by Cindy Nord
The front door slammed shut behind him.
He didn’t know what the hell he wanted, but however wrong, however unfair, he damn well didn’t want anyone else to have her. He gripped the bannister so hard his knuckles popped. All around him, he smelled her scent. She’d emblazoned herself throughout the whole house and there wasn’t a thing he could do to stop from inhaling. His heart clenched as he dragged in her lavender essence, reliving every moment of her laughter, her brightness…their kiss.
On a curse, he ripped off his hat and threw it against the wall. The expensive piece slid down into a sun-bleached pile of straw at the base of the stairs.
He shoved his fingers through his hair. She’s leaving me. That’s it. Some freak is going to take her from me and…and…
The door opened.
He swerved to face Annabelle standing in the entry. His feeling of abandonment grew, swelling into a more-comfortable roil of rage.
“Where’s your friend?” he snapped, his gaze skimming over her shoulder in time to catch the rider cantering down the lane.
She surged across the threshold and into the house, slamming the door so hard the chandelier overhead rattled. “How dare you!”
“How dare I?” He jammed his brows together. “You’re the one runnin’ into town to play patty-cake with…Christ Almighty, Annabelle. An albino? What? Wasn’t some ne’er-do-well bastard like me eccentric enough for you?” Again, the green-eyed monster called jealousy stormed through him.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Yes, I went to inquire about a job. It’s certainly nothing more, and if it was, it would be none of your business.”
The asinine feeling of despair poured over him. His heart banged inside his chest as if the damned thing had sprung a leak. Turning, he stomped into the parlor, and jerked open the corner cabinet. The bottle of Old Forrester rattled as he stacked the whiskey atop the polished mahogany.
The scuffling of Annabelle’s shoes on the passageway announced her entrance. “You are a vile creature, Brennen. Purement vile. What gives you the right to think you can speak to me this way? You do not own me. I’m not some putain on your riverboat you can instruct to perform.” She whirled and presented her shapely back.
“Bon sang! Do you see strings attached?” she snapped over her shoulder. “Merde. Am I your puppet? Non…I am not.”
The French curse words, entwined with his inexplicable desire for her sliced through Brennen like a hot blade. Lust he understood. Lust simply demanded without consideration. The other emotions, the ones that hurt and drove him mad, those he refused any quarter.
“Oh, that’s good,” he growled, dragging his gaze away from her as he tipped the bottle. Whiskey sloshed into the glass. Need of her rolled over him like a landslide. He welcomed the lewdness as he slammed home the stopper, envisioning himself ramming inside her. He swiped up the tumbler, the liquid sloshing over the rim and onto his fingers. “Again, you dredge up my past before all this bullshit ripped apart my life…” he waved his hand toward the walls, more whiskey splashing the rim. “I’m evil. My riverboats are evil. A tiresome repetition of things. While you, on the other hand, have masqueraded around for who-in-God’s-name-knows-how-long in some nun’s get-up.” He glared at her, the settee anchored between them as dividing as the Mason-Dixon Line. “That right, there is a lying pot calling this kettle black, minx?”
Her chin jammed higher. “Don’t you minx me, you monstre. You’ve been rude and distant for months. Staying two steps away from all of us. Mon Dieu…you push anyone who cares for you away.”
“I ain’t here to make friends.” He snorted, tipping the glass. The whiskey blazed all the way down to his soul.
“Vous bête,” she spat out the words.
Brennen gave a cold laugh. “Beast?” He leaned forward, loosening two fingers from his death grip on the tumbler to point at her. “That’s right. I am a beast. Don’t ever forget that ma chère.”
Hands on hips, she straightened, her breath rushing out in stuttered puffs. “What I’ve done…I-I’ve had good reason to…to deceive.”
“Good reason? Look at you. You’ve suffered little in your life.” Brennen again brought the tumbler to his lips. Three gulps drained the glass.
“And that is where you are wrong, monsieur.”
“I don’t think so. Otherwise, why go work for someone else? Hell’s Bells, how much employment does one woman need?”
The narrowing of her eyes confirmed he’d crossed the line. As if at this moment he gave a bloody damn?
“I’m looking for a permanent job so…so I can take care of myself. I cannot remain here once you sell the place, now can I?”
He stared at her. Damnit. She’s right. What would she do? Go back to the nuns like these past few months had never happened?
As if their kiss had never…sonofabitch. What if she did actually leave him? No more smiles when he came in at night. No more chatting about goats and brick-making and Ellie’s cooking. No more sunshine or laughter…or joy. He stared at her, at the creases between her dark brows, at the mess of raven hair falling from her chignon, drinking her in as if she were the last drop of water in his parched and worthless life.
On a deep breath he inhaled, her sweet scent of lavender spiraled around him, luring, tempting. The pain intensified as he rode the razor-sharp edge between heaven and hell. He needed her. Had for weeks. Not as a caretaker or teacher, but as…as…
His blood iced at the realization. Kind and patient and good, Annabelle called him out when he was wrong, tended to him…tended to his home.
Home?
The weight crushing his chest expanded. He’d never lived anywhere he could call a home. Only a house where a grieving mother cried and out of desperation or pity hung herself. And his father? Jeezus. Whoring another man’s wife came to an abrupt end in their front parlor when the embittered husband fired a bullet deep into the old man’s chest while Brennen had a front row seat.
No family remained, except his sister who’d thankfully escaped the nightmare via marriage, for him an elusive fate. And yet, despite the calamitous nightmares, he’d struggled for some semblance of home. Hell, he’d dug in and still foolishly tried to carve out a meaningful life. A feat destroyed a dozen years later when the Yankees torched everything he owned as they’d pushed their way through Richmond.
Memories collided in his mind. The ghosts of heartbreak lingered. Brennen thinned his lips. But this place…shit…this beautiful, peaceful, permanent place – this Le Belle Maison that he’d won in a meaningless card game now pulsed with more life and love than anything he’d ever known before.
Because of her.
Cold silence permeated the sitting room as he stared at Annabelle’s soft lips parting to let her breath ease in and out. His gaze lowered to the swell of her breasts, to where her chest rose and fell in steady lifts. She grounded him. Gave him purpose. She was his first thought each morning, and the last image he conjured at night. Every damned thing reminded him of her, the clay he hauled, the bricks he delivered to the nuns, the sway of hay in the fields yet to harvest, and he couldn’t wait to get home at the end of each day.
Sunlight streaked through the window. Silent, shifting, the tranquil beam, opposite their embroilment, embraced her in golden wash.
Annabelle’s gaze shifted. Met his. The hard look had faded, replaced with a pain so vivid it slammed into his gut.
I’ve done this.
His heart ached to again see her smile. “Please, Annabelle,” he whispered, surprising himself with his request. “…p-please don’t go.”
The shadows in her eyes deepened, her gaze luminous behind a veil of tears. “You cannot ask this of me…and then just leave. You…j-just can’t.” On a sob, she fled the parlor. The rap-rap-rapping of her footfalls up the staircase hammering into his brain, her grief searing straight to his soul.
Emptiness engulfed Brennen. He blinked once. Twice. A burn blistering behind his eyelids. On a sharp curse, he turn
ed and hurled the glass. Crystal shattered against the fireplace, erupting into dozens of unrestorable diamond-like slivers of light.
Chapter Twenty-One
With supplies in hand, Annabelle opened the back door. For the past two Sundays she’d taught her students in their cabin away from the brooding stare of the master of the house. Today would prove no different. Three weeks. That’s how long Brennen had been avoiding everyone, including her. Despite their heated words, she missed him. If nothing else, their most-unpleasant episode had uncovered one thing: his anguished plea for her to stay…so here she would remain for as long as stay might be.
For now, she was safe from Edward and his perfidious murder warrant, and she suspected the agent back east had little interest left in her case. Nor had Wallace Wise heard from the man, even though two additional telegrams had been sent.
Annabelle sighed.
As for her shaky future, she’d face that once Le Belle Maison sold.
Stop thinking about this… any funds to pay for further investigations is gone.
With a sharp exhale, Annabelle pulled the door closed and crossed the porch. A strong, rain-scented wind lifted her skirt as she descended the back steps. She glanced up. Another storm?
A bank of churning ebony clouds stretched the entire length of the western horizon. Mon Dieu. So engrossed in planning her lesson she hadn’t realized how dark the sky had grown.
She scanned the area for Brennen. Empty. Panic lodged in her throat as a swirling curtain of debris flew past. The oncoming beast that draped the sky above her bore down with teeth and claws and columns of dust churned in mini-cyclones above the garden.
A blur caught her attention. Dishcloths snapped against the brutal slap of air as Ellie hurriedly unpinned them from the clothesline near the summer kitchen. The flock of hens around the cook’s feet cackled in raucous cacophony.
I-I must help her.
Wind gusts ruffled the lessons in her hand, ripping a few. Thunder slammed with an ominous roll.
“No!” She stumbled back, crushing the paperwork against her chest. Fear eked up her spine. Never had she seen the sky this angry. Heart pounding, she again scoured the area.
Brennen! Where are you?
Beyond the treetops, a jagged bolt of lightning slashed the darkness punctuated by another menacing rumble.
An eerie darkness settled around Le Belle Maison just as a strong gust shoved her back, scattering her hair pins. Raven tresses lashed across her face. She raked back the curls, then looked up once more.
Clouds of black and gray and green swirled above her in a churning rage.
“Ellie,” Annabelle hollered. “Where’s Brennen?”
“Bad storm’s a’coming, lass,” the cook responded as her towels whipped within her tight grip. “The men are out yonder roundin’ up the livestock.”
Biting her bottom lip to stop the tremble, Annabelle glanced toward the cabin hoping to see a glow of light from the lantern on the table where they’d study.
Nothing.
“W-Where’s Ruby?” she bellowed above another gust, debating on returning to the house to store away her lesson.
The cook frowned. “What?”
“Ruby?” Wet leaves smacked Annabelle’s face as she stepped away from the safety of the porch. “Where is she?”
Another peal of thunder reverberated around her.
The cook gestured behind the summer kitchen. “She’s makin’ sure the gate to the pig pen’s latched.”
A violent gale hurled past and ripped a sheet loose. The paper was hurled up into the churning miasma.
Swamped by fear, legs trembling, Annabelle screamed. And froze, watching as Ellie trudged against the harsh wind to toss the clean towels into the kitchen. Both hands yanking the door shut, the cook stumbled back out into the ever-increasing wind to corral the chickens.
Don’t do this…d-don’t fall apart. Ellie needs me…I-I must go help her!
On a ragged inhale, Annabelle dropped the papers. The lessons lifted, scattering upward on another howling gust. Gathering her skirt in hand, her petticoats flapping in the wind, she ran toward the cook. “I’ll help, Ellie. I’ll help.” With each step taken, Annabelle’s hair whipped in painful lashes across her face.
Relief washed over the old cook’s features. “Yes, lass. Yes. Get thee on the other side and help me round up me hens.”
Annabelle gulped back a wave of panic. The first raindrop smacked the top of her head, another against her face, her arms. Large and painful. Cold.
Not rain…hail!
Her steps faltered. Chunks of ice pelted her, the tin roofs, and – Mon Dieu -- their precious garden. Shoving down the fear, she spun to where Ellie indicated. Her corset dug into her ribs as she chased the fowl, herding them toward confinement. Hands flapping, she forced the last squawking hen into the coop.
The old woman slammed home the bar to trap the chickens inside. “Praise the Lord, me darlin’. Well done!” The wind picked up speed, swirling around the little cabin to whip the day cap off her hair. A riotous, red cloud of curls whipped across her face. “Jesus, Joseph and Mary, ‘tis worse than I thought.”
Snatching up a pile of tumbling burlap near the coop, she turned and tossed one rough end toward Annabelle as she yelled above the howling chaos, “Help me cover me plants.”
Amid a swirl of leaves, Ruby appeared at her side. “Pigs are safe. Give me a corner o’ dat burlap,” she hollered. “An’ don’t be afraid, Miz Emaline. You can do this. You can help us save da garden.”
With a frantic nod, and her shaking hands numb from the elements, Annabelle held out the cloth. Skirt and petticoats hampering her progress, she fell, then stood, helping spread the material which puffed and sank like a sail upon the sea. After several attempts, she anchored her side of burlap with Brennen’s bricks from the massive pile near the garden’s edge.
“Dis’ll protect da plants from damage,” screamed Ruby. She dug her fingers into Annabelle’s elbows and pulled. “Now come wif’ me, ‘cause dis’ bitch is gettin’ worse.”
The lash of hail turned to rain, big, fat drops that soaked her to the skin just as a portentous crack resonated from behind. Turning, Annabelle watched as a limb from a giant oak split free, crashing to the ground.
Drenched, she quaked. Shouts rattled above the roar and she glanced over her shoulder.
Jubal and Jasper stood near the edge of the main house, a small, flat door leading underground held open. Flying leaves, twigs, and other debris buffeted the wood as Jubal struggled against the fury to hold open the panel.
Jasper cupped his hands to his mouth, and yelled. “Dis’ ain’t no storm, dis here’s a tornado. Get into da cellar now. Run!”
In the field beyond his shoulder, a serpentine, debris-smeared pilaster of air rotated. With each passing second the column grew, arching and straightening, then lifting, only to spiral back down to ravage a swath of destruction across the landscape.
Nausea swirled through her.
A…A tornade? Nooooooo.
Ruby dug her hand into Annabelle’s arm, pulling her toward the men.
Racing toward the cellar, Ellie huffed and puffed at their side.
The second-story windows on the west side of the house shattered. Annabelle screamed as glass nicked her cheek, and the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. “Non…Non…Stop,” she shrieked above the horrendous roar as she tugged free from Ruby’s clasp. “W-Where’s Brennen.”
“Come on, honey, you can make it,” the old cook pleaded, pushing her onward.
Tear’s blurred Annabelle’s vision as she scanned the wind-swept fields, then further toward the empty meadows. “Non! W-We must find Brennen!”
Engorged black clouds bloomed above her, the roar of the wind now rivaling that of a chugging locomotive.
“Run, Miz’ Annabelle. Ru--” An explosion smothered Ruby’s words.
Limbs pommeled the house, smashing into the upper veranda and spewing shattered glass with danger
ous disregard. In the distance, uprooted trees crashed atop the row of cabins.
Pulse racing, horror twisting through her, Annabelle continued her search across the storm-battered grounds. Where are you? Hit by flying debris…or…or caught beneath a fallen tree? “Brennen!” she screamed. “Mon Dieu…w-we must find him.”
Whirling, she skimmed the far fields. Debris churned in treacherous eddies across the meadow.
“You must move faster, lass!” Ellie hollered, slamming her full weight against Annabelle’s back.”
Annabelle stumbled, fell to her hands and knees into the mud. Crawling, her heartbeat rammed against her chest. “B-Brennen,” she sobbed as terror streaked through her…not in fear of the storm -- that panic had long since dissolved – her childhood issues superseded by a surge of fear so overwhelming she struggled for breath.
H-He might be hurt…or even killed.
She shoved to her feet, but the wind knocked her down. Through her mass of cold, wet hair, she watched the others stumble into the cellar. “But w-what about Brennen,” she choked out, her throat so raw she could barely swallow. Pain welled in her heart as another scream pungent with grief tore from her mouth. “Brennen!”
A shadow engulfed her.
Strong arms hauled her up.
On a shriek, she pushed against the massive shoulders, the solid chest. “Non, non…put me down!” She flailed, shock encompassing her. “Je dois trouver – release me…I-I must find Brennen!”
The hold tightened, thwarting all attempts to struggle. “I’m here, minx,” the ragged voice whispered against her ear. “I’ve got you. I’m here.”
Relief enveloped her. Brennen! She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing closer against him as wet leaves, grit, and twigs slammed them. Body shuddering, she rasped, “Mon Dieu! You’re safe! You’re safe!”
“Yes. I’m safe. Hold on!” His grip increased as he ran with her toward the half-opened door.
She glanced over his shoulder.