by Beth White
“We’ll just pray that it won’t.”
Joelle’s brow clouded as if she wanted to argue, but they’d come within earshot of Gil. Selah smiled at him, and the business of greetings and introductions began all over again.
Gil’s gentle gray eyes clouded with dismay as he stared down at Wyatt. “I applaud your humanitarian impulse, Selah,” he said, “but where are you going to put another body in that little house?”
Selah had been wondering that very thing herself, but resented Gil questioning her judgment. “There’s a sofa in the office that will suffice until we can make better arrangements.”
“That’s all very well,” Gil said, “but how are you going to feed a growing boy?” He winked at Wyatt. “We eat rather a lot, don’t we, son?”
Wyatt grinned. “Yes, sir, but I come from Tennessee. If there’s a rifle and a fishing pole handy, I’m pretty good at feeding myself.”
Gil slapped him on the shoulder with a laugh and, to Selah’s relief, dropped the argument. Gil was a good man, and Joelle could do worse. But Lord knew, Selah herself wouldn’t have wanted to marry into the glass house that was the lot of a minister’s wife.
Settled in the back of the wagon with Wyatt and the luggage, Selah watched Gil at the reins and Joelle jouncing along as close to the outside of the seat as she dared. Just over a year ago, Gil had been sent over from the seminary in Jackson to shepherd the new Methodist church in Tupelo. It had taken him exactly one Sunday to fall head-over-heels in love with Joelle. Selah was amused, but Joelle found the situation maddening. Not being one of those girls who enjoyed manipulating men, Joelle resisted having to ask him for help. For his part, Gil took in stride his status as rejected lover, remaining as close as he was allowed and accepting every crumb of his beloved’s attention with humble gratitude.
Selah shook her head. The human heart was a strange and fickle thing. If only Joelle had another potential beau, Gil might give up and move on. But Joelle had already rejected (for a wide variety of reasons) the attentions of every eligible single man in the vicinity, and unless some cataclysmic event occurred to change the situation, Selah was afraid the two of them were destined to become the crazy old maids they had laughed about.
As they drove through town, she watched Wyatt taking in the routine of a Saturday evening small town as it shut down in preparation for the Sabbath. Through his eyes she saw Whitmore Emporium—grandiose of signage, boasting a couple of rockers and a table for checkers on the front porch. The post office with its American flag flapping in the stiff breeze, the barber shop (she made a mental note to take Wyatt there at the first opportunity, as his eyes were barely visible under the mop of curly brown hair), the saloon across from the emporium—also owned by Oliver Whitmore—and finally the Gum Pond Hotel, so named for the tupelo swamp at the edge of town.
She had lived here for her entire life—mostly on the plantation, of course, though the people and places of Tupelo had helped shape her intellect, her morals, her values. The older she got, the more clearly she saw the flawed nature of that influence. Perhaps it was time she took on the job of influencing those around her and those who would come after her. Her gaze swung back to Wyatt. Taking one adolescent boy into her family would be a start. It was a responsibility she did not want to tackle on her own. She would need Joelle and ThomasAnne and, yes, even Gil.
A wistful image of a strong, handsome face with broad shoulders and a pair of intense hazel eyes marched through her mind and refused to go away, even when she shut her eyes. God, where is Levi Riggins? Why did we cross paths if that was all there was to be? Would you bless him and give him favor in whatever brings him to Mississippi?
The brief prayer comforted her. She opened her eyes and smiled at Wyatt. They were almost home. The danger of losing Ithaca was real, but God had a plan for them all, and anxiety was a sin. She would just have to trust that she’d know what to do when decisions had to be made.
The alternative was too frightening.
Levi dismounted outside the livery stable behind the Thompson House. His stomach told him suppertime had come and gone. It had been a long day of interviews all over town and waiting to hear back from Pinkerton, who had just now confirmed Levi’s decision to follow Schuyler Beaumont. Continuing to catalog what he knew, discarding what he could only suppose, he tossed a coin to a stable boy as he handed over the reins and walked around to the hotel’s broad front porch.
He had much to think about, most of it in a frustrating, dissatisfactory vein—the disparate pieces of a puzzle, none of which fit the other or made any sense when laid side by side. Inevitably he came back to his promise to help Selah take care of Wyatt Priester—the surviving son of a rail executive who happened to have been his main suspect in the express robberies. The wreck could have been the result of sabotage, though there was no definite proof that it was related to the robberies.
As he entered the bustling lobby, he couldn’t help thinking Wyatt must know something. He just had to ask the right questions.
“Good evening, sir. You’ve come just in time. I’ve but one room left for tonight, if you’d like to sign the register?”
Levi blinked and focused on the well-dressed clerk who stood behind the heavy mahogany hotel desk. He was suddenly aware of resplendent decor, a massive bronze chandelier overhead, marble floors, the smell of new paint. “Yes, of course.” He scribbled his name on the register, then handed over the pen. “I’ll only be staying tonight, and I’ll want dinner. I assume there’s a restaurant?”
The clerk beamed. “Indeed there is. We employ one of the finest chefs in the state. And in honor of our grand opening, there’s quite a to-do in the ballroom upstairs. Lots of the local ladies invited as well. If you hurry, you’ll have time to eat dinner and change.”
Levi ruefully looked down at his dusty clothes and boots. “I don’t normally dine in all my dirt, but I confess I’m a bit peckish at the moment.”
“Nothing to worry about, sir,” the clerk reassured him. “Just tell the maître d’—”
“Thank you, but maybe you could help me with some information first. You seem to be a man who keeps his finger on the social pulse of the town, if you know what I mean.” Levi slid a dollar across the counter.
Looking gratified, the clerk palmed the coin. “Of course, sir. We at the Thompson House are always ready to serve.”
“Excellent.” Levi leaned in and lowered his voice. “I wonder if you’re acquainted with a man by the name of Schuyler Beaumont. Student here at one time, I believe?”
The clerk’s face broke into a genuine smile. “Schuyler is a great favorite with everyone—particularly the ladies. That’s no secret!”
“I understand he’s in town. Do you know where I might find him?”
“Why, he’s coming down the stairs right behind you.”
At the clerk’s gesture, Levi turned to find a tall, lanky young man descending the curving staircase. Perhaps in his early twenties, he was dressed in the height of fashion, an expensive-looking beaver top hat tipped at a rakish angle over thick, wheat-colored curls. Exactly what Levi would have expected.
But Levi had been an investigator long enough to know that people seldom presented their real motives on the surface.
“Mr. Beaumont!” the clerk called. “Over here, if you please—I’ve a visitor who would like to meet you.”
Beaumont’s brilliant blue gaze took a moment to find the voice, then a charming smile spread across the handsome face. “Mr. Dean, my good fellow! I missed you when I checked in this morning.” He crossed the lobby in three long strides and reached to shake hands with the clerk. “Happy to see you’ve found employment here.” Beaumont turned, curiosity evident in his open, genial expression. Removing the hat and performing an elegant bow, he offered a hand to Levi. “Schuyler Beaumont, at your service!”
“Levi Riggins.” Levi shook hands, noting the garnet signet ring on Beaumont’s index finger and the gold chain of a watch fob hanging from his vest poc
ket. Wealth here, but not the ostentatious sort.
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
Levi sighed. “Illinois.”
“Don’t worry, half my family was Union.” Beaumont made a wry face. “We’ve learned to get along.”
“After five years, I should hope so.”
Beaumont laughed. “Southerners are good at holding a grudge.”
“True.” Levi tipped his head in the direction of the dining room’s open doorway. “You’ve been recommended to me as a man who might answer some questions I have regarding yesterday’s rail accident. Would you care to be my guest for dinner?”
Beaumont looked puzzled. “I’ve been in Oxford for several days. Wasn’t involved in that wreck at all.”
“I’ll explain that if you’ll hear me out.”
Beaumont shrugged, eyes twinkling. “A free meal is always welcome.”
“Indeed,” Levi said dryly. “Thank you, Mr. Dean,” he said to the clerk. “If you’ll have someone take my bag to my room and order that bath for me, I’ll be up in an hour or so.” He slid another coin across the desk.
“Yes, sir!”
Levi and Beaumont headed for the dining room, where a maître d’ greeted them. Momentarily they were seated at a window table, scanning elegantly printed menus.
After they’d ordered, Beaumont propped his elbows on the table. “So you want to know about the wreck. It’s big news hereabouts. Heard there was some army major rescuing people, scaling the tops of the cars and performing a circus act up and down the bridge trestles. Did you see?”
Levi scratched his jaw. “Not exactly.”
Beaumont stared for an awkward moment. “That was you?”
“It wasn’t as dramatic as you make it sound.”
“Of course not.” With a short laugh, Beaumont shook his head. “But I wish I’d been there!”
“No you don’t,” Levi said flatly. “It was a gruesome scene.”
Beaumont quirked one eyebrow. “I thought that’s what you wanted to discuss.”
“I’m more interested in the background of the railroad. I’m told your father is an executive with the M&O, correct?”
“Since early days. He’s finally given me leave to branch out on my own, see what I can do before he brings me into the company.”
“The M&O is headquartered in Mobile, yes?”
“That’s right. I’d been to visit my older sister and her family in New Orleans.” Beaumont winked. “Pa doesn’t know I’m here looking up investors for a new branch line between Oxford and Tupelo. Student travel should be quite lucrative—” Abruptly he broke off. “Pa says I talk too much. Are you with the Mississippi Central?”
Levi smiled. “Don’t worry, I’m not the competition. I want to know about the rail lines competing for federal contracts. And how they decide where to build.”
Beaumont’s stare was suspicious. “Not the competition? Then what is your business?”
“I’m an attorney specializing in hotel management.” Levi could not have explained how or why those words popped into his brain and out of his mouth. But when his instincts took over during an interview, he’d learned not to fight them.
Beaumont’s clever young face cleared. “That’s a wondrous coincidence! One of the properties I’m interested in purchasing is a derelict plantation on the direct route of our proposed new line from here to Tupelo. The house would make a perfect luxury hotel.”
Levi saw the hesitation. “But . . . ?”
“But the property is entangled in legalities. The family who owned it—own it, I should say—has so far refused our every offer. Can’t afford to keep it up, but they don’t want to let it go. The feds tried to oust them under war crime confiscation laws but ran into a judge with Confederate sympathies—”
“Wait.” Levi held up a hand. “Are you perchance talking about a plantation known as Ithaca?”
“Well, yes, as a matter of fact. You’re familiar with it then?”
“I’ve heard of it.” Levi didn’t much believe in coincidences. And Pinkerton had taught him that the motivation for most crimes could be traced to money or power—or both. But probing for information was a delicate affair. He simply waited, as if casually curious.
The young rail baron gave Levi a searching look, then lifted a shoulder. “I’m not surprised. The place is pretty famous in this area. The old man—Colonel Daughtry, I mean—was quite a cog in the Southern machine in his day, and probably destined for state office if the war hadn’t quashed everything. He and my father were acquainted, as my old man wanted the railroad to go by Ithaca. But the Colonel dug in, wouldn’t sell, and we spent a small fortune rerouting.”
Friendly enemies, then. The entanglements grew by the minute. “What happened to Daughtry?”
“Quite a story.” Beaumont settled in his chair, adjusting the fold of his tie. “Commanded a Mississippi regiment deployed to Tennessee early in the war. Chickamauga campaign, I believe. From what I understand, he and his men went chasing down a posse of Union sympathizers who had raided a Confederate general’s farm. Managed to catch them, but the thing went sideways when the Colonel got impatient. Shot the prisoners without a trial and left ’em in a ditch.”
Levi couldn’t help wondering what the Colonel would have done had he found the men who pillaged his own plantation. “That’s cold, even for a Johnny Reb.”
“The Union outriders who caught him shortly after that thought so too. Daughtry was arrested, tried, and sent to Camp Douglas. He was there at least until the end of the war, then he escaped in the confusion, and the family stopped hearing from him. At least they say they did. Nobody knows if he died or left the country, but he never came home again.”
Levi whistled. Poor Selah. A convicted war criminal for a father surely added to the complications surrounding her claim on the property. No wonder she’d been reluctant to trust a stranger with her family’s difficulties.
He studied Beaumont’s face. There was ambition in the blue eyes, a hint of arrogance about the fine mouth, but no real malice or bitterness. Still, like Selah, Levi knew better than to trust a stranger’s good intentions. “I take it the property was left to Mrs. Daughtry?”
“She’s dead too, and the entire estate went to the three sisters. I’ve been dealing with the eldest, Selah.” Beaumont blew out a disgusted breath. “She’s returned my correspondence unopened and marked ‘trash’—in bold red letters.”
“I happened to share a seat with Miss Daughtry on the train. She’s quite a formidable young woman.”
“She’s a money-grubbing little harridan.”
Levi raised his brows at the man’s vehemence. “I found her to be quite charming. She isn’t likely to give away her family home just because you ask for it.”
“I made a perfectly fair offer.” Beaumont folded his arms. “Enough to get her and her sisters out from under the debt and taxes attached to that great pile of brick and marble. I understand they have grandparents willing to take them in and provide for them. I just don’t understand why she’s—they are being so stubborn.”
Levi restrained the urge to punch the man in his aristocratic nose. “No understanding a woman’s motives.”
“Isn’t that the truth? My own sister eloped with a Union scout.”
“But you’ve learned to get along,” Levi reminded him with a small grin.
To his credit, Beaumont laughed. “Which is why I was just in New Orleans. Thanks to my turncoat sister and her Yankee husband, I have a brand-new niece, and I went to inspect her.”
“Er. Congratulations?”
“Yes, of course, although she is a squirrelly little mite, I must say. And they saddled her with the name Delythia, after my grandmother. The poor child will probably grow up with an uncontrollable urge to run the world, just like the old lady.”
“In my experience, it’s just what grandmothers do. Perhaps you can understand why Miss Selah and her sisters don’t wish to subject themselves to the permanent ma
nagement of their own grandmama.”
“Good Lord, I do believe you have a point.” Beaumont surveyed Levi with respect. “Since you seem to have developed something of a rapport with the elder Miss Daughtry, I wonder if we might strike a mutually beneficial arrangement. I’d be willing to pay your expenses—plus a tidy commission—if you’d travel to Tupelo, meet with the sisters, and convince them to sell their mausoleum to my company. Then, if you’re interested, I’ll entertain the notion of retaining your services for the purpose of developing the property and getting the hotel ready to open for business.”
Six
Oxford, Mississippi
With his ruined features concealed by the starless night, Daughtry slouched past the burned-out shell of the Oxford courthouse—target of a series of Yankee bombs during the Late Unpleasantness. He’d heard rumors the building was going to be rebuilt and its clock tower replaced, now that the state had received federal reconstruction funds.
Life moved on, enemies expected to kiss and make up.
He bared his teeth. But not him, and not Scully. Long ago, when Daughtry was sent to Camp Douglas for nothing more than executing wartime justice, Scully had promised that when the war was over and things settled down in Mississippi, he would do anything he could to help his commander. Daughtry had already taken care of the two murdering rapists who had escaped in Tennessee. Now he was on to the ones who had ruined his own plantation. A man could spend half his life building an empire from nothing, and the minute he turned his back, a collection of lazy, jealous villains did their best to rip it to shreds. Intolerable.
But he was going to put it back together. Even if he couldn’t run it himself—somehow, some way—his daughters would stand on his property, rebuild his kingdom. He’d lasso the wind and ride it to hell and back if he had to.
He ducked down the first alley he came to. Scully had better not argue with him. They might no longer be military, but Daughtry still pulled rank. As the commanding officer of their decimated little unit, Daughtry had been the one to order the firing squad, and he would do it again—let the Federal governor be cursed. He’d taken full responsibility for the incident, making sure his men went free. That was the price of responsibility. Scully, God bless him, had kept up a sporadic correspondence, letting him know his girls were safe with their maternal grandparents in Memphis. And after Daughtry escaped in the transfer to Fort Macon and made it to Mexico, Scully wrote to advise him of the general amnesty of Christmas 1868.