Hot Southern Nights

by Patt Bucheister

  "Is that how you became interested in the bat-tie of Fredericksburg, from reading the doctor's diary?"

  "You're changing the subject."

  "Yes. Are you going to answer the question?"

  "I might as well. I have a feeling you'll keep nagging me until I do."

  "Probably."

  He smiled. "I had a grandmother who lived in Atlanta, Georgia. Her family was born, wed, bred, and died on southern soil, as she used to say. She still took the burning of Atlanta personally, and that happened way before she was born."

  Brett nodded in understanding. "My grandmother used to point out the hoofprint on a wardrobe door from a Yankee horse. The door had been torn off so the wardrobe could be used as a horse trough."

  "I suppose there are a lot of stories like ours," Sam said. "Whenever I visited my grandmother, she would tell me stories of the Civil War and show me a trunk full of artifacts."

  "Was the doctor's diary in the trunk?"

  He shook his head. "I found the diary along with a bag of medical instruments in a museum in Atlanta."

  "His name wasn't Dr. Meade, was it?" she asked.

  It took Sam a few seconds to make the connection. "Documentaries aren't the only kind of movies you see."

  "I read the book too. Gone With the Wind was my mother's favorite book."

  "Do you remember the scene in the movie in the railroad yard with all the wounded men as far as the eye could see?"

  "Of course."

  "I want to show the brutal reality of war by doing several explicit scenes of wounded soldiers waiting to be treated at Maddox Hill. The dramatic impact of uniformed men lying on the ground in large numbers will get the point across much more powerfully than cold statistics."

  Brett could easily imagine the scenes he described and felt a twinge of guilt. She didn't like knowing she could be responsible for preventing his vision from being seen.

  Sam continued his explanation. "We can't duplicate the exterior of the house on a soundstage or on other land, simply because our budget doesn't stretch that far. But if one of our people leaves so much as a scratch on the floor in your house, it will be repaired. I'll put it in the contract. The tourists who stomp through the place probably do more damage than we would."

  "But you would use the name of the plantation in your documentary, which would draw national attention to it."

  "Of course." Sam's gaze never left her face, even though her attention was on the towel and not on him as she folded it and draped it over the rack by the sink. "The plantation was part of the history of the battle," he went on. "President Lincoln went to Chatham to visit the wounded Union soldiers there, and I'm going to include that." Something in the hesitant way she looked at him made him ask, "Why does publicity bother you? It's not as though Maddox Hill is a big secret. The plantation is open to the public year-round. Anyone who wants to see it can. I'll just be presenting it to a wider audience."

  Brett walked back to the refrigerator to take out more candy. Once she had emptied the molds, she prepared them to be filled again. All the while she did not speak to him, did not even look at him.

  Sam watched her. Was publicity all she was against? he wondered. Then why did she have the place open to the public if she didn't want people to know about it?

  She took a deep breath and finally turned to face him. "I can't think of a way to say this that isn't insulting, so you'll have to take my word for it that I don't mean it that way."

  "You've got my attention."

  "You have to be aware that everything you do tends to draw attention from the media. Whether it's because of the Emmy you won or the celebrity women you've been involved with, it doesn't make any difference. The fact that what you do will end up in the newspapers, and possibly on television, is why I don't want you using Maddox Hill in your film."

  Of all the reasons she could have given, Sam expected that one the least.

  "Let me see if I have this right," he said. "You don't mind if a few people know about the plantation and tramp around the grounds, but you don't want national attention directed at your property. Is that about it?"

  "Close enough."

  He was no nearer to understanding than he'd been. "Do you mind telling me why?"

  She met his gaze directly. "Yes, I do mind. It's private and personal and, frankly, none of your business."

  He closed the distance between them in two strides. "That's where you're wrong. Filming Maddox Hill Plantation is my business."

  "That's not true. You aren't going to film there."

  Sam had seen steel beams more pliable than she was. "What can I do or say that will change your mind?"

  "Nothing."

  "You said earlier that you would think about allowing us to use the grounds. Am I wrong in assuming you've decided against that too?"

  "After looking at that option from several angles, I decided it wouldn't be a good idea."

  She started to turn away, but Sam grasped her arm to keep her in front of him. She looked down at his hand on her arm, then raised her gaze to meet his.

  "Is it so hard for you to accept that you can't have everything you want?" she asked.

  "I can accept it, but I don't have to like it. What's going on, Red? Why don't you want attention drawn to the plantation? If you give me a good enough reason, I'll back off."

  She shook her head. "I told you, it's personal. I'm not obligated to tell you anything." She tugged her arm out of his grip and walked out of the workroom.

  By the time Sam had followed her to the front of the store, Brett was unlocking the door. Frustration clawed at his insides, mixing with fierce arousal as he saw her standing proud and stubborn beside the open door.

  Smiling faintly at the defiant tilt of her chin, Sam approached her. He placed one hand on the door over his head and leaned toward her. "You realize I haven't given up, don't you?"

  "I wish you would," she said quietly. "It would save both of us a great deal of time and aggravation, and my answer will be the same."

  "We'll see," he said, then surprising both of them, he bent his head and kissed her.

  He had meant only to give in to the desire to find out how she tasted, but she opened her mouth to object at the exact moment his lips touched hers, and he slipped his tongue inside. In only a few seconds the kiss changed from casual to intense. Sam could feel her heart thudding heavily against his chest. Or was it his own responding to the heated intimacy of her mouth?

  He felt himself sinking into a sea of passion that threatened to drown his good intentions. Whatever they had been. He was finding it difficult to think coherently. Her response drove him to drag her hips against his hard frame, the pleasure almost more than he could bear when he felt her soft tummy pressing against his aroused body.

  Brett's fingers curled into the front of his shirt as she fell into the passionate kiss, naked longing momentarily overriding her wariness.

  When she felt his hand gliding up her rib cage under her shirt, she broke away and stepped back. "That wasn't necessary," she said with difficulty, breathing in deep gasps of air to replenish her starved lungs.

  "I think it was," he said, his voice rough with desire.

  Sam wanted to reach out for her again. His body was taut with unsatisfied need and his mouth was moist from hers.

  "Don't make things more complicated than they already are, Sam," she pleaded.

  Hearing his name on her lips had him reaching for her again.

  She shook her head. "Don't."

  "I'm not giving up, Red."

  "I know."

  He lifted his hand to run a single finger down the side of her face. Smiling slowly, he continued to look at her, then turned and walked out of the shop.

  He still wanted Maddox Hill Plantation, but now he wanted her too. Possibly even more. And certainly for different reasons.

  FOUR

  By noon the following day, Brett was fed up with hearing about Sam's film company. She was especially fed up with the subject o
f the attractive director, who had half the women in town getting their hair fixed and finding excuses to be wherever the crew and Sam went. The other half of the female population was under age thirteen and not interested in drop-dead-gorgeous looks and tight jeans hugging a firm male bottom.

  Brett had spent a restless night with very little sleep, and all morning she hadn't been able to think of much of anything but Sam and the sensual kiss they'd shared. So she was most definitely not in the mood to chat with her customers about Sam Horne and his entourage's present location in the area.

  It didn't help that her assistant working in the shop that day belonged to one of the reenactment groups that had volunteered to be part of the documentary. Brett had to listen to Myra rattle on and on about the friendly producer and the handsome director and what a fantastic opportunity they were being given to be part of an historic undertaking.

  During a lull of customers in the shop, Myra continued her saga about meeting the director and the producer that morning. "Mr. Horne should be in front of the camera instead of behind it. The way he described some of the action scenes made us feel like we were right there. You could almost smell the gunpowder and hear the cannon fire while he was talking."

  "Mr. Horne is a regular spellbinder," Brett drawled, unable to praise the man who was responsible for her getting very little rest during the night.

  "Isn't he, though?" Myra said, taking Brett's comment seriously.

  Brett smiled as she looked at her assistant. A plump woman in her midthirties, Myra Overton was comfortably married with twin boys, Stuart and Brent, who owned two dogs, one cat, a rabbit, and five hamsters. Myra could still find the time to appreciate an attractive male when she came across one. Brett couldn't fault her for enjoying the view. Men like Sam Horne didn't come around every day of the week.

  In an attempt to get the subject away from the man—he was staying in her mind far too much anyway—Brett asked, "Are you all going to camp out in tents during the filming?"

  "Bivouac."

  "Excuse me?"

  "We bivouac, not camp out. Some of the men will throw down, but we're to set up A-tents for the garrison."

  "Throw down?" Brett repeated in amusement.

  "It's when the soldiers throw down their blanket onto the ground to sit, sleep, and eat on."

  "I remember the last occasion when you, Pete, and the boys spent time out in the woods overnight. You came back with a raving case of poison oak."

  "That won't happen this time. Mr. Horne said he wants me to be tending the injured soldiers brought to Maddox Hill after the battle at the Sunken Road. Clara Barton and Walt Whitman were at Chatham with the Union wounded, but the Confederates brought to Maddox Hill Plantation will have Myra Overton." She had been smiling as she shared her excitement until she saw Brett's frown. "What's wrong? If you're worried about me taking too much time off, Mr. Horne said I'll only be in a couple of scenes."

  Brett shook her head. "It isn't that. Did you say you met with Mr. Horne and his producer this morning?"

  "At breakfast in the dining room of the hotel where they're staying."

  "You're sure it was this morning?"

  Frowning, Myra said, "Brett, it was only a couple of hours ago. Of course I'm sure. Why? What difference does that make?"

  "I talked to Mr. Horne last night and told him for about the hundredth time that I wasn't giving permission for his company to film on Maddox Hill property, that's why. Damn him," she fumed. "He's not taking me seriously."

  "It depends on what you mean by serious." Myra looked at her employer for several seconds, then charged ahead. "He asked about you."

  Brett started. "What did he want to know?"

  Just then the phone rang, and Myra answered it. After taking the order for a personalized lollipop tree, she answered Brett's question. "Mr. Horne said he'd met you, and you seemed like a reasonable woman who would do the right thing when the time came. I'm not sure what that means, but by the look on your face, you don't care for his opinion."

  "What else did he say?"

  "He and his producer, Darren something-or-other, were interested in the story of how you got your name."

  "Myra," Brett said with a grimace, "you didn't tell them, did you?"

  Smiling broadly, the woman nodded. "They got a big kick out of it when I mentioned that your mother was a fan of Margaret Mitchell's novel, Gone With the Wind, and that your name is a takeoff of Rhett Butler, even though he was a man and you, as we all know, are not. The two men enjoyed the part about your mother wanting to name you Scarlett, but your father absolutely refused and compromised on Brett. Mr. Horne laughed when I told them you have a wimpy bassett hound named Ashley and used to have a nervous kitten you called Aunt Pittycat."

  Brett cringed. Giving Sam ammunition for shooting off his mouth wasn't a good idea. He was the type who would use it when least expected.

  Picking up the bank deposit bag and her purse, she walked around the counter. "Can you handle the shop for the rest of the afternoon? I have some things to do after I run to the bank. Belle is making deliveries and should be back in about an hour. I'll try to return by four."

  Myra waved her away. "I'll take care of things here."

  Finding Sam Horne wasn't the problem Brett thought it might be. As she handed over the shop's receipts to the bank teller, she was given the director's schedule for the day, which was apparently public knowledge. Sam and some of his crew were at the Sunken Road with several of the coordinators of the Union and Confederate reenactment groups.

  Brett would have preferred to talk to Sam in private, but she didn't want to wait until evening when he returned to his hotel room. Not only did she have no idea when that would be, but Lord only knew how many more people he would tell about filming at Maddox Hill Plantation during the rest of the day. She needed to stop him as soon as possible.

  The parking lot behind the national park's visitor center was almost full with vans, trucks, and cars. She managed to find a place to park, and from that spot, she could see a cluster of people standing near the stone wall at the side of the Sunken Road where Confederate soldiers had held their position against the attacking Union army. Nine thousand Union men had fallen during the unsuccessful attack on the stone wall without even one Union soldier reaching it.

  Farther up the hill called Marye's Heights, Brett saw one man sweeping his arm toward the stone wall below, evidently describing something to the people standing on either side of him. She was too far away to hear his voice, but not so far that she didn't recognize the man.

  She leaned back against her car and crossed her arms over her chest as she watched Sam. Dressed in dark green slacks and an off-white shirt, he shouldn't have stood out from all the other people and the large fir trees around him, but Brett had been able to spot him without any difficulty. If she could only figure out what it was about the man that unsettled her so much, she would be able to counteract it.

  "Are you looking for Sam, Miss Southern?"

  She turned toward the direction of the low, male voice and saw the man who had been with Sam the day they had been filming Hugh Mercer's Apothecary Shop. She glanced up the hill, then brought her attention back to the man who stood several feet away from her.

  "I found him," she said. "Evidently I chose a bad time to try to talk to him."

  "He'll make the time when he knows you're here." Holding out his right hand, Darren introduced himself. "I'm Darren Fentress, Sam's partner in Wild Oats Productions and the producer of this film." He smiled. "I'm the one who's been writing you all those pleading letters about using Maddox Hill Plantation."

  Brett shook his hand. "Did either you or Mr. Horne bother to read my replies?"

  He blinked in surprise. "Of course we did. Why do you ask?"

  "One of you doesn't understand that my answer was no filming would be allowed on my property."

  "We understood perfectly, Miss Southern. It's just that Sam has certain visions about how he wants a film to be. As I explaine
d in my initial correspondence, the battle of Fredericksburg will be shown in two episodes on PBS, with a video of the complete series available to the public after the documentary is aired. The first show will cover the preliminary planning behind the battle from the viewpoint of both sides, spotlighting some of the individuals involved, enlisted personnel as well as officers. Sam wants to highlight people rather than battle strategy. The next one will show the fighting at the stone wall, the casualties, the medical innovations that came out of treating the wounded, the heroism, and the drama." He nodded toward the hill. "The battle is what he's working out now with the reenactors so they can work with the stunt coordinators and rehearse the action."

  Brett cut him off before he could go into more detail. "I understand what Mr. Horne is trying to present with the documentary, Mr. Fentress. What neither of you seems to understand is that I do not want publicity about the documentary to include Maddox Hill Plantation and neither of you can guarantee that."

  "I can prohibit reporters from coming onto your land," Darren said.

  Brett directed his attention to a van parked illegally near the entrance of the parking lot. A large logo on its side proclaimed the call letters of a television affiliate from Washington, D.C.

  "Everything Sam Horne does makes the news, Mr. Fentress. You of all people must know that. Prohibiting reporters from Maddox Hill will only make them dig deeper for the reason behind the blackout."

  Darren glanced at the van. "Publicity is beneficial when we're making a film, Miss Southern. The more press, the more people become aware of the film. We rarely turn down any type of free advertising, so long as it's positive and not negative. Sam and I have high standards when it comes to the type of documentaries we make, but we also have to make a living. The local press would undoubtedly want to feature your property, which would be fine with us."

  "I don't care if every camera in the state of Virginia is directed at Sam, you, and your film, Mr. Fentress," she said tautly. "I won't have Maddox Hill and my family splattered all over the newspapers and television screens again."