Love a Dark Rider

by Shirlee Busbee

  herself in the mirror, shook out the skirts of her travel-stained pink gingham gown, gave her tidy comet a final touch and ventured from the room.

  Despite the hour, the house seemed unusually silent as Sara made her way downstairs. Upon reaching the entry hall, she stopped, not quite certain where she should go from there. Deciding not to be caught someplace that Margaret would no doubt find objectionable—and Margaret was bound to find her presence a«>'where in the house objectionable—she opted to take a stroll around the grounds.

  It was a lovely late-April morning. The sun was shining goldly and the sky was a bright, blinding blue with just a puffy white cloud or two drifting across its endless expanse. Sara walked aimlessly through the gardens and across the lawns. Spying a romantically designed gazebo some distance from the house, she wandered in that direction.

  With an effort she continued to keep her thoughts away from the traumatic events of yesterday. She was grimly determined to simply enjoy these few brief moments. As she approached the white, lattice-worked gazebo, she reminded herself that there was no reason to run down the road to meet trouble. Perhaps things would work out, after all—maybe during the night Margaret had suffered a change of heart. . ..

  She entered the gazebo, where sunlight streamed in between the gaps of the latticework. An iron-scrolled white table stood in the middle of the eight-sided room, and a wide, comfortable bench had been built against the outer walls; large cushions in gay colors of yellow and blue were scattered across it. Looking around in appreciation, at first Sara thought the heap of sapphire silk sprawled on the floor on the other side of the table was a pillow that had fallen from the bench.

  Rounding the table with the intention of picking up the

  pillow, she froze as the full impact of what she was seeing hit her. It was not a pillow which lay on the floor— no pillow ever had hair that color of butter-yellow, or had ever possessed that porcelain complexion... .

  Gripped by incredulous horror, Sara stared dumbly at the form before her. There was no mistaking that it was Margaret Cantrell who lay lifelessly at her feet, Margaret of the limpid blue eyes, still garbed in the rich sapphire silk gown she had worn the night before, Margaret with a fine Spanish dagger driven through her heart. .. .

  PART ONE

  Time of Turmoil April 1867

  My mind is troubled, li^e a fountain stirred. And I myself see not the bottom of it.

  Troilus and Cressida -William Shakespeare

  Another rainy April morning, Sara thought idly as she stood at one of the tall windows of the Rose Room, and here I am looking once more at the grave of a man who was most dear to me. . . .

  Her mouth twisted ruefully, hi the small family cemetery which was situated on a slight rise a short distance from the house, Sam Cantrell's grave lay between those of his two vastly different wives, Madelina and Margaret. Sara still wasn't certain she had done the right thing by burying him there. Ann, of course, even now, seven years after Margaret had died, was outwardly ever loyal to her dead sister and had insisted that that was where Sam would have wanted to rest eternally, but Sara wasn't so certain. During the strained and horrible days and months following Margaret's murder, Sam must have realized that she was not the sweet wife he had convinced himself she was, and even though he had never said a word of disparagement about her in all the years that followed, Sara had often wondered what he felt in the deepest reaches of his heart.

  For a moment her mind drifted back to that horrible morning so many years ago when she had stared down in horrified disbelief at Margaret's body. She never remembered how long she had stood there, her heart beating in thick, terrified strokes, but eventually she must have

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  torn herself away from the gazebo and stumbled to the house....

  Breathless, frightened and shocked, Sara burst through the double front doors, startling Sam, who was just crossing the hall. He took one look at the terrified expression on her face and demanded anxiously, "What is it, my dear? What has frightened you so?"

  "Margaret's dead!" she blurted out hysterically, too agitated to think of any kinder way to break the appalling news. "She's dead, I tell you—I saw her! Murdered in the gazebo!"

  Sam stood there in the middle of the elegant marble-floored hallway as if turned to stone, and Sara bit back a sob. Rushing across to him and grasping his arm, she shook him violently. "Didn't you hear me—she's dead! Someone murdered her!"

  "Who's been murdered?" Yancy asked carelessly, having just entered the hall from the hbrary in time to hear Sara's last words. Unaware of the gravity of the situation, he added sarcastically, "Dare I hope that it is my sweet stepmama?"

  Recovering some of her wits, Sara stared at his handsome face with revulsion, the memory of that silver dagger in Margaret's breast very clear. "Yes!" she retorted sharply. "It is your stepmama—someone killed Margaret with a Spanish dagger!"

  Yancy's indolent air vanished. ''Por Diosl You're serious!" His amber-gold eyes intent, he snapped, "Where?"

  "In the gazebo, behind the house."

  Sara had barely spoken the words before Yancy was striding toward the door, but catching sight of Sam's frozen features for the first time, he stopped and crossed quickly to his father's side. Putting a comforting hand on Sam's shoulder, he muttered, "Father, I'm sorry. This

  must be horrible for you." When Sam remained silent and unmoving, Yancy bent nearer, concern on his dark face, and asked softly, "Are you all right?"

  Sam seemed to shake himself, and meeting Yancy's worried gaze, he attempted a reassuring smile, but it failed lamentably. Dazedly he murmured, "Yes, yes, of course I'm all right—it is just that it is such a shock. Margaret dead! Murdered! I cannot believe it!"

  Yancy's mouth tightened and Sara was confident that he had no trouble believing that someone had murdered Margaret. But his voice was gentle as he said to his father, "Stay here. I shall see for myself the truth of the matter."

  A healthy sense of outrage seized Sara. "It is true! I saw her!" she said heatedly.

  Sam patted her arm absently. "I'm sure it is, child. Yancy didn't mean to cast doubt on what you've said." Recovering some of his shattered composure, he took a deep, steadying breath and squared his shoulders. His voice stronger, he said to Yancy, "I will come with you."

  Their eyes met over Sara's head. "I think you should come with us, too, Sara," Sam added. "I don't wish to alarm the household until I have observed the scene myself."

  Reluctantly Sara accompanied the two men, not relishing a return to the gazebo, but then, she didn't want to remain at the house either.

  When the two men entered the gazebo, Sara didn't need Yancy's curt command to wait outside to keep her from following them inside. A shudder went through her slender form at the very idea of looking at Margaret's body again.

  It seemed to Sara that the two men were in the gazebo for an inordinate amount of time; from where she stood, she could hear the faint murmur of their voices

  and she wondered hysterically what they were finding to talk about for so long. Finally they came out, their expressions shuttered.

  A strained smile on his face, Sam walked over to her and placed his hand warmly on her arm. "Sara," he began carefully, "are you certain that you saw a dagger?"

  Sara looked at him incredulously. "Of course I saw a dagger! It is sticking up from her breast." She darted an accusatory glance at Yancy. "A Spanish one! I don't lie!" Sudden suspicion occurred to her. "Why do you ask? Didn't you see it?"

  Sam shook his head slowly. "It's true what you said— Margaret is dead, and from the looks of it, she was stabbed, but there is no sign of a weapon ... Yancy and I found no Spanish dagger."

  "But it was there, I tell you! / saw itV

  "I'm sure you thought you saw a dagger, but in the horror of the moment..." Sam paused. "Perhaps you were mistaken?"

  Sara stared thunderstruck up into his grave face, hardly daring to believe what she was hearing. Sam's eyes were full of shock and sorro
w, yet she thought she also detected an odd sort of pleading in his gaze as the seconds spun out and they stared at each other. A knot suddenly formed in her chest. With an effort she dropped her eyes from his, a dreadful thought occurring to her. Sam wanted her to liel He wanted her to pretend that she had not seen the dagger! And there could be only one reason for that, she reflected bitterly. Yancy Sam must know or suspect that Yancy had killed Margaret, and despite his grief, he wanted to save his son.

  Sara risked a quick, resentful glance at Yancy's stony face. He stood a short distance behind his father, his arms folded across his chest. Was it only last night that he had held her in his arms and kissed her with such passion? But other memories crowded into her mind.

  too, memories of Yancy and Margaret together, of his twice-repeated threat to kill his stepmother; ugly memories of the exchange between Margaret and Hyrum after Yancy had stalked away; and the unpleasant remembrance of the conversation she had overheard between Ann and Margaret. ... So many people had reasons to hate and fear Margaret, and it was obvious that Margaret had been a depraved woman, but had she deserved to be murdered?

  Sara bit her lip, her honey-gold head bowed as she stared sightlessly at the ground. What was she to do? Insist upon telling of the dagger? For just a moment she considered that she had been mistaken, that in those first moments of sheer terror she had imagined the dagger. But I didn't imagine it, she admitted wretchedly to herself. / saw it

  Again she looked at the heartrending expression on Sam's face and the knot in her chest became almost unbearable. He was such a good man. Could she hurt him this way? Knowing the answer to that question, Sara dropped her gaze once more and muttered, "If it is not there, I must have imagined it."

  Sam's breath came out in a rush. "My dear child! This has been a dreadful ordeal for you—it is no wonder that you imagined such a thing."

  Sara could not bear to look at him, afraid that her sudden resolve to protect Yancy, and thereby protect Sam, might falter. "Yes," she replied dully, "it has been an ordeal and I'd rather not talk about it anymore, if you please?"

  "Certainly! Certainly!" Sam agreed hastily, his hand tightening on her slender shoulder. A note of entreaty in his voice, he added, "And, of course, when the authorities question you, when anyone questions you, you won't mention the dagger you imagined you saw, will you?"

  Her emerald eyes full of resentment, Sara glared over at Yancy's dark, shuttered face. "Of course not," she said flatly. "I will not mention the Spanish dagger—^to anyone!'*

  It was the sound of Bartholomew's voice, calling her name, which broke Sara's unpleasant reverie, and with a last look at the three graves under the wide, spreading pecan tree, she turned away and called out, "Here I am, Bartholomew. I was just resting in my room."

  A faint frown on his face, Bartholomew was waiting for Sara at the top of the staircase. At the sight of him, Sara felt a rush of affection for him, remembering with a smile how considerate he had always been to her, even in those first, traumatic days following the discovery of Margaret's body. He had been a friend then and had proved his friendship time and again throughout the long, terrible years of the war that had ripped the country apart.

  Bartholomew had changed little over the intervening seven years, his cafe-au-lait skin as unlined as it had been the day Sara had arrived at Magnolia Grove, and except for a faint touch of silver at his temples, there was little about him that showed the passage of time. Oh, but there was so much that had changed during these past years, Sara thought wistfully as she accompanied him down the wide, curving staircase.

  Everywhere one looked, the changes the years had wrought were obvious. Magnolia Grove was still structurally imposing, but it had been stripped of everything of value, which had been sold to raise money for the rebel war effort. The marble flooring in the formerly grand entry hall had been ripped up and sold; the crystal chandeliers throughout the house had been taken down and sold, as had the fine carpets, furniture, china and silverware. Outside the house the changes were just as

  dramatic. The dark green paint around the doors and windows was now faded and blistered by the punishing Texas sun; the lawn and gardens were unkempt; the stables, which had housed numerous blooded stock, stood mostly empty; the broad acres which had once brimmed with cotton lay barren and fallow, as there were neither any slaves to work the fields nor any money to buy seed or hire the former slaves. The few freed slaves who did consent to work for their former masters could not be depended upon. After a day's or a week's work they would disappear with coins jingling in their pockets, leaving the soil half planted or half the harvest still standing in the fields to rot.

  The situation was not unique to Texas; all over the South, the story was the same—ruined homes and idle plantations and little hope of ever regaining what had been lost. The War between the States had utterly destroyed the once powerful plantation aristocracy, and although Texas had not suffered the ravages of the Union Army as had the other states of the Confederacy, it was still as beaten and destitute as the rest of the South. There had not been any great battles or major engagements fought in Texas during the "late unpleasantness," and so the inhabitants had been spared the tragedy of having their homes and plantations burned and looted, but that was little consolation—without compunction, Texans had stripped themselves of everything of value in their fervid support of the Confederate cause. The majority of the inhabitants had been fiercely committed to the rebellion and Texas had given more men, more money, more of everything to the Confederacy than any other state in the South with the exception of Virginia, and now it was reaping the bitter cost of that folly.

  Defeated, bankrupt and humiliated, despite the promise of readmission to the Union and the amnesty offered the late rebels, Texas had to suffer the further ignominy

  of being placed under martial law and its citizens had to endure the sight of the hated, blue-coated Union troops swaggering proudly all across their lands. Matters were not helped by the fact that the Union military held itself above the law, the wishes and commands of the Yankee hierarchy overriding even the civil courts and the laws of Texas. Texas was a conquered territory, and the United States Congress, President Johnson and the Union troops treated it as such.

  Walking down the staircase at Magnolia Grove with Bartholomew at her side, Sara wondered again, as she had so often, in the two years since President Lincoln's death, if the South would have been treated so harshly if he had not been assassinated that night at Ford's Theater by John Wilkes Booth. Her mouth twisted. Who knew?

  Bartholomew interrupted her thoughts. "The lawyer's here again. He wants to see you."

  Shaking off her useless speculations, she asked Bartholomew, "Did he say what he wanted? Do you think he's finally managed to locate Yancy?"

  Bartholomew shook his head, a sardonic smile on his wide lips. "Since when has Mr. Sam's lawyer ever wasted time conversing with an upstart black?"

  Sara's lips thinned. "He wasn't rude?"

  "No more so than usual!"

  "You know," Sara began in a scolding tone, "Mr. Henderson wouldn't be so brusque with you if you didn't adopt that obnoxiously superior attitude whenever he comes to call." She shook a finger at him. "You do it on purpose, you know you do! You puff up, look down your nose at him and speak with an English accent that would do a duke proud."

  Reaching the bottom of the staircase, Bartholomew grinned at her. "I'se doan know what y'all is talkin' 'bout!" he drawled innocently. "Why, I'se jest a pore niggar! Doan mean to be uppity."

  "Oh, stop being so provocative!" Sara said crossly. "Which room did you put him in?"

  A wry grimace crossed Bartholomew's face. "The only room that is still presentable," he replied in his normal voice, "the master's office."

  The door to the library flew open and Sara and Bartholomew both turned in that direction. Ann Shell-drake stood there, the expression on her face one of extreme displeasure.

  The years had treated Ann kindly, her hair still just as blo
nd, her blue eyes just as bright and her porcelain skin still as firm and lovely at thirty-eight as it had been seven years earlier. She was wearing a black silk gown that was several seasons old, but in spite of its age, it had obviously been a fashionable, expensive garment.

  Sara remembered it well—Ann had bought it for Margaret's funeral and had worn it all during the mourning time for her sister. These days Ann wore black for Sam Cantrell, that kindhearted, generous man who had opened up his home and willingly shared his dwindling resources with her and her husband when their plantation had been sold for back taxes last year. There was another reason that Sam had been so generous to Tom Shelldrake. Tom's left arm had been crippled during the early days of the war, when he had intercepted a bullet meant for Sam. Sam had been convinced that Tom had saved his life, and there was nothing he wouldn't have done for his friend—even if it meant putting up with Tom's demanding wife, among other things! While full of pity for Tom, Sara disliked Ann's arrogant manners and thoroughly distrusted the woman, but she hadn't the heart to ask them to leave—yet!

  Glaring across at Bartholomew, who remained by Sara's side, Ann snapped, "Where have you been? I told you that Mr. Thomas and I wanted some coffee."

  Bartholomew looked haughty. "I think you forget that

  it is Sara who pays my wages—not you!"

  Ann rolled her eyes and complained disgustedly, "Oh, God! Nothing is the same since the war! It seems that everywhere I go, even in my own home, I am accosted by uppity servants!"

  Bartholomew and Sara exchanged glances; catching sight of the twinkle in Bartholomew's dark eyes, Sara had to choke back a strong urge to giggle. Keeping her features composed, she went over to Ann and purposefully distracted the other woman. "Did you know that Mr. Henderson has come to call? He is waiting for me in Sam's old office."