“Shay.”
“Is that your last name?” she asked, looking up from beneath her lashes, aware suddenly that tears blurred her vision. She folded her hands atop her knees and straightened her shoulders, attempting to gain some small measure of control.
He shook his head. “No, but it doesn’t matter for now.”
“Tell me about him,” she said, embarrassed that her voice trembled.
“All right,” Shay began, his words a sigh, his voice bleak. “He had the fever, ma’am. A lot of men died from it. I only got sick with it, and lived to tell it. I was lucky.” And at those words he laughed, a rusty sound that held no humor. “I guess lucky isn’t the word for it.”
His fingers touched the back of her hand, barely moving against her skin. “You were married to a good man, Mrs. Pennington. When he died, his last thoughts were of you and your child.”
“My child? He never knew I’d had a boy? I wrote,” she said. “I sent letters after Marshall was born,” Her lips compressed and she struggled for control. “I never heard back from him.”
“We didn’t get much mail from home. He didn’t know if it was a boy or girl.”
Jenny looked up, aware now that tears fell without ceasing, yet unable to halt their flow. His fingers enveloped hers and she leaned toward the warmth, as though the hand that had touched Carl might yet carry some faint trace of the man she’d loved. Her indrawn breath caught a scent of leather and wood smoke from his clothing, an aroma of soap that lingered on his skin. A male essence that spoke to a part of her she’d thought long since dead.
“I’m sorry,” Jenny breathed, tugging her fingers from his grip. “I don’t usually fall apart this way. In fact,” she murmured, her breath trembling, “I thought I was all done with the mourning and the carrying-on.”
A shadow fell in the front entrance of the barn, and she looked up, catching a glimpse of a figure in the doorway. A shotgun held firmly before her, Isabelle watched in silence. Jenny shook her head, waving a hand reassuringly. “It’s all right,” she said, aware that the other woman feared for her well-being.
In one swift movement Shay rose and spun to face the threat, his hand falling to the butt of his revolver. One knee bent, he surveyed the dark-skinned woman, unmoving as Isabelle’s sharp gaze took stock. “You want to turn that barrel in another direction, ma’am?” he asked quietly.
Isabelle hesitated, then at another nod from Jenny, she turned the long gun, cradling it in her arms. “I didn’t know what was goin’ on out here, Jenny. Marshall come runnin’ in and said a man was in the barn with you.” She walked a few steps closer. “You been cryin’?”
Jenny shook her head. “No, not really.” Carefully she stood, willing her legs not to buckle. “Mr. Shay has come here with a message from…my husband.”
Isabelle snorted unbelievingly. “Mr. Carl’s been dead a long time, Jenny. If this fella’s got word for you, what took him so long to bring it?”
“I don’t know.” Jenny took a step, steadying herself, one hand touching the wall beside her. “We hadn’t even gotten to the message part.”
She turned to Shay. “Do you want to put your horse up and stay for a bite to eat? We’re about to have our noon meal. I’m sure Isabelle has enough for you to join us.”
He nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Jenny walked past him. “We’ll talk in the house.” Her mind spinning, she followed Isabelle from the barn, trudging across the yard, aware of the curiosity that hung between them.
Isabelle opened the door and Jenny walked past her into the kitchen. “What you s’pose he wants with you?” Isabelle asked, reaching high to place the gun over the door. Two pegs held it in place and Isabelle, satisfied that it was secure, stepped back. “I never seen a man so hard lookin’, Miss Jenny. There’s no give to him, not one little bit, is there?” She slanted a look from dark eyes, and Jenny caught a glimpse of fear within their soft depths.
“I’m not afraid of him,” she said quietly. She found another plate and placed it on the table, then reached for silverware from the drawer. “I think he’s ridden a long way to get here, probably had other things to see to before he set out to find me.”
“I’d think carryin’ a message from a dead man to his wife would rate pretty high up on the scale,” Isabelle said darkly. “You think he’s tellin’ the truth?”
The sound of boots on the porch caught Jenny’s ear and she shook her head at Isabelle. “Later,” she whispered, stepping to the kitchen cupboard to draw forth cups for coffee.
A pot sat on the back of the stove, and Isabelle lifted it, a folded dish towel protecting her hand from the hot handle. “Let’s see how strong this is, first off,” she said, pouring the dark liquid slowly.
“A little cream will do wonders,” Jenny told her.
“There’s a whole pitcherful already rose to the top from this morning’s milking,” Isabelle said. “I’ll pour it off and set some aside for your coffee. Thought I’d make rice pudding for supper. We got eggs aplenty.”
Jenny turned to the door, where Shay waited admission. “Come in, Mr.—”
“Just Shay,” he reminded her, opening the screen door and stepping into the kitchen. One hand lifted his hat, then held it, as he glanced around the room.
“You can hang it on a hook next to the pantry, if you like,” Jenny said. She watched as he crossed the room, met his gaze as he turned back to face her. “Coffee?” she asked, motioning to the table where two cups stood, steam rising.
He nodded, pulling out a chair. “Y’all help yourselves to fresh bread,” Isabelle said, her dark eyes intent on the visitor. From beneath a dish towel, she produced a plate, placing it between Jenny and their visitor. A small bowl containing butter was beside it, and a knife lay across the edge of the dish.
Jenny nodded at Shay. “Go ahead.”
He glanced at the sink in the corner. “You mind if I wash up?” At Jenny’s nod of agreement, he rose, then stepped to the drain board where a bucket of water rested, pouring a small amount into the wash pan. Isabelle provided a bowl of soft soap and a towel, and in moments, Shay was back at the table. “Thanks,” he murmured, picking up the knife and spreading butter across a slice of bread.
“Isabelle baked this morning,” Jenny told him, pouring cream in her coffee, then adding a heaping teaspoon of sugar. A bowl of stew appeared in the middle of the table and Jenny reached for the serving ladle. Shay nodded as she cast him an inquiring glance, and she served a generous portion on his plate.
The steam rose and he inhaled it, then spoke his satisfaction. “This is much appreciated, ma’m. I haven’t had a hot meal in a couple of days.” Picking up his fork, he stabbed a bite of potato and began eating. His gaze scanned the room, settling on Isabelle, who watched from near the stove. “You’ve already eaten?” he asked.
“When I fed Marshall.” Her answer was curt, but he seemed uncaring, returning to his food, picking up his cup to drink. After a few moments, his first hunger apparently appeased, he leaned back in his chair. “You’re alone here?” he asked.
Isabelle glanced up at the shotgun over the door and Jenny shook her head, then brushed her mouth with a linen napkin. “No, there’s Isabelle’s husband and their two sons. They’re working in the hayfield. And you’ve seen my son.”
He nodded, chewing long and hard on the crust of bread he’d chosen, then bent to his dinner once more.
“Do you think my boy looks like Carl?” she asked after a moment. “His folks are gone, over three years now, but his mama said Marshall was the image of his daddy.”
“Hard to say,” Shay temporized.
“Carl had the same brown eyes. But then you know that. Having seen him more recently than I. Mine are blue.” She paused for a moment, but the words would not be halted, falling from her lips as if she must somehow reinforce Carl’s memory through the small child he’d left behind. “Marshall’s hair is streaked from the sunshine now, I know. But you should see it in the winter. I
t darkens up, without a trace of red in it like—” Jenny hesitated, aware of rambling on. She lifted her cup and sipped at the bitter stuff. Her heart was stuttering in her chest, and she felt her throat close as she asked the question she’d held within her heart for the past half hour.
“How did he die?” Her hands fluttered, then settled in her lap. “Did he suffer long? Was there a doctor in the camp?” She looked up at him and winced at the forbidding look he wore. “Please, Mr. Shay.”
The woman was trembling, her mouth twitching at the corner, her chin wobbling. Damn, she was about to cry again, and he didn’t know if he could stand it. Enough that he’d put this visit in limbo for so long, now he had to dredge up all the memories and break her heart all over again.
“There were a couple of doctors in camp, but we tried not to let the Union army know who they were. They’d have been taken out and put to work in the army hospital for the northern troops.” He shrugged, curling long fingers around his cup. “There wasn’t any medicine anyway, ma’am. We all just did the best we could.”
“You said you were with him?” she asked, biting at her lip. “He spoke of us?”
“Yes, ma’am. I told you he sent his love, to both you and the child.” That hadn’t been exactly how it happened, but instinct told him she would be soothed by the words. Her eyes filled with tears and they overflowed, dampening the bodice of her dress as they fell. His gaze rested there.
“Mr. Shay?” Her hand lay on the table now, reaching for him, yet even as he watched, her fingers curled into a fist. “Did he say anything else?”
He shook his head. Take care of them. The words that haunted his dreams had brought him here, on a roundabout route, to be sure. But here he was, and here he’d stay until he was sure she was safe, had enough to eat, and that the boy was taken care of, had some sort of future in the offing.
“Have you got any crops in, ma’am?” he asked. “Is there any livestock in the pastures?”
“The kitchen garden’s planted, of course, and it’s almost time to plant corn, maybe next week or the week after. After the hay gets put up. We’ve a cow in the barn, and a good flock of chickens. There’s three hens setting on nests. We’ll have chicks soon, and fryers in a couple of months.”
“Horses?” he asked.
“A team of mules. They’re in the corral, waiting for me to take them back to the hay field later on. And a mare to pull the buggy.”
“Nothing to ride?”
“No, the Yanks took most of the horseflesh hereabouts with them when they passed through. We were lucky to keep what we did. Noah and the boys hid the animals in the woods. We penned up the chickens in the root cellar and put a washtub over the door when the army came through. I thought they were going to burn the place, but—” She hesitated and glanced at Isabelle, whose mouth shut reprovingly.
“They left us alone, and went on without torching the house and barn.” Beneath the freckles dotting her cheeks, Jenny’s face was pale and her gaze focused steadily on the tabletop between them.
His instincts told him she’d left much unsaid. Her hired help, or whatever relationship the woman had to Jenny, was keeping secrets, as was the girl across the table from him. She wasn’t much more than a girl, yet she’d borne up beneath the load she’d been called to carry, and borne up well. Her dress was ill-fitting, tight across the bodice, as if it had fit a younger, more slender female. Well-worn, and washed until the faint pattern of flowers had submitted their color to soap and water, it looked on the verge of being fit for the ragbag.
Yet, she wore it well, and he had a fleeting glimpse of what it must have looked like, years ago when both dress and woman had been untouched by the desolation of the war.
Jenny looked up at him, her dignity once more in place, only damp spots on her dress remaining of the tears she’d shed for the memory of her husband. “Will you stay the night?” she asked politely.
“I can sleep in the barn.” He glanced out the window to where the shabby outbuildings were drenched in sunshine. “I have a bedroll, ma’am. Is there hay left in the loft?”
“No, but there will be in a couple of days, once it dries in the field. The men are out there cutting it now.”
“Can I give them a hand? I’ve done my share of swinging a scythe in my day.”
“And where was that?” she asked, her eyes lighting with interest.
“I was born and raised here in the south, ma’am.” And that would be enough for now, he decided, rising and reaching for his hat. “I’ll just ride my horse out to where the men are, and put in a few hours’ work. Maybe I’ll do enough to earn my supper.”
“Wait,” Jenny said quickly. “I’ll take you out in the wagon. Noah won’t know who you are.”
“I’ll tell him,” Shay said politely. “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine.”
And it was. Coming upon the three men, their heads covered with straw hats, their arms swinging in unison to the mournful notes they sang, he’d sat astride his stallion for long minutes. One of the younger men had noticed him first, glancing up, and then halting midswing. The older man, Noah probably, turned to face him, taking his hat off and nodding slowly.
“Sir?” The tone was polite, yet wary, and Shay slid from his horse. A hundred feet or so separated them, and his steps were unhurried as he watched the three men.
“I’m here to help,” he said. “Carl Pennington sent me.”
A visible shiver went through the shortest of the three men, and he turned quickly to the eldest of the group. “Pa?”
Noah stepped forward. “You knew Mr. Carl? In the army?”
Shay nodded. “I was with him when he died.”
Noah looked him over well, his shoulders straightening, his head erect. “Took you long enough to get here, I’d say, mister.”
Shay nodded his agreement. There was no arguing that point. “I’m here now.”
“You wanta use the scythe or start rakin’?” Noah asked.
Shay held out his hand. “I’ll give you a break. You can rake, if that’s all right.”
Hand outstretched, he waited as the older man scrutinized him, and then, with a nod at his two helpers, walked the few steps it took to face Shay.
“These here are my boys, Caleb and Joseph. Miss Isabelle’s my woman.” He held out the scythe and Shay took it from the callused hand.
“I’ll just tie my horse,” he said. A glade of trees edged the hayfield on three sides, telling wordlessly how the field had been wrenched from the woods surrounding it. Shay led his horse into the shade and slid the bridle from his mouth and over his head, then reached into his saddlebag for a halter. He put it in place, adding a long lead line before he loosened the saddle cinch.
“You can work at keepin’ the grass mowed,” he murmured to his stallion, leaving the animal knee-deep in lush greenery. The scythe fit his hand as if he’d only yesterday laid it down, and in moments he was adjusting his swing to the momentum of the other men. The sun beat down through his dark shirt and sweat beaded his brow, burning his eyes as it dripped from his forehead. Tying his kerchief around his brow relieved that situation, and he moved forward, enjoying the flex of muscles unused to the physical labor of harvest.
For a while the singing stopped, and then Noah took it up again, timing his rake to the rhythm he set, his sons following suit. The scythe sliced hay smoothly, and Shay silently thanked whoever had spent long moments with a stone, sharpening its blade. The men surrounding him worked as a team, apparently accepting his presence.
Shay thought of those he’d known, worked with, played poker with, then ridden away from during the past years. All the while heading back to where he’d lived as a boy. The ranch in Kansas had been the latest stopping place. Until circumstances had sent him on his way, and he was once more traveling. Finally with purpose.
It was time, he’d decided. Time to face the past, time to find the woman and child Carl Pennington had spoken of. Maybe time to finally heed Carl’s plea. He’d never agreed
to his friend’s request, but those dying words had haunted him for too long.
Now, whatever he could do to help Carl’s wife, whether it be by the sweat of his brow, or the gold in his pocket, he’d do his best. The thought of Jenny, copper hair shimmering in the sunlight, brown eyes soft against his scarred face, was enough to make him eager for suppertime to arrive. And that thought caught him up short.
He was here to help Carl’s widow, not take advantage of her. It would be easy to look on her as an available woman. Honesty nudged him to admit he already had. She might be available, but not to a man like Shay. He’d soiled his hands beyond redemption, and touching Jenny Pennington…His body hardened at the thought, and he swung the scythe with a jerk, spoiling the rhythm he’d set. It hit the ground and vibrated in his hand, and he halted, lifting his face to the sun, closing his eyes against the radiance.
She was there, burned into his memory, waving locks of hair tempting his fingers, gentle eyes melting his defenses. And scattered across the fabric of her dress, luring his gaze to the curves defining her breasts, were tears she’d shed for Carl Pennington.
Chapter Two
Giving the man run of her house was not wise. Even as Jenny heard his boots on the curving staircase, she knew she’d probably made a mistake. True, his chosen room was on the second floor, and her own was the old library near the front door. Also true was the fact he’d offered to sleep in the barn.
To which she’d demurred. It was not proper to send a gentleman to sleep in the hayloft when perfectly good rooms were standing empty in the house. Even if those rooms were stripped bare of furnishings and cold during the short months of winter. He wouldn’t be here that long anyway, she comforted herself.
Standing at the foot of the curved staircase, she cocked her head to listen as his footsteps moved on down the uncarpeted hallway upstairs, and stopped. Not the master suite, she decided, with a sitting room attached. She backed up a bit, peering past the balcony, seeking a glimpse of his tall figure. The only rooms that far down the corridor were the smaller bedchambers, designed for children, yet it seemed he’d chosen one of them for his own.
The Seduction of Shay Devereaux Page 2