by Beth White
Wyatt addressed his shoes. “I felt bad—badly, that is—about giving away Doc’s trade secret. I told him you misunderstood what it was all about, and those chemicals weren’t—”
“Wyatt!” Doc said sharply. “Shut up.”
“Oh. Yes, sir.”
“Well, here’s the thing, Kidd,” Levi said. “You’re the one who has misunderstood, apparently. I have no interest whatsoever in stealing your research.”
Doc scowled. “Then what—”
“Come on, man, use your head. If you had come upon a cache of fuses and shells and chemicals and powder in a plantation ice house populated by a bunch of women, don’t you think you’d be just a tad curious as to their origin?” Levi spread his hands. “Wyatt was there when I found them, but naturally denied any knowledge of how they got there. However, something he said made me question Nathan Vincent, who hinted that he was involved in a project having to do with electromagnetism. Which is a subject that I happen to be vaguely familiar with.” He paused. “And you happen to be the only individual I’ve met in this godforsaken backwater town with the mental capacity to understand such a complex idea, let alone develop a practical use for it. It wasn’t such a great leap.”
One of Doc’s eyebrows lifted. “Laying it on a bit thick, old son.”
“I’m a hotel developer,” Levi insisted. “What would I care about electrical wires and chemicals?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it? Why were you poking around in my business?”
Levi knew he’d better be careful with the rest of this conversation. “I’m always interested in making connections with innovators who are developing technical advances with applications for the service industries. Transportation, lodging, food, communication. From now on into the next century, people are going to be more mobile than ever. That type of development and research requires funding. Lots of it. And that’s my specialty. Look how I connected Beaumont and the Daughtry ladies.”
Doc stared at him, blue eyes piercing. Finally he released a disgusted breath. “I hate that part of the process. It does take money to purchase materials and equipment, and to feed myself while I’m testing and failing, analyzing and regrouping, and then testing again. But hobnobbing with people who understand nothing about my work, who just want to use it, is a waste of precious time. I’m not naive—I know that what I’m doing will make somebody wealthy. But I honestly couldn’t care less if that somebody is me. I simply want to give people longer, more productive, less painful lives.”
The longer Kidd’s speech went on, the more convinced Levi became that he had not located his master criminal. But that did not mean Doc didn’t have some information that might lead him to the right person—or group of people.
Levi held up a hand. “Wait. That’s all fine. But it still doesn’t explain those materials I found at Daughtry House. Most of it was Confederate issue, and I’m assuming you didn’t sit out the war.”
“Of course I didn’t. I organized a battlefield hospital right here at the Gum Tree Hotel and treated whoever came my way—whatever the color of his uniform. But, Riggins, I’m a physician! What on earth would I do with ammunition shells?”
“Well, there’s that,” Levi admitted. “So let’s assume you weren’t storing materials at Ithaca. You did happen along there more than once—at suspicious times and with no plausible excuse.”
Doc blew out a disgusted breath. “One needs an excuse for a social visit?”
“If one is an antisocial curmudgeon, one does.”
“I’ll have you know I get along quite well with my patients.”
“That would be people who are too sick to argue.”
They stared at one another. Finally Doc shrugged and looked at Wyatt. “Go sit on the porch for a few minutes, son.”
“But Doc—”
“Obey me.”
Wyatt left, slamming the front door.
Doc started to pace the room. “This goes no further, do you hear me?”
“Of course.” Levi simply stood where he was. He would write down what he heard later.
“There’s a lady I’m fond of who lives in the neighborhood.”
“A what?” Ithaca wasn’t exactly a neighborhood. It was several square miles of plantation inhabited by one white family. Of course it was possible that Kidd was involved in an interracial affair.
“You heard me.” Doc’s color rose. “She doesn’t know I—that my feelings are engaged. That is why I insist that you respect my privacy.”
Levi nodded.
“Swear it!”
“All right!” Levi raised his hands. “I swear not to tell a soul. But what’s the problem? If you would simply tell her—”
“Riggins, you of all people should understand the complications of falling in love with a difficult woman.”
“What do you mean?”
Doc paused in his perambulations, his expression sardonic. “Do you think no one knows you’re head over heels for Selah Daughtry?”
Twenty-Six
DAUGHTRY PAUSED TO DUST OFF HIS JACKET and straighten his tie, then limped up the steps of the Tupelo post office. Off and on over the years, he’d wondered what postmaster Daniel Carpenter thought when a Wanted poster featuring a photograph of his old friend, one of Tupelo’s most celebrated Confederate officers, landed on his desk. His appearance had changed enough in nine years that it shouldn’t matter, but he was about to find out.
He knew his clothes were on the ragged side, and he needed a haircut and beard trim. He’d bathed in the creek this morning before daylight, though, so at least he shouldn’t smell too bad.
Once he was inside, he stopped to look around. The telegraph apparatus was new, but the Wanted posters were still tacked on the wall above the writing desk. Thumbs tucked in his suspenders, he ambled over.
Reward: $1000 for the apprehension of Jonathan Daughtry, wanted for murder—escaped from Federal Prison October 1865.
No photograph of him in his uniform, just the bald, brutal words, as if he didn’t even deserve the recognition of his likeness.
An angry buzz overtook his senses at the memory of that Yankee judge pronouncing sentence. Killing a pack of rabid dogs was not murder, and neither was ridding the world of a gang of raping thieves. The world had truly gone upside down.
In one swipe, he ripped the paper off the wall, crumpled it, and cast it into the waste bin beneath the desk. The red haze bled away as he stood there blinking at the blank space on the wall. At last he was calm enough to turn around and make his way to the counter.
Carpenter greeted him with a pleasant smile. “Good afternoon, sir. How can I help you?”
Good Lord, the man had grown old. He doesn’t know me. Daughtry wasn’t sure what to think of that. “I need to send a telegram,” he said.
“All right. You’re new in town, I see. Supplies are on the desk over—” The postmaster frowned at the wall with the missing poster, as if he knew something wasn’t right, then glanced back at Daughtry. “—at that desk. Just fill out one of the forms with your message and bring it back to me.” Before Daughtry could move, Carpenter squinted. “You seem familiar. Do I know you?”
“I’m just arriving,” Daughtry said. “So maybe you could give me a little further information. I’m looking for a young Yankee officer who’s been staying out at Ithaca.”
“Oh, you must mean Riggins, though as far as I know he’s not active duty anymore. Nice fellow. You just missed him. He was in here less than an hour ago.”
“That right? Was he by himself?”
“He seemed to be.”
He’d missed a perfect chance to get rid of him. “Any idea where he went from here?”
Carpenter scratched his head. “Do you mind telling me why you want to know? As a government employee, I have to be careful what information goes in and out of here.”
Daughtry almost drew himself up to tell the fool who he was. Just in time, he caught himself. “As you can tell, I’m not swimming in the best of circumstances. I un
derstand Riggins is a lawyer who specializes in helping war vets like me get on the right side of property rights.”
“Oh, well, in that case, I saw him head across the street to the Mercantile. Of course I don’t know if he would still—”
“Much obliged.”
“What about the telegram?”
Daughtry was already at the door.
He entered the Mercantile, saw no one but loudmouth Oliver Whitmore behind the counter.
“Afternoon, sir!” Whitmore called out. “Let me know if you don’t see what you need.”
Fuming, Daughtry turned around and walked back out. Where had that blasted Yankee gone? L. E. Vine, aka Riggins, masquerading as a lawyer, but no telling what he was really up to.
“Who you looking for?” came a querulous voice just behind him.
Daughtry turned and found a wizened old man perched in a rocking chair near a checkerboard on a barrel. He’d been in such a hurry, he hadn’t even noticed the man on the way in. “Hello, Gramps! I thought I saw a man going in here a little while ago. I seem to have just missed him, though. Young fellow, name of Riggins. You seen him?”
“I beat him in checkers just yesterday. Don’t ’pear to have time for games today. What’s your business with him?”
People sure were suspicious today. Daughtry laughed. “Nothing serious. Little property dispute I want his help with.”
“Smart young feller, Yankee and all, can’t half understand him. I think I saw him over near the bookstore with that pretty Daughtry girl—the one got the preacher drooling like a young fool.”
All his girls were pretty, but he didn’t bother to pursue which one. “Thanks, old man,” he said, taking the steps down, “I’ll just—”
“Ain’t there no more, though.”
Daughtry stopped, frowned over his shoulder. “What?”
“They split up, she walked over here to the Mercantile, and he went on down the street.” The old man waved a gnarled hand in a vague easterly direction.
Daughtry scowled at the oldster, who looked pleased at having frustrated Daughtry’s search. “How long was the Daughtry girl in here?” That would give him an idea of how far away his quarry might have gotten by now.
Gramps settled back in the rocker and closed his eyes as if he’d gotten bored with the whole conversation. “Dunno. I fell asleep. You woke me up stomping past.”
Daughtry grunted and continued on his original path. Looked like he’d have to resort to wandering around town like a lost soul.
Then an elderly cackle drifted from the porch behind him. “Glad to see the Yanks didn’t manage to keep you down, Colonel.”
Daughtry hunched his shoulders but didn’t respond. At least somebody hadn’t forgotten him.
Twenty-Seven
March 23, 1870
“I understand there is an instrument here that needs a tuning.” The balding, bearded man standing at the front door, bowler hat in hand and baggage at his feet, grinned broadly.
Selah tried for a frantic moment to remember where she’d seen the man before. “Mr. Spencer!” She flung her arms around him, then quickly stepped back in embarrassment. “Forgive my enthusiasm. I’m just so surprised to see you—and glad, of course! Come in!”
Chuckling, Spencer laid his hat on a side table and grasped Selah’s hands warmly. “The whole family send their regards, my dear. Apologies for dropping in without warning, but Riggins wanted it to be a surprise.”
“Oh, it’s wonderful!” She drew him into the parlor, calling for one of the new housemaids to bring coffee and petit fours. “Take Mr. Spencer’s luggage into the master suite,” she told the girl, then seated her guest in the most comfortable chair in the parlor. “So tell me, how is Mrs. Spencer? And the children?”
Spencer rolled his eyes. “All was well when I left. Though there was a slight to-do this morning when Caroline decided to start calling her rag doll Jezzy—short for Jezebel. What little girl names her dolly after the wickedest queen in the whole Bible?”
Selah laughed. “Caroline must be one of those creative types like Joelle. She once got her legs birched for yanking down the curtains in her room to make a wedding train.”
“I’m looking forward to meeting your sister. Isn’t she the pianist in the family?”
“Yes. Aurora, our youngest sister, is here now too—along with my grandmother and several other house guests. We’ve had quite the uproar since going into the hotel business.”
“I’ll enjoy hearing all about it. Riggins wrote to say that you were able to keep from forfeiting the property to the bank after all. I must say, the place is quite impressive, driving up from the gate.”
“Thank you. We’ve been working hard to make repairs, and our gardener, Mose, is quite talented with the landscaping. He actually helped my mother lay in the plantings many years ago. Mr. Riggins has been . . .” She looked down. “We couldn’t have done any of this without him. He helped us negotiate with an investor who was once a family friend.”
There was a short pause while Spencer seemed to be waiting for her to elaborate. When she didn’t, he asked, “Is Riggins hereabouts? I’d like to pay my respects before I get down to the business of tuning.”
“I’m not sure where he is, frankly. I haven’t seen much of him in the last couple of days. He’s been working to clean out the overseer’s old cabin, and I’ve been finalizing details for the party.” She hadn’t had much help from her sisters, who had come back from the shopping trip with armloads of dressmaking supplies and proceeded to commandeer Charmion. Selah sighed as she thought of the yellow ball dress languishing in the wardrobe in her room.
“I see,” Spencer said with a puzzled look. “I was under the impression that the two of you . . . Well, my wife always accuses me of an overabundance of romanticism. I suppose I want everyone I meet to be as happy as we are!”
Remembering the abundantly romantic evening in the pagoda, locked in Levi’s arms, Selah couldn’t help wishing the same thing. She held her tongue, merely lifted her shoulders unhappily.
“In that case, perhaps you’ll allow me to examine my patient?” Spencer glanced at the piano on the other side of the room near the window.
“Yes, of course.” Selah jumped to her feet. “Gladys will be back with the coffee in just a moment, I’m sure.”
Spencer rose as well. “No rush on that, my dear. My, my, what a beautiful instrument! That offset keyboard is rather a rarity.”
“That’s what I understand. Would you mind if I leave you to it? I’ve quite a few items to take care of this morning before lunch.”
“Certainly, don’t mind me. I’ll just be plinking and plunking for a couple of hours.”
“I’ll find Wyatt and send him in. I know he’ll be glad to see you again. And Joelle will want to meet you!”
“Excellent,” Spencer said, lifting the lid of the piano. “I shall look forward to it.”
Selah fled. The piano was the last thing on her mind.
Levi didn’t know much about the previous tenant of the overseer’s cabin, but it had turned into quite a nice little place, once he bleached the floors and built-in shelving, replaced the mattress, and made up the bed with clean linens. ThomasAnne turned out to be his ally in the task of locating furniture. In the attic she found him two oil lamps, a horsehair rocker with a side table, and a few kitchen items. He was also now the proud owner of a sturdy pine table and chairs made onsite in some distant past. There was even a picture of a dragon-slaying knight that some enterprising youngster had painted on a box lid. There was no signature, but he suspected Joelle might be the artist, judging by its lurid color palette and dramatic brushwork. He nailed it to the wall over his bed.
He was sitting in a straight chair tipped against the wall of his tiny front porch, enjoying the cool spring breeze sighing through the trees, when he spied Selah’s distinctive swinging walk coming from the direction of the pagoda.
The chair hit the floor. She had been avoiding him as hard as sh
e could for the last day or so, and he had just let her be. But if she needed him—
He hurried to meet her. “Selah! Is something wrong?”
She tilted her head. “No, of course not. Why would you think that?” But she was pleating the edge of her apron, and her gaze skated everywhere but his face. He wanted to kiss her.
Instead, he scowled. “No reason. I’ve got my place fit for habitation. And Nathan and Charmion’s cabin is clean and set up too.”
“I was looking for Wyatt. Mr. Spencer has arrived.” She folded her arms. “Levi, I wish you’d warned me he would be coming. I look a perfect fright!”
He skimmed her tidy figure. She looked pretty much as she always did. “I’m sorry, I thought you would like—”
“Never mind. I’m glad to see him, and Joelle will be thrilled to have the piano tuned. It was very thoughtful of you. So where is Wyatt?”
“I assume he’s with Doc. Would you like to see my place?”
“No! I mean—” She leaned past him to peer at the cabin. “It looks very nice.”
“Selah, what is the matter with you today? Something is just . . . I don’t know, off.”
“I have no idea what you mean.” She stepped around him, walked on to the cabin, and disappeared inside. By the time he’d reached the porch, she was back in the doorway with a funny look on her face. “Where did you get that picture?”
“ThomasAnne found it in the attic.”
“It’s mine.”
“Joelle painted it for you? Do you want it back?”
“No, I painted it. Myself. Charmion and I were . . .” She put her hands over her face.
He reached her in one step and pulled her into his arms. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I’ll give it back—”
“Don’t be silly,” she choked out, clutching the front of his shirt. “It just caught me off guard. I remember the day I painted it. Papa had let me use his paints—a rare treat—so I took them out on the back porch. Charmion sat down with me, to watch. She’s the real artist, so she was telling me which colors to pick and we were laughing, having so much fun.” Her voice roughened, and she swallowed. “Then Papa came back from hunting with some other men, and he saw me sitting there with Charmion like two close friends do. He got so angry and sent her out to the kitchen, told her never to touch his paints, and he actually whipped me. I put the painting under my bed, didn’t sign it, never wanted to see it again.”