He decided, with no small dose of irony, that he had never really fathomed the character of any of Mainfield’s men-most particularly his grandfather. Even though he found it nearly impossible to believe, he acknowledged the bitter truth.
Captain Aloyisius Cordell was shrewd, calculating, and had been playing a deadly game of deception in order to help free oppressed people and runaway slaves, but he was not crazy.
The man Chase had been shamed by, the man whose blood he sought to repudiate by proving himself to be the best at everything he attempted, was a crafty old fox.
A burst of pride ignited in Chase’s chest and burned away his initial anger. Aloyisius Cordell had fooled them all. Chase would have liked to stay angry for all the years he lived under the stigma of his grandfather’s madness, but instead he envied him. The ex-ranger was long on nerve and sharp as a knife blade, Chase realized with a sigh. Now he had an opportunity to be half the man his grandfather was, and he prayed he would measure up.
The dark-shadowed woods blurred by with each lunge of the long-legged horse. Chase was hopeful he would overtake Homstock before he reached his destination. Trying to ignore the ache in his hand, Chase urged the big stallion to give him more speed. He had never killed in cold blood, but the risk to his grandfather, Ira and countless others gave him no options, so he rode hard with murder in his heart.
Chase heard the music first. He stopped the horse and listened. The sound of hands clapping in unison was interrupted by an occasional gleeful whoop. Chase moved more cautiously toward the circle of light and found himself outside the Presbyterian church. He scanned the rows of horses, searching for the one Homstock had stolen from him earlier. He dismounted and walked among the tethered animals, checking each one, but his gelding was not among them.
Perhaps Homstock had simply let him go when he arrived. Or maybe luck had been with Chase and he had beaten Homstock. Perhaps he was inside, meeting with his Confederate contact right now. Dear Lord, Chase thought, how many men will die to keep these secrets?
He forced himself not to think about it while he walked toward the church. He brushed off the worst trail dust on his trousers and raked his hand through his hair. Then he straightened his coat and buttoned it over the butt of the Colt. Without a doubt, he was the sorriest-looking man who ever entered a church, but he was determined to silence Homstock.
A large crowd was milling near the door when he stepped inside. Chase mumbled his apologies and shouldered his way through the throng while he looked for Homstock. Chase kept himself positioned near the entrance, in case Homstock should see him and try to flee again. With his back snug against a thick beam supporting the roof, Chase searched each corner of the room. After he had checked every man twice, he grudgingly accepted the fact Homstock was not here—yet.
Homstock had asked directions of the peddler—he was coming. Chase couldn’t consider the possibility that Homstock might get away, that he could have eluded him on the trail. He resigned himself to waiting inside the church until Homstock showed. While he was scowling over the idea, Chase felt curious eyes upon him.
He looked up and found a beautiful girl scrutinizing him from across the church. Eyes bluer than the Texas sky probed him. He felt his own gaze flick from her face to the fourth finger of her left hand without conscious thought.
There was no wedding ring. When he looked back into the cool blue depths, he knew. Whether or not he lived through the night, he had to meet the girl who stared at him from across the room.
Chase maneuvered his way across the room, dodging dancers and men who had been passing a bottle when the preacher wasn’t looking. He stopped a yard from her and took a deep breath for courage. A smell that put him in mind of springtime, flower gardens and warm sunshine on his face filled his nostrils.
“Miss.” He nodded his head and allowed his appreciative gaze to skim over her face, her slender neck and the creamy top of her shoulders. She was all soft curves inside the simple yellow gingham frock. Pale blond hair framed a face so pretty it was almost painful for him to gaze upon her.
“Sir—I—we have not been properly introduced.” She lowered her eyes and deftly snapped open a fan that had been dangling from her delicate wrist. “I cannot speak with you until that time.”
He couldn’t help but grin. She had done what a well brought up young lady should do, when confronted by an ill-mannered rascal. Undaunted, he took another step toward her. She met his advance with wide doe eyes. His heart flip-flopped in his chest and he felt himself preparing to do the unthinkable.
“Then allow me to introduce myself. I am Chase Cordell, of the Tyron County Cordells.” He bent at the waist and did his best imitation of a gallant bow. Chase knew he probably looked the fool, with his travel-stained clothes and the bloody gash across the top of his hand. He wondered if he had lost his reason—stopping to court a woman when so much hung in the balance. He asked himself how he could take time to speak to her at all when Homstock might arrive any minute. Yet, he persisted in his suit.
“Contrary to what my appearance may make you think, miss, I am a respectable man. In fact, I own a newspaper.” He grinned proudly.
She peered warily up at him over the edge of the fan, while she seemed to consider his doubtful claim.
“I am Linese Beaufort.” She lowered the fan enough for him to see two spots of color on her cheeks.
It seemed to Chase a crowd was beginning to gather at his elbow. He wondered if she had a brother or father who would call him out for making so bold with Miss Beaufort, but nobody challenged him, so he pressed forward while a voice in his head told him to look for Homstock and abandon this reckless endeavor.
“Miss Beaufort, I am most pleased to make your acquaintance, and I feel I must tell you—I am the man you are going to marry.”
The group behind him gasped in unison. Miss Linese Beaufort’s blush deepened in a manner that made Chase’s loins tighten. Innocence and purity shone in her face. Her shock was more tempting and erotic than anything he could have imagined. Instead of regretting his words, he was sure he had spoken the truth.
“You must not say such things, Mr. Cordell.” She fanned her face but it continued to flame hot pink with embarrassment. “It isn’t proper for you to speak to me this way.”
Chase impulsively pulled her into his arms and out onto the dance floor away from the murmuring crowd.
“Mr. Cordell!” she gasped. “What will people say?”
The butt of the gun pressed firmly between them when he pulled her closer and stared into her eyes. She stiffened in his arms. He held his breath, half expecting her to slap his face, or jerk free of his possessive hold, but she remained silent. Chase knew in that moment there was steel beneath her fragile exterior.
She was perfect. She was the woman for him.
Chase held her much too close to be proper, but he didn’t care about propriety. Everything he had learned this night had shown him he had wasted too much time in the past, wasted it on things that did not matter. He wasn’t inclined to waste another minute because of silly convention or manners. From now on Chase intended to grasp what he wanted of life and live every minute of it to the fullest.
He wanted Miss Linese Beaufort and would have her.
He spun her in a series of turns, and by slow degrees she relaxed in his arms. When she looked up and met his gaze, he thought the ghost of a smile might be tickling the corners of her mouth.
“Your behavior has scandalized us both, Mr. Cordell. If you are not careful, you will have to marry me, then you will sorely regret your foolish, impetuous prank.”
“Scandal be damned,” Chase retorted. “You will be my wife. This is no prank, Miss Beaufort.” He raised an eyebrow, silently daring her to dispute his intentions.
Her cheeks flamed to crimson and he felt her heart flutter against his chest, but she met his eyes bravely. “You would have to convince my aunt Hesta of that. I’m afraid, Mr. Cordell, even you could not prevail against her. It has always
been her desire for me to marry a… suitable gentleman.”
He laughed at her choice of words. This night he had become a most unsuitable man, with his disheveled appearance and a gun tucked in his trousers, and murder his latest intention. But by God, he was going to have this girl for his wife.
“Please, Miss Beaufort, call me Chase—no need to be so formal with your future husband.”
“Mr. Cordell,” she continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “My aunt has a well-known Beaufort trait—stubbornness.”
“And are you also stubborn?” The more she talked the more he knew this was the woman he had secretly longed for all his life. She tilted her head to look at him squarely. The light caught her eyes and made them into blue jewels against her creamy velvet skin and golden hair.
“Sometimes, sir, I am quite stubborn.”
“As I am, Miss Beaufort.” Chase held her gaze while she absorbed his words. “As I am.” He felt himself smiling again. “Lead me to your formidable aunt now, because I do intend to marry you with all possible haste.”
Chase watched her gaze flick over to a matronly woman standing by the Presbyterian minister. Their faces were etched with shock. Chase was fairly sure that was the legendary Aunt Hesta.
“Be prepared, miss. If I fail to charm her, I may indeed have to compromise your honor in order to succeed in my goal of marrying you.”
A soft gasp of indignant surprise escaped her lips. The fiddle player chose that particular moment to take a break. Linese wriggled out of Chase’s grasp and attempted to evade him, but he reached out and clasped his arm around her waist. While she fought to maintain her veneer of control within his most possessive and inappropriate grasp, Chase escorted her to the punch bowl.
Chase had just handed her a cup when the door opened. His position kept him concealed behind a wide beam, but he had a clear view of the entrance. Alfred Homstock leaned inside far enough to scan the church quickly. He hesitated for a moment, a frown creasing his forehead, before he disappeared and the door closed.
“Excuse me, Linese.” Chase allowed himself one lingering glance at her face before he followed Homstock outside.
Tied to a bush just outside the torch-lit church was the stolen bay gelding. Chase heard the crunch of boots on gravel. He followed the sound and crept toward the back of the church. The hollow thud of a door drew his eyes to the outhouse, near a copse of trees, where he assumed Homstock was relieving himself.
Chase pulled the Colt from his waistband and prepared to commit murder, but before he had taken another step he heard a muffled groan and running feet. Chase sprinted toward the outhouse and flung the door open. It was empty.
The music inside the church began again with a rhythmic thump. The sound of people clapping, stomping and whooping in time to a rowdy Virginia reel muffled any other sound around him. Chase searched the shrubs and worked his way toward the trees. He moved to the thicket and looked down.
Homstock’s eyes were open and lifeless. The ground beneath him was soaking up his still-warm blood. The Underground Railroad was safe for a while longer and Alfred Homstock would not be telling any secrets or meeting any more Cordells.
Pounding hooves drew Chase’s eyes. He caught a glimpse of the tired bay gelding and the black mare he had loaned Ira earlier disappearing into the night.
Chase took a shuddering breath and got up from the hard, narrow cot in his cell. The chain on his leg rattled when he moved toward the narrow ventilation slit. All the memory, all the answers, didn’t change anything. He could not defend himself against the charge of murder, unless he identified Ira as Homstock’s killer.
That was a thing he would never do. Ira Goten had buried his knife blade deep into the Southern spy’s back in order to protect the Cordells, as well as the Railroad. Now it was up to Chase Cordell to protect Ira, his grandfather, the Railroad, and quite possibly the entire Union cause by remaining silent about what happened on that night over two years ago.
A hard, tight lump formed in Chase’s throat. He had only one regret. By keeping his vow, he would make Linese a widow with two tiny babies to raise alone.
“Linese,” he murmured.
The full recollection of their meeting was bittersweet with its intensity. She was like sunshine in the dark, like rain quenching a drought. Now he knew why the sight of her in the yellow gingham dress had been like taking a bayonet in the chest. She had been wearing that same dress when he met her.
“What a young fool I was,” he said remembering his wedding night.
He had been with other women before Linese, but he had never been in love with any of them. That difference had robbed him of any finesse he may have possessed. Love had made him self-conscious and clumsy in his lovemaking. Holding her in his arms had stripped him to the bone, laid him open, exposed his soul in a way he had never before experienced.
“God, how I loved her then, and now.” Chase raked his hand through his hair. He had thought it remarkable that she loved him when he couldn’t remember. Now, with his memory intact, he knew it was nothing short of miraculous that she could care at all for a fool as big as him.
He leaned his forehead against the cold, hard bars and cursed himself. His brain had taken everything that had happened to him in his life, then jumbled it up in no particular order. The few memories that were left intact became a confusing tangle that had forced him to stay away from Linese for too long. “How much precious time I wasted.” Because of his bewildered state, he had denied his beloved wife and himself time together, time he could never recapture, time they would never have again.
“Linese, it near breaks my heart to see you looking so sad.” Melissa pulled her baby, Eathan, back onto the braided rug. His attempts to crawl consisted of pulling himself across the floor on his chubby forearms.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be such poor company.” Linese gently removed her breast from Sarah’s pouting lips. The sleeping baby continued to suckle while she brought one tiny fist up to her downy cheek.
“It’s not that,” Melissa explained. “I’m happy and grateful to be living here with you. I just wish I could do something to help.”
Linese blinked back the hot tears threatening to spill over. She had moved through each hellish day since they took Chase, barely maintaining control of her shredded emotions, while she cared for her daughters and prayed for a miracle. “Nobody can help. Chase doesn’t want me to talk to Ira.” Linese stopped in mid-sentence, realizing she had been thinking aloud.
“Ira? Ira Goten? Can he help Mr. Chase?” Melissa’s eyes gleamed with interest and hope.
Linese silently chided herself for letting Ira’s name slip. “Probably not, it’s complicated. I can’t explain.” She could not tell anyone about Chase’s missing memory, not without his permission. Linese laid Sarah next to her twin in the crib and pulled the crocheted coverlet over them. She caressed the dark curls on Marjorie’s head.
Melissa pitied Linese. It just wasn’t fair. Of course, life rarely was fair, but the idea that those babies were to be left fatherless and Linese a widow made Melissa crazy. Everyone in Mainfield had heard about the trial to be held, and the fact that there would be a hanging after.
She watched Eathan squirm off the rug and onto the bare floor once again. He had grown fat and sassy living here at Cordellane. Melissa owed Linese Cordell a great debt for giving her shelter when she needed it. Not many respectable women would have done the same. “Linese, would you watch Eathan for a while?” Melissa was determined to find a way to help.
“Of course, I’ll watch him. Is there anything I can help you with?” Linese offered.
“No, I just need to call on Doralee,” Melissa lied smoothly.
“Do you think it’s safe, with the Northern troops so near to Mainfield?”
“I heard they are regrouping—anyway the shooting has stopped for a few days. I’ll be fine.” Melissa didn’t intend to be gone long, just long enough to speak with Ira Goten.
Ira watched the yo
ung woman’s face while she talked. She was one of those people whose expression told every thought. Melissa was not lying to him, that he was certain of.
“So, Mr. Goten, I came here to see you, to ask if there was anything you could do to help Linese.”
“Mrs. Cordell doesn’t know you are here?” Ira never took his eyes off Melissa’s face, while he watched for any sign of deception in her story.
“Oh, no. She wouldn’t like me interfering, but I can’t stand by and do nothing. I mean, if there is any way you can help Mr. Chase, that is.” Melissa wrung her hands in the faded calico skirt. “I just had to come and ask you to do it.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Now you go on home. Don’t mention this to Mrs. Cordell or the Captain. And don’t worry.”
“I’ll try not to. Linese is nearly sick with fretting. I doubt the old Captain even knows what has happened, or that he understands who Major Cordell is.”
Ira smiled at the way the crafty older Cordell continued to deceive Mainfield. He had kept his word to Chase, and never let on that he knew the ex-ranger was sane. “You’re probably right, Miss Melissa, he probably doesn’t even realize what is going on.” Ira smiled. Even when Chase came home from war, they had kept their silence, as they agreed to do two years ago. But Ira had never forgotten Alfred Homstock.
Ira had done what he could to help Chase that night. He had taken the stolen bay gelding, and ridden the black mare like the devil himself. He had been careful not to be seen when he returned the horses to Cordellane. Nobody had spotted them outside the Presbyterian church. For two years he had kept the gun and the gold—and the secrets.
“I’m sorry, Chase, but now I’ve got to break my promise,” Ira muttered while he slipped his knife into his boot top. “You and I will have to talk about that night.”
Chase’s jaw muscle jumped convulsively while he listened to the conversation taking place in Rancy Thompson’s outer office. His entire existence centered around what information he could hear by eavesdropping. Today it was Kerney who came to discuss him.
Linda Castle Page 24