Or are you going to deal?”
“Oh…sorry.” Brennen sent a new card face-down before him. “Same game as before?”
“Works for me. And speaking of freedom, I intend to enjoy these few remaining months of mine.”
Pausing, Brennen stared at his lawyer. “You’re not leaving before I can settle my lien are you?”
“Nope. I’m simply heading into matrimony.”
“Good gawd, Wallace. Why ruin your good life?” Brennen ignored the image of Annabelle in his mind, and slid another playing card his way. “Who’s the unlucky lady?”
“Miss Davina Cosby.” As cards gathered before him Wise lifted his glass in a silent salute, and then sipped. “Originally from Owensborough, but now living in Newburgh, Indiana. Small town across the river ‘tween us and Evansville. She teaches at the Delany Academy for Girls near the Kuebler Gardens, a social spot for picnics and such on the west side of the town.”
“A teacher, huh?” Brennen scanned the well-dressed man. “You’re a tad too old and the wrong gender for additional schooling, so how’d you two meet?”
“I defended her father. A bookkeeper charged with embezzlement by his employer, who also just happened to be a damned thief. My first case after the war, as well as my first win. Five years later, she’s finally got me to propose.”
“Here. Here,” Brennen said, lifting his glass. “Congratulations!”
“Thank you,” he replied, smiling. “But a man of worth such as yourself, Mister Benedict, you’ll no doubt be succumbing to the bonds of matrimony in the future.”
Brennen doused the ache that flickered inside, then donned his drink. “I’m not the marrying kind, my friend.”
Their glasses clinked together.
“Spoken like the committed scoundrel you are,” he said. “I used to think like that, too, but, a month after first meeting her, I caught Miss Davina’s eye again at an afternoon social in the gardens. And…well…you know what they say about the flash of a beautiful woman’s eye.”
Emerald green ones flashed through Brennen’s mind. He refilled his glass, took another gulp of whiskey, and instead tasted Annabelle’s sweet lips. His hand gripped tighter the glass.
The empty chair at his side scraped back as another patron sidled up to them. “Is this an open table?”
Brennen sized up the man. Drunk enough to make mistakes, but not so much that things w
ould turn ugly. He’ll do. Smothering thoughts of Annabelle, with a smile, he nodded. “The more the merrier, my friend. Join us. I’ll deal you in.”
The fool sat his drink on the table, the bottle nearly toppling. “I’m headin’ west in the mornin’ to hook up with the railroad. Gettin’ paid a guaran-damned-teed fifty-two bucks a month to help ‘em lay track.” He laughed as he swiped his face with his palm. “Hell, I tore up enough steel durin’ the war, ‘spose I can lay down a few rails for the damned Yanks now.” The chair scraped back an inch as the drunk plopped onto the seat. “But tonight I aim to win me a passel o’ money right’chere, so what’cha say?”
Brennen glanced at Wallace, smiled, and then looked back. All too easy. He skimmed a card in the man’s direction. “I say let’s play poker.”
Chapter Eleven
Two mornings later, Annabelle straightened the quilt covering her patient’s frail and tiny frame. Thankfully, Ruby’s fever had broken near midnight, and a sponge bath earlier this morning had helped raise her spirits even more.
“Yo’ sure is an angel, Miz Annabelle,” Ruby whispered, nearly lost inside the voluminous cotton folds of a clean nightgown.
“Don’t be silly. I’m a caretaker. That’s all.” Annabelle straightened the kerchief tied around the woman’s short-cropped hair and then shifted her against the pillows. “I cared for my ailing half-sister for years, so I’m pretty good at all this.”
The squeaking sound of the rickety outside rocking chair had her glancing toward the upstairs verandah. A cool breeze wafted through the open doorway and carried the dulcet tones of Jubal’s humming. She smiled. Except for a spattering of minutes since the big storm, he’d not been far from Ruby’s side.
The rocking stopped. She heard his shuffling footsteps. As he reentered the bedroom, he stated, “Well, ladies, I think I’m gonna head back out to the Knoblick dis mornin’ to check on da damage. After all, dem bricks still gotta be made.” He headed toward the door. Pausing at the entry, his head nearly scraping the top of the wooden frame, he glanced back. “Didn’t hear Mista Brennen come in last night, neither. Did you?”
The tightness expanded across her chest, and Annabelle shook her head. “I’m sure he’s long gone by now, Jubal,” she said, working to keep her voice calm. “You know, spurred into leaving by…well, the pressure of making bricks…and all.”
The giant scratched his head. “All he said da other mornin’ was he was headin’ into town…didn’t think he’d just up and leave us like dis, too. I really liked ‘im, and was sure hopin’ for more.” The sadness that underscored his words tore off another aching chunk of Annabelle’s heart. “Somethin’ must ‘a gotten under his skin.”
Not something...’twas a kiss amidst a storm-ravaged morn.
If she had anywhere else to go, she’d run, too. The fierce ache inside her swelled. She’d kept all thoughts of Brennen Benedict at bay, but now…every sensation returned tenfold. Knees weakening, Annabelle reached for the bedpost. What madness had possessed her to engage in such a kiss? Throwing herself at the cavalier with little regard for her own reputation. Her actions were shocking.
And scandalous.
And yet…
She compressed her lips and again tasted him.
Another sigh followed as she fought back tears. The storm had all but wrecked her defenses, and had her turning to a man she’d normally avoid.
Calmer, she sank into the rational.
Yes, that explanation proved easier to swallow. She’d been caught-up in her terror, desperate for comfort. He’d mistaken her weakening emotions for…desire. Under any other circumstance, she would’ve kept herself, and her rampant emotions, in check.
On a deep inhale, chin lifting, Annabelle squeezed the mahogany post. Never again would she allow herself to be in such a situation. As far as she was concerned, wherever that handsome, kiss-stealin’ rotter had gone…good riddance!
“Before I head out,” Jubal added, drawing her from her staunch resolution, “I’m goin’ downstairs to make a pot o’ coffee. Want a cup?”
Annabelle forced a smile. “I would like that…yes. Thank you.”
He nodded. “And Ruby, honey. Do you want me to bring you one, too?”
His wife nodded, warmth filling her gaze.
To one day find such an abiding love…like my parents, and these two. Except with her life in such chaos, as well as her deep distrust of most men, Annabelle realized such an option didn’t exist.
“Good,” he said. “I be right back.”
Ten minutes later and true to his word, Jubal returned with a tray holding a tarnished silver coffee pot and several mismatched cups.
“Here, I’ll serve Ruby,” Annabelle offered as she crossed the rug and retrieved the tray from him.
Jubal smiled, snatched up a filled cup, and then ambled to his wife. “I’m headin’ back to da kilns now, honey. Hopefully, da damage won’t be too bad. You be in good hands here wif’ Miz Annabelle, and I be home a’fore too long.” He bent, and placed a kiss upon Ruby’s forehead. A moment later and whistling a soft tune, the consoling giant vacated the room.
“I sure do love ‘im,” Ruby whispered.
“With the way he treats you, I can see he feels the same.” Annabelle turned the handle of a half-filled mug of steaming brew toward her patient. Feeble fingers accepted the offering. “Now hold on tight and sip slowly. This is quite hot.”
“I be careful, ma’am.”
Annabelle poured herself a fragrant cup, and then settled onto the edge of the bed. Another breeze swept in wafting the scents of summer and wet earth around her. Sipping the coffee, she relished the taste across her tongue for a moment before swallowing. “So, were you and Jubal slaves before the war?”
“I was a slave. Yes’m. But Jubal? Nah…he was borned free right here on dis small plantation. Me, though, I camed up from da Deep South o’er twenty years ago. Dis home was part o’ da secret routes and safe houses dat helped folks, like me, get away from dere bad mastas.”
“Oh my.” Annabelle had heard of the daring exploits by the abolitionists and allies who’d been sympathetic to the plight of the negroes. “The Underground Railroad? Right? Carried out in secret beneath the cloak of darkness? Such a strange name for that brave group.”
“Yes’m. Da routes we followed were called lines, and da places we hid at along da way we called stations…like real railroad words.” Her gaze wandered to the quilt and she fingered the faded, wedding-ring pattern, her mind obviously revisiting those treacherous years before Lincoln’s emancipation had changed the laws. “We called da kind folks who’d helped us conductors…like Mista and Miz Chiswell.” She sighed. “Us runaways was known as freight, and da watchwords were “keep yo’ eye on da North Star” ‘cause dat shiny brilliance in front of us meant we was headin’ to freedom.”
“I can’t even imagine the horror of being owned by another human, let alone running for one’s life from hordes of despots and dogs intent on maiming. We truly lived in a turbulent time back then,” Annabelle said. Although, truth be told, living in Pennsylvania beneath the shadow of the congressman, she’d rarely seen any of the terror associated with war. “I read in newspapers, though, that the routes extended through fourteen Northern states, and even up into Canada.”
“Das true. Canada beckoned out to me every day whiles I lived in Mississippi. Finally, on my fourteenth birfday, I’d had enough, and jest lit out wif some others. Dey chased us for miles, and some o’ da slow ones got caught by dere dogs, but, me? Sheesh, I ran ‘til my lungs near busted. When we got to Chiswell station on dat cold December night…” With a pause, she smiled and then smoothed the blanket.
“Yes?” Annabelle leaned closer. “What happened?”
“Well, ma’am, dats when I seen Jubal Jones for da first time, him sittin’ all brave ‘n handsome up front on dat wagon dat pulled us runaways to da next station.”
Their gazes locked.
And Anabelle smiled. “Ah, ma chérie�
�’twas fate.”
“Yes’m…dat, too…” she skimmed her gaze over the material that draped above them and down all four posts, before adding, “But, if truth be tol’, I thought he looked better’n Canada ever could, so’s right ‘den and ‘dere, I handed over my heart to ‘im, quit runnin’, and dis here place became my home. For years, we helped Mista and Miz Chiswell, and dere sons, get others northward to da Promised Land.” Ruby took another sip of coffee, and slid her gaze to Annabelle’s. “But, den…da Big War came, and da Chiswell’s lost all three sons on da same day at Shiloh.”
“How awful,” Annabelle whispered. Leaning forward, she wrapped her hands around the mug and squeezed. Never experiencing the joys of having even one baby, she couldn’t imagine the absolute horror of losing three beloved children.
“Yes’m. And Miz Chiswell got purely sick wif grief. So much so, in fact, dat she never recovered. When she died from prostration, Mista Chiswell just let everythin’ go as he began to drink away his sorrows.”
“I can certainly understand his misery.” Annabelle gulped back the thickening lump in her throat. “To lose one’s entire family must’ve been insufferable.”
“It surely was. Den, one day, nigh on three years ago dis very month, he just up’d and walked away. From his brickin’ business an’ da farm, an’…” --she dropped her gaze to her coffee cup-- “from us. Dat hurt da most, ‘cause we ain’t seen ‘im since.”
“How sad to lose all hope like that.” The oppressive sorrow of her own family deaths, as well as the reminder of the tears she’d shed in Brennen’s embrace as he insisted she release her grief, returned.
Ruby’s soft sigh drew Annabelle’s gaze. “Years latter da war still goes on destroyin’ so many folks. I know’d we’ve sure had troubles. But, den…a little over a month ago, Mista Brennen rode up on his horse. Now, things ‘round here are startin’ to look up again. Well, ‘cept’n for my sickness.”
Ah, yes…the war-damaged, ex Confederate-cavalry soldier who’d kissed her into a frenzy.