Straight For The Heart

by Canham, Marsha

  Montana simply glared and did not offer comment.

  “I suppose my question is, what kind of a temper does he have?”

  “What possible business is it of yours?”

  “None whatsoever,” he admitted with a twist of a smile. “Yet I can’t help feeling mildly responsible for what happened.”

  “Why? You won the hand fairly.”

  Tarrington laughed softly. “My dear Montana Rose: My flush was about as honest as your three aces. If you were half the card player I was given to believe you were, you should have known that. Moreover, you should have seen it coming.”

  “You cheated?”

  His grin was broad enough to smooth out the dark fur of his moustache and reveal a gleam of strong white teeth. “I prefer to call it protecting my interests.”

  “Call it what you want,” she protested in amazement. “It’s still cheating.”

  “So is shaving kings and queens with your thumbnail, or dealing twos and threes off the bottom of the deck, or accidentally dropping an extra ace onto your lap.”

  Montana opened her mouth for an immediate denial, but she saw a muscle flicker in the hard angle of his jaw and she knew he was not so perfectly composed as he would have had her believe. He was angry—furious, to judge by the jeweled gleam in his eyes. He was also far too big, too proficient with the Remington he wore beneath the long skirt of his coat, and too damned close for comfort.

  “I … had no choice,” she admitted brokenly. “I had to do what I did.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me.”

  She started to moisten her lips and when she saw his eyes drop to follow the movement of her tongue, she knew suddenly that his anger wasn’t all caused by her chicanery with the cards. He was still prickly from her curt dismissal of his supper invitation and belligerent because he now knew why.

  “When I lose,” she said evenly, “my … escort … becomes very angry indeed.”

  “Are you saying he beats you?”

  She bowed her head and lowered her lashes as if the weight of such a confession was too much to bear. She ran her tongue across her lips again, leaving them shiny and wet, and, for added poignancy, drew a deep enough breath to send his gaze—if it was not there already—to the creamy smooth half moons of her breasts where they swelled over the scalloped edge of her bodice.

  “Believe me,” she whispered, “I did not want to … to …”

  “Cheat,” he supplied dryly.

  “To protect my interests, but there was so much money at stake, and I knew … if I won it … he would … well … he would leave me alone tonight.”

  Tarrington watched her in silence. The tears were there, gathering along the lower fringe of her lashes, glistening like droplets of liquid silver. No doubt they would make the blue of her eyes almost too painful for a man to endure without feeling his insides melt into a sorry, self-deprecating puddle. And here they come, he thought. Brace yourself, lad.

  So much time had lapsed without a response of any kind, Montana risked a glance up at him through her lashes. He was just standing there with the devil’s own arrogance stamped on his face, not the least affected by her tears or her misery, not even by the breathtaking view he had down the front of her bodice.

  “Having already complimented you once tonight on a flawless performance,” he murmured, “isn’t it rather shameless of you to try it again?”

  Montana’s eyes widened. “Whatever do you mean, sir?”

  “I mean—” He tucked his forefinger under her chin and tilted her face up, bending his own dark head so that their mouths were only a mere inch or two apart. “You’re a very good actress, but I’m not buying it. Not the contrition, not the quiver in the voice. The tears are a nice touch, but I grew up in a household ruled by five sisters and a mother who could turn their water on and off like spigots whenever they wanted to weasel something from the men in the family. So I would suggest you drop the act or I may just be tempted to beat you myself.”

  “I don’t doubt you would,” she said through her teeth.

  “On the other hand”—his grip turned into more of a caress than a restraint and his voice became a husky invitation—“if you really wanted to muddy up my mind with other thoughts, you could so something far more inventive with that lovely mouth of yours than sulk.”

  She lowered her gaze a fraction and it was no longer the smoldering gray of his eyes that held her, but the suggestive closeness of his lips. “I could, could I?”

  Instead of answering, he drew her against the hard contours of his body, molding her to him in a way that made her aware of the potent energy he possessed in every muscle, bone, and sinew. She felt crushable. Crushed. And as she watched his mouth descend toward her, she could not help but wonder how many other women he had bent to his will.

  The kiss was just a fleeting thing, a teasing brush of his lips to give her the taste and promise of his heat. His moustache tickled and she was not sure she liked the sensation. It smelled of tobacco as well, and whiskey, and it was easy for her to remain detached even as he nibbled here and there as a prelude, she imagined, to a bolder conquest.

  He must have felt her eyes watching him, for he leaned back and met her gaze with wry amusement.

  “It would be more enjoyable if we both participated.”

  “I imagine it would be more enjoyable,” she murmured, “if I were kissing the hind end of a goat.”

  If her words, or the honest sentiment behind them, startled him, Tarrington’s laugh gave no indication. He released her and straightened to his full height, then, while she watched in wary silence, he pulled out his fattened billfold and started counting out a sheaf of greenbacks.

  “Here. This is the amount you came with—five hundred, I believe, or near enough. Maybe your partner won’t be quite so angry with you if you break even on the night. Go on, take it. And next time, save your acting abilities for someone who does all of his thinking from between his legs.”

  Montana’s temper flared hotly in her cheeks as she took an enraged step back. “How dare you! I do not want your charity, nor do I need your sympathy! And I wouldn’t take your filthy Yankee money if it was the difference between life and death! It is satisfaction enough for me to know you had to cheat to win it from me. As for what you have between your legs, sir, I warrant you’ve had far better actresses than me beneath you wishing you could think a little more and boast a little less.”

  She started to dart past him and almost made it when his hand snaked out, skidding across her bodice before finally catching a solid hold on the edge of her sleeve. She twisted sideways against his grip and his fingers slipped again, but before he could make a second grab for her, she lashed out with a sharply heeled shoe and kicked him savagely on the shin.

  Tarrington swore and jerked back to avoid the subsequent flurry of small, bunched fists. By the time he recovered his balance, she was free and running along the deck. He took a step to follow but she was already swallowed into the shadows—shadows that may or may not have been concealing her mysterious “escort.”

  He cursed again, fluently and graphically, and leaned against the deck rail. His shin stung like someone was holding a lit torch against it, and sure enough, when he looked down to assess the damage, the fabric of his trouser leg was torn, the edges darkening with blood.

  He was still clutching his billfold in his hand, and it was while he was replacing it in his jacket pocket and searching out his handkerchief that he saw the bright glint of gold lying on the oak planking. It was a locket. Her locket, he was maliciously pleased to discover, probably torn loose when she had erupted like a she-cat. He snatched it off the deck and snapped the two halves open, but the portraits of the man and woman inside offered no clues to the identity of the owner.

  He did have a sudden image, however, of long slender fingers caressing the warmth of the gold, brushing over the stylized M for luck.

  “What
a shame,” he murmured. “I wonder how you’ll manage now without it.”

  His fist closed around the locket and he was about to throw it over the side, but something made him hold back at the last moment. The locket and the broken chain went into his pocket instead, tucked there with a muttered promise.

  “I haven’t finished with you yet, Montana Rose. Not by a long shot.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  With Alisha’s wedding day fast approaching, the Courtland family had moved into the graceful, white-columned splendor of Baron von Helmstaad’s residence. The plantation itself was less than a quarter the size of Rosalie, but it was far enough from the river to avoid the devastating floods that had played havoc with other farms. So where others were failing, Summitcrest was as prosperous as it had been before the war.

  The baron’s wealth, like his title, was inherited. He had remained in Europe during the war and had come to the “colonies” only in order to oversee the restructuring of the family business. He did not know the difference between a boll of cotton and a milkweed pod, nor did he care to learn. He was content to keep his land well groomed and the house freshly whitewashed, and the fact that he was soon to acquire a vivacious and lovely young wife to help him entertain in the extravagantly European style he so woefully missed ... well, it was the nearest thing to bliss he could imagine.

  The Courtlands were ensconced in a private wing of the house (tucked away in a back corner, William had grumbled) where Alisha refused to allow the baron even the slightest glimpse of her. Not because of superstitions or tradition, but because she was far too busy taking inventory of her future domain. She gave the two dozen servants a taste of what was to come, ordering fresh flowers for every room each day and cheerful fires in every hearth to ward off the last traces of mustiness and damp in the unused furniture. Silverware was polished to a rich glow. Everything that was not scrubbed or scoured was set out to air and beaten to within an inch of ruination to remove the dust. Mountains of food were prepared and stored in the pantries; chickens were killed and plucked, the suckling pigs were spitted and salted and readied for the enormous cookfires that would be built in a trench at the side of the house.

  The weather appeared to be cooperating. Four straight days of scorching sunshine had worked hard to undo some of the damage of the rain. For the first time in many weeks there was dust rising off the roads. A stiff breeze in the afternoons helped to chase the swarms of glutted mosquitoes and horseflies across the river; bonfires and smudge pots were lit at night to keep them there.

  Amanda busied herself in the kitchen, helping Mercy prepare the stews and gumbos that were foreign fare to the baron and his people, but staples in a Southerner’s diet. By the end of the day, her tongue burned from testing sauces and her hands were red from shelling shrimp and crawfish, and she felt a personal, grudging dislike for each and every one of the hundred and fifty guests invited.

  “I never thought this day would end.” Ryan sighed, joining her on the wide, shaded porch to share a cool glass of lemonade and watch the sun dipping below the rim of trees. “There’s the proof, however. Now, if we can just get through tomorrow’s wedding with our sanity and our backs intact …”

  Amanda laughed and kneaded a knot of muscles high on his back, earning an appreciative groan in response. “Look on the bright side. We’ll be eating leftover chicken for a month and have enough ham and eggs to send Mercy into ecstasies.”

  “It’s not worth it,” he grumbled, and hung his head forward so her fingers could work their magic on his neck. “And I still don’t know why I had to be here. I haven’t done anything any one of a dozen of von Helmstaad’s lackeys couldn’t have done. I should be back at Rosalie. I should be—”

  “You should be quiet and endure, like the rest of us,” Amanda interrupted. “And you’re here to look handsome and be charming, and to keep a certain ragamuffin I know from getting under everyone’s feet.”

  Ryan followed Amanda’s glance to where Verity was playing under the drooping arms of an old cypress tree nearby. She had been “helping” her uncle Ryan all afternoon, keeping him company on his errands to town, hunting out berries for Mercy’s pies and tarts, searching for the prettiest wild-flowers to weave into her hair in the morning. Her pinafore was streaked with dust and grime, as usual. Her hair was a tumble of tight yellow curls that would undoubtedly take hours to untangle before bedtime.

  Amanda smiled and rested her cheek on Ryan’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For loving her so much,” she said softly. “She doesn’t really have anyone else in her life she can look up to, and I know how hard it is for you to play uncle and father and hero all rolled into one.”

  “You neglected to mention mud pie specialist and personal pony,” he added wryly.“And it isn’t my fault she doesn’t have anyone else to look up to.”

  Amanda sighed and straightened. She hadn’t told Ryan the details about her confrontation with Josh in the summer-house, only that they had they had both come to the conclusion they were better suited as friends than lovers. Ryan had had that look in his eye, however, as if he suspected there was more to it, but Amanda had remained adamant. There was already enough tension between her sister and brother; something like this might cause an irreparable break.

  “Have you seen Dianna lately?” she asked, steering the conversation away from herself. “Do you know if she and the Judge are coming tomorrow?”

  “Mmmm.”

  “Is that mmmm you have seen her, or mmmm they are coming?”

  He stalled a little by draining his glass of lemonade before answering. “I saw her in town this morning, and yes, both she and her father will be coming.”

  “Then why such an overwhelming display of enthusiasm? I would have thought you’d be happy they made it back from Fayette in time.”

  “I’m happy,” he muttered, and looked away.

  “Positively thrilled, I can see.” She craned her neck forward and her frown deepened when she saw the expression on his face. “Ryan? What is it? What’s wrong?”

  He sighed again and set his empty glass down on the step beside him. “She also told me some news about her Yankee friend.”

  “Who …? Oh.”

  “Yes, oh. It seems he wasn’t just here sniffing around her skirts. It seems he has also been sniffing around for land investments. He bought the Porterfields’ out. All forty thousand acres.”

  “The Glen?” Amanda gasped. “A Yankee bought Briar Glen?”

  “Several weeks ago.” He nodded glumly. “I guess the family wanted to keep it quiet as long as they could.”

  Amanda’s shock was justified. The Glen was the biggest estate in southern Mississippi. By comparison, Rosalie was a farm and Summitcrest a homestead. She had not known the Porterfields were in such desperate straits to have had to sell the home their ancestors had lived in for generations—and to a Yankee no less! It must have broken what was left of poor Emma Porterfield’s heart, for she’d lost her husband and both sons in the war.

  “Oh, Ryan,” she whispered. “How awful. About everything.”

  He refused to meet her eyes. He watched Verity playing in the grass, her face twisted with concentration as she tried desperately and stubbornly to overcome the disadvantage of uncoordinated little fingers and uncooperative flower stems that refused to weave together the way her uncle had shown her.

  Ryan’s face reflected a similar desperation and helplessness, and Amanda’s heart wrenched in sympathy. Why was everything going so horribly wrong? she wondered. Why could no one in this family be happy? Ryan’s strength was not bottomless, and her own, goodness only knew, was on the verge of collapse.

  “Maybe she is only keeping company with him to make you jealous,” she suggested half-heartedly. “After all, a girl can only be patient for so long before she feels she has to take matters into her own hands.”

  “Dianna isn’t the type to play games. And even if she was, how could I possibly go
to her now? I have nothing. By the end of next week, I’ll have less than nothing.”

  Amanda bit her lip. “Have you tried talking to Wainright again?”

  “Hat in hand,” he spat. “I groveled so low I almost made myself puke.”

  “He wouldn’t extend the deadline on the loan?”

  “He wouldn’t extend me a glass of water when I was choking on my pride.”

  Amanda’s teeth drew blood. “Have you thought of … of asking Karl? After all, he will be part of the family tomorrow.”

  Ryan snorted derisively. “I didn’t have to ask him. While I was discreetly leading up to the subject, he voiced his sentiments in no uncertain terms. ’Never do it,’ he said. ’Never loan money to relatives. Never get it back, don’t you know. Besides that: develops character. Strengthens a man’s resolve if he struggles through a failure now and then.’”

  Amanda’s shoulders slumped a little further. “And I don’t imagine Alisha would ever consider lifting a finger to try to change his opinion. The more he gave us, the less she would have to spend.”

  She heard no argument from Ryan. Alisha did not even know—or care to know—how much they were in debt. She would probably look on the loss of Rosalie as a godsend, for she had come to associate the plantation with poverty and ruin.

  Ruin, loss, and abject poverty aside, Verity approached her mother and uncle with by far the worst calamity of all. Her lower lip had all but disappeared into the bow of her upper and her chin was rigid with the effort it was taking not to give way to tears. She walked right up the short flight of steps and threw herself into Ryan’s arms, burying her face in his shoulder, curling her hands tightly around his neck.

  “Whoa, now. What seems to be the problem here?” he asked.

  Two huge blue eyes looked up at him with the forlorn despair of a cherub given the responsibility of holding up the entire Sistine Chapel. She brought one of her fists down from his shoulder and showed him the tangle of crushed and broken flowers she held.