Jake had never played for a more receptive audience. He usually only pulled out the harmonica when he was alone. He’d received it from an uncle when he was thirteen, had mastered the notes quickly, and just as quickly delegated the instrument to the box in his chifforobe where he kept useless bits of his childhood. An aggie he’d thought at one time had magical powers, a musketball he’d found while visiting cousins near Yorktown (he was certain it was the last shot fired in the Revolutionary War), a rabbit’s foot from an albino rabbit. Occasionally he’d take out his treasures, and never failed to give the harmonica a workout.
But then he’d gone North to school, leaving the harmonica in Richmond. When he married Lydia and moved to his own house, the box went with him. But his new wife wasn’t partial to the sound, and after Andrew was born, she’d been afraid the noise would wake him. And Jake had been busy with his medical practice—too busy to indulge in childish habits like sitting in a quiet corner and letting the music seep into him.
He’d almost left it behind. When he joined the Army of Virginia, his bags were packed and he’d said his good-byes to Lydia and little Andrew. And suddenly he’d thought of his harmonica stashed in his treasure box. Taking the stairs three at a time he found it, slipped it in his pocket, and rode off to war.
He regretted a lot of things over those four long years, but never bringing the harmonica.
Jake tapped the harmonica in his palm. The last strains of “My Old Kentucky Home” still hung in the air. Will was sitting, elbows on table, chin in hand, waiting. Samantha leaned back in her chair, her eyes dreamy, her soft lips tilted in a smile. She stayed that way, her breathing soft, the pulse quivering just above where her collar buttoned beneath the hollow of her neck. Then her eyes focused and locked with his, and she jerked ramrod straight in the chair.
“That was very nice,” she observed, hastily retrieving her sewing and trying to appear busy.
“It was great!” Will chimed in, and Samantha admitted her brother’s assessment was closer to the truth. “Play something else.”
Jake shrugged. “I’m afraid that’s about all I know.”
“But Jake—”
“Willy,” Samantha interrupted, then bit her bottom lip. Hadn’t she decided to stop mothering her brother so much? She searched her mind for something to say to take the sting from her reprimand. Then found she didn’t have to. The rebel picked up the copy of Moby Dick from the table.
“Who’s reading this?”
Will made a face that eloquently said what he thought of the novel. “I am,” he grumbled, his accusing eyes trained on Samantha. Had she thought this subject would be better?
“It’s one of my favorites,” Jake said, turning to the fly page.
“You like reading?” Will was obviously struck by disbelief.
“What?” Jake glanced up from perusing the page. Most of his books had been destroyed when Richmond burned. The ones left, those at his parents’ house, he’d packed up and put into storage when he started West. He hadn’t realized until now how much he missed them... even his medical volumes. “Yeah, I like to read.”
“But reading’s for sissies.”
“Will!” Why had she decided to stop mothering him? He needed mothering! At least he needed his manners corrected. Samantha dropped her sewing to tell him so, but the rebel’s laughter cut her off.
“Sissies, huh.” Jake rubbed his chin, his eyes meeting Samantha’s. She could see the humor shining in the clear green depths. “Guess I must be a sissy then.”
“Naw,” Will objected. “You ain’t no sissy.”
“I don’t know.” Jake leaned back in his chair. The wood creaked above the sound of the storm. Again his gaze found Samantha. “I must be because I sure like to read.”
Will was speechless. His mouth gaped open. It was no secret to Samantha that Will had made the rebel into some kind of hero. And now he was left wondering. One thing for certain, Samantha had to agree with her brother. Jacob Morgan was no sissy. She imagined Will would come to the same conclusion. In the meantime, she’d give them all something to do.
“I’m going to make some tea,” she said standing. “Would anyone like a piece of leftover pie from supper?”
Jake looked up at her. The apple pie from supper was some of the best he’d ever had. He was surprised there was any left. He’d thought he’d eaten all of it. He told Samantha as much and smiled at her blush. She wasn’t nearly as tough as she liked to make him think.
“Hey, Jake.” Will forced Jake’s attention away from watching the Lowery woman prepare tea. “You really like this book?”
“Sure do.” Jake picked it up again. “You ever read it?”
Will rolled his eyes toward his sister. His voice low, he admitted. “She read it to me, and now she’s trying to get me to do it.”
Jake kept his tone conspiratorial. “Does she listen to you?”
Will nodded. “Like a teacher. I’m too old for school.”
Jake shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. But in any case, how about if you read to me.”
“Now?”
“No. Tomorrow when we’re working. We’ll take turns reading Moby Dick to each other. All right?” Jake’s brow rose quizzically.
“All right.”
Samantha sliced a piece of pie for Will. Did they really think she couldn’t hear them? Samantha considered turning and informing the two males sitting at her table that they weren’t pulling a thing on her, but she didn’t. She wanted Will to read... to enjoy reading. And the Rebel was doing more to accomplish that than she ever could. She angled her knife to the left, cutting him off a larger hunk of pie than she’d originally planned.
By the time they finished eating, the storm’s fury had abated. No longer did the wind howl or the rain pelt the roof overhead. Samantha stood gathering up the dishes. “The roof held,” she said, smiling up at Jake, who’d followed her to the dry sink. “It’s the first time in over a year we haven’t had to place pots around on the floor.” She could give the devil his due. But when he was standing close to her like this, he didn’t seem much like a devil—though he sure could tempt her.
“Good.” What was it about this woman that had him constantly wanting to kiss her? Even now with her hands wrist deep in dishwater and her brother sitting five feet away, he had the strong urge to pull her into his arms.
Well, he had no intentions of making the same mistake he’d made last night. He’d stay one more day—as they agreed—then he’d ride off and never give Samantha Lowery another thought.
With that intention firm in his mind, Jake turned on his heel and left the cabin—in his stocking feet.
Chapter Seven
“I won’t do it, and that’s final!” Samantha gave her brother a determined look before bending down to pluck a ripe prickly pear. Thoughts of its sweet, strawberry flavor made her mouth water as she placed it carefully in the burlap bag tied at her waist.
She’d risen early that morning and had decided to go on a search for the wild fruit. Why she suddenly had the urge to pick fruit today, she wasn’t sure, but it had nothing to do with avoiding the Rebel. She was certain of that.
A little solitude was all she was after. A chance to think. But apparently that wasn’t to be. As soon as she started out of the cabin, with a hasty word to her brother about her destination, he fell into step beside her.
He was still there.
“Give me one good reason,” Will persisted.
Samantha took a deep breath in an attempt to calm herself. It didn’t help. Turning on her brother, she glared at him from beneath her straw bonnet. “I can give you lots of reasons. But all you need to know is that I am not going to ask Jacob Morgan to stay on.”
“But Sam—”
“No arguments, Will.” Samantha went back to picking prickly pears, but she should have known she hadn’t heard the last from her brother.
“We need someone to help us with the corn.”
He had a point there. The cornfield had
rows standing straight and tall as sentinels. Samantha had checked it this morning. She’d smiled at the sight of their hard work come to fruition. Water droplets left over from last night’s rain had sparkled like prisms in the early morning sun.
But though she and Will would need help to harvest the crop, it wasn’t going to be the Rebel. “I’ll talk to Jim Farley when I take Peggy Keane’s dress into town. You remember him from last year.”
“And you said he was slow as molasses in January.”
Why did Will have to pick now to have a good memory? “Well, we got the job done, and that’s what counts.”
“Sam...”
“Will!” Samantha gathered the bag shut, deciding she’d had more than enough fruit picking for one day. “Captain Morgan is leaving today or tomorrow.”
“I know.” Will followed her up the path. “I heard you two talking last night after I went to bed.”
Samantha paused. “Then you know he already has his plans made.”
“He might change his mind if you talked to him.”
“I don’t think so.”
“But he might.”
“Willy, I’m getting very tired of this. We won’t discuss it anymore.” They climbed the slight rise the cabin was built on, and Samantha continued on through the door, leaving her brother kicking at a clod of dirt. She pretended not to, but there was no way she could miss his last grumbled words.
“He wouldn’t be so anxious to leave if you were nicer to him.”
Well, this was as nice as she was going to get, Samantha decided, slamming the door behind her. Maybe he wasn’t one of Landis Moore’s men—though she wasn’t absolutely convinced of his innocence—but he was still a Rebel soldier.
He was still just passing through, and the faster he got on with it, the better.
But Will would miss him. Samantha sighed. She needed to be more understanding toward her brother. As surly as the Rebel was toward her, he’d been wonderful with Will. It was obvious Will liked him, and it was probably more than a matter of hero worship.
Her brother needed a man’s influence. He needed to be around a man. But all he had was her. And there wasn’t a thing she could do about it.
Samantha spent the rest of the day close to the house. She went to the garden once to pick the tomatoes bent close to the ground with their heavy ripeness. But the rest of the time she worked on Peggy Keane’s dress. She’d promised to have it finished by the end of the week, and if she didn’t keep at it, she’d miss the deadline sure.
Too much time had been spent taking care of the rebel, Samantha decided. Caring and thinking about him, she amended honestly. But no more. She and Will needed the cash money she earned from her sewing, and she couldn’t afford not to live up to her end of the bargain.
But more times than she could count, Samantha found her gaze straying from the purple silk toward the window. She’d lifted the stretched cotton to let in the air and allow her more light. Even though breezes sang through the wild sunflowers and riffled through the cottonwood leaves, the day was uncomfortably warm. As if wiped away by the storm, no clouds filtered the sun. It burned large and bright in the cerulean sky.
The Rebel worked on the barn roof. There weren’t enough shakes to cover the entire structure, but apparently he decided a patch job was better than none at all.
In deference to the heat, he’d removed his shirt. There was no doubt about it, he’d gained some weight. That slightly hollow-cheeked, gaunt look he’d had when he first came was gone. His chest was fuller, the ribs less pronounced. His body was bigger, brawnier.
Samantha snorted. What could she expect the way he ate? She took a few stitches in the ruching around the collar of the gown, then let her eyes stray back to him. She couldn’t begrudge him his appetite. It wasn’t as if he was growing fleshy. To the contrary, his body looked whipcord lean, the muscles gleaming hard in the sunlight.
How long had he gone hungry to become as thin as he was before?
He paused to backhand sweat from his brow, and Samantha watched him lean toward the edge. He yelled down something she couldn’t hear, but when she allowed her gaze to stray from the Rebel, Samantha saw Will.
He straddled the fence, book in hand, and appeared to be reading out loud. Samantha couldn’t keep from smiling. Will most likely didn’t like it— Samantha imagined he’d much rather be on the roof helping the Rebel. But Jacob Morgan was keeping his word about the reading. And he’d keep his word about leaving too, Samantha decided.
Reluctantly she turned back to her sewing.
By late afternoon her back muscles burned from fatigue, but she was almost finished with the gown. All there was left to do was hem the voluptuous skirt. But for now she needed to start supper.
Taking the slab of beef off its hook near the stove, Samantha began slicing off steaks. Apparently Captain Morgan planned to wait till after the evening meal to leave so she cut off several more hunks of meat. She’d let him indulge in one more big meal before he rode away.
Goodness, she couldn’t understand why thoughts of him leaving bothered her. He was rude, angry most of the time, overbearing, and arrogant, and she should be happy and relieved that her association with him was almost over.
So what if he helped out around the farm. He owed her at least that much work for all the food she fed him. Samantha let her mind skim over the fact that she shot him. There was no way she would ask him to stay on. She’d pick every darn ear of corn herself before she gave in to Will’s suggestion. Grabbing up a potato, she started hacking away at the peel.
A noise outside made her glance through the window. Neither Jacob nor Will were in sight. They’d finished the barn roof and headed out to the cornfield. Will had dashed in to tell her earlier. As he ran out the door, she warned him about trying to talk Captain Morgan into staying.
Samantha shook her head. She expected them back before now. Her eyes strayed across the flat landscape and her fingers stilled, knife in midshave down a potato.
A column of dust spiraled into the air, and it was coming toward the farm... from town. She supposed it was possible for any number of folks to be visiting from Hager’s Flats, but Samantha couldn’t shake from her mind her last group of visitors.
By the time Samantha dropped the potato and wiped at her hands, she could make out a man on horseback. When she realized who it was, she hurried to the pie safe to retrieve Captain Morgan’s revolver.
Sticking it in her apron pocket, Samantha rushed to the door, throwing it open before Bundy Atwood could dismount. She didn’t want him thinking he was welcome.
“What are you doing here, Bundy?”
The man paused momentarily, his right foot kicking free of the stirrup, and stared at Samantha from beneath his hat, his eyes dark and brazen. Then he slid off the dun-colored gelding. After giving his reins a negligent toss toward the fence, he sauntered toward the porch. “Now is that any way to greet an old friend, Samantha?”
“You’re no friend of mine, Bundy Atwood. And I want you off my property.”
Atwood braced his boot on the porch step. “Now I can remember a time you were right anxious for me to come calling.”
She didn’t answer him, but the awful truth was, she could too. He’d been new in the territory, handsome in a slicked-back, pretty sort of way. At least she’d thought so at the time. He’d visited the farm often. At first it was Luke he’d professed to be visiting, but after the third time he’d made it clear that Samantha was the reason for his frequent trips from town.
And Samantha was thrilled. She was a shy, inexperienced seventeen when he’d started courting. She hung on his every word, though later she couldn’t imagine what he’d said that was so interesting. But she’d planned their life together.
When she first heard rumors that he was riding with Landis Moore, she couldn’t believe it. They’d never really talked of politics, but Samantha was confident he had abolitionist sentiments like she did. After all, he came from Pennsylvania.
&n
bsp; But when she dared to ask him about it, he laughed in her face. He didn’t give a damn about some darkie living in Mississippi, and he didn’t want her thinking about it either. And as for Landis Moore, he was only trying to see that honest white men had the right to bring slaves into Kansas if they wanted.
He grabbed her when she started to walk away from him. She thought for too long about her father’s lectures on the evils of slavery not to have strong feelings on the subject. But Bundy didn’t seem to care how she felt. When she protested he shook her, then grabbed her up for a fierce kiss.
She’d always enjoyed the kisses he stole before. They were so sweet and pleasant. But what he did to her that day wasn’t. Her lip split from the pressure of his teeth, and she gagged as he forced his tongue into her mouth. She fought and scratched and earned herself an ear-ringing smack for her efforts. But he let her go, with a warning that she better get used to things the way they were because he’d be back.
She refused to see him, sending a bewildered Luke to give Bundy the message the next time he called. She didn’t tell Luke why she was breaking it off with his friend. She was too embarrassed. But when Bundy refused to take no for an answer, coming by, again and again, and finally catching Samantha alone, she hadn’t needed to explain.
Luke returned from the fields, a towheaded Will by his side, in time to see Bundy tackle Samantha from behind as she ran from him. Bundy’s fist was raised above Samantha’s face, but he never landed the blow.
Luke grabbed Bundy by the neck and came close to strangling him before Samantha could pull him off. Bundy had ridden off with a warning never to return and an expression on his face that made Samantha’s blood run cold.
The war started not long after that. Atwood and Moore were rumored to be with Quantrill in Missouri. But Samantha saw Moore’s men one other time in 1861. The night they came for her father. She didn’t know for sure if Bundy was with them. But she knew she didn’t want him here now.
Christine Dorsey Page 11