Southern Rapture

by Jennifer Blake

  "You are a fine and beautiful woman and a worthwhile human being; never forget that. If things don't work out, don't be too proud to come back home."

  "I won't," Angelique said, her voice soft. "I would not have cried all over you if you had not been so understanding, but I'm glad you were. You have helped me so much. I'm grateful."

  Aunt Em shook her head. "You know we wish you happiness?"

  "I know. Well, I had better go if I'm to be packed in time."

  Angelique looked around for her hat, which lay on a nearby table. She put it back on and secured it with the pin that was thrust through it. Marie moved to straighten the veil that fell down the back, then reached for her net purse, which lay on the bed.

  They left the room in a group and moved out onto the veranda. There was a series of good-byes, then the two visitors went down the steps to their buggy. Lettie, Sally Anne, and Aunt Em stood watching and waving until they were out of sight.

  Aunt Em lowered her arm. Her face grim, she said, "If O'Connor had never asked her to go to New Orleans, Angelique would have been perfectly happy where she was. I could kill that man."

  "I have a better idea," Lettie said, her eyes gleaming with the inspiration that had been growing for the better part of the past half hour.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "What do you mean?"

  The two women spoke at the same time. There was suspicion in Aunt Em's voice. Sally Anne sounded irritated and intrigued as she turned to search Lettie's face.

  Lettie told them exactly what she had in mind.

  There were five of them when they set out the following evening. Sally Anne refused to allow Lettie to go alone; she couldn't bear to miss out on the excitement. Aunt Em insisted on going because it was simply too dangerous for the two young women without protection. Lionel would not stay behind because he wanted to help Mast' Ranny. And Mama Tass would not let Lionel go without her.

  Lettie did not object to the company. Reinforcements were welcome, so long as they stayed out of sight. It was entirely possible that they would be needed. What she was going to do was risky at best; at worst, it could be disastrous. With the others present, the situation might be saved by turning it into some kind of monstrous practical joke.

  They left before nightfall, to all appearances just the family from Splendora traveling by wagon to some gathering, with a saddle horse trotting along behind. Lettie was driving with Aunt Em up beside her. The others were in the back sitting on a bench, with their feet propped on a long, quilt-wrapped bundle. Smiling, chatting among themselves in an attempt to appear at ease, they passed through town and continued south toward Isle Brevelle.

  It was dusk dark by the time they came within a half mile of the turnoff for the drive of the house that belonged to Monsieur La Cour, Angelique's father. It was Aunt Em who had chosen the place, first of all because it had a plum thicket and a grove of scrubby post oaks just beyond a tight curve, and second because just back up the road was an abandoned farmhouse.

  They pulled into the farmyard and wheeled the wagon around behind the old house with its blank windows and sagging door so that it was well hidden. Lionel was dispatched to make his way to the La Cour house to watch for a short while to be certain their quarry had not already come and gone. Mama Tass unpacked a basket containing a cold supper, and they all ate standing up as they waited for Lionel.

  In between bites of biscuit and cold chicken, Lettie took the long bundle from the back and unwrapped it. She laid the weapons it contained on the seat, then shook out the man's hat, coat, shirt, and trousers; the feather pillows; the large black kerchief; and a revolver, the same one she had taken from the Thorn at the corn crib. Removing her own clothing, she began to put the other things on.

  By the time Lionel returned, night had fallen. Angelique was still at the house, he reported; he had seen her through the windows moving back and forth in her room.

  The boy was handed biscuits and chicken, and the rest of the food was put away. Aunt Em and Sally Anne each took a rifle from the wagon seat. Mama Tass fished a wicked-looking carving knife from underneath it. Lionel, holding the biscuit he had left in his mouth, reached into his pocket and brought out a slingshot and a handful of rocks. Mama Tass was detailed to stay with the wagon, ready to send it back toward Splendora at speed if necessary. The others moved quietly after Lettie, who led the horse, as they made their way toward the road.

  Lettie moved on past the plum thicket Aunt Em had marked out, drawing her mount into the cover of the grove of post oaks. The others pushed their way into the thorny concealment of the low-growing plum trees, though not without a sharp exclamation or two under their breaths and even what sounded like a few mild oaths.

  In the grove, Lettie turned the horse's head toward the road. She looked up at the man's saddle with a pillow tied to the seat, then down at her own form made portly with more pillows. With her mouth set in a determined line, she put her foot in the stirrup, grasped the saddle with both hands, and pulled herself upward.

  She couldn't do it. Her pillow-clad breast hit the edge of the saddle and she dropped back to the ground. She tried again. The same thing happened.

  The sounds of hoofbeats. Someone was coming. She had to be ready. She reached higher, gave a mighty heave.

  She was in the saddle, sitting high on the pillow that was to give her a man's stature. She quieted the dancing horse that had been disturbed by her strange appearance and her efforts. With one hand, she shifted the pads in the shoulders of her coat for the correct broad appearance, then adjusted her hat lower across her face, pulled her black kerchief higher over her nose, and looked up the road.

  For a moment she thought she was seeing a ghost. It was not yet moonrise, and in the darkness all that was visible was a shifting white blur. She closed her eyes tight and opened them again. The blur was a light-colored shirt worn by a man on a dark-colored horse. Closer he came. It was an old black man slouched in the saddle of a nag so rawboned and ancient it was comical in its ugliness.

  A single horseman, not a man in a buggy. He was not their quarry. Lettie sat still. The old man trotted past and faded into the night.

  The minutes passed. She relaxed and lowered her kerchief, then scratched her upper lip with one careful finger. Her mustache with its spirit gum adhesive itched infernally. Heaven alone knew how Ransom had been able to stand it so often and for so long at a time. She took off her hat and fanned herself with it. Hot, it was so hot girded around with pillows as she was. It would be a good thing if it rained again soon to cool things off and to wash the dust from the trees. At least the mosquitoes weren't out tonight.

  Strange, ridiculous things went through Lettie's mind. What was she going to say? "Stand and deliver!" like some highwayman on an English heath? Or would a simple "Stop!" do? Maybe she should have constructed a bulbous nose for herself? It would have been a better disguise in case there was a carriage lantern, and it might have changed the sound of her voice if it had pinched her nostrils.

  What did she think she was doing? Was she crazy?

  It was best not to answer such questions. She thought instead of the ease with which Mama Tass had gone about finding the things she needed for her role, as if it was not an unaccustomed task, and of Lionel's easy acceptance of his role as spy.

  Ranny. He had been so innocent. She regretted his loss. The love he had offered her, so simple and pure, had been besmirched. She had not known how much she had come to depend on it until it had been taken away. That was not something she could easily forgive.

  At the same time, she was devoutly thankful to know that her responses to him, which could not be characterized as either simple or pure, were not the perversion she had thought them to be. She could hold her head up again, look herself in the eye in the mirror. Her transgressions were at least understandable, and so forgivable. It was possible that she could, eventually, come to live with them.

  It was such a relief to be through with doubts, to know once and fo
r all that Ransom Tyler was the Thorn, and no killer. Where that left the matter she could not quite see. It appeared, however, that Aunt Em might be right. But at least she was free, at last, of any compulsion to discover who had murdered her brother and Johnny. That was a job for the law, and she would let them do it. There was only one last thing that had to be done by her now, tonight, and then she could go with a clear conscience and basically an easy mind. If at times she dreamed of masked men, of phantom lovers who visited in the dark, that was her penance, one she would gladly pay.

  A vehicle was coming, driven fast. She replaced her hat and kerchief, gathered the reins in her hand, and sat up straight, her every sense alert. It was odd how strong was the smell of dust and oak leaf mold, crushed grass and bitter weeds from where they had turned into the overgrown drive of the farmhouse. Odd, too, how soft and velvety the air felt against her skin and how friendly the concealing darkness seemed all around her. She could feel her heart jarring against her ribs, feel the blood pulsing along her veins. Alive, she was so alive. She was going to remember this night and others when she was a very old lady.

  The buggy was coming nearer. She kept her head turned, watching it through the trees as it appeared down the road. It carried no lanterns. In the gleam of starshine it was a dark, moving shadow trailing a gray plume of dust. She nudged her horse with her heel, moving closer to the edge of the trees. From the direction of the plum thicket issued a clear, sharp whistle. Lionel. She smiled a little, a smile that quickly faded as she steeled herself for what lay ahead.

  The driver of the buggy wasn't going to check for the curve. Yes, now he was slowing. The horse he was driving leaned into the swing of the road, its mane tossing. The man's arms were taut, his hands full.

  Now!

  She kicked her horse and charged out of the trees and into the road. She pulled up hard so that the animal reared, neighing, dancing on its hind legs. The buggy horse shied violently, jerking in the shafts. The man on the seat cursed and came to his feet. He sawed on the reins, dragging the animal to a plunging, snorting standstill. Lettie brought her mount under control and drew her revolver as she straightened.

  "What in hell is the meaning of this?" the man in the buggy shouted with fury. "Get out of my way!"

  She had been practicing her hoarse whisper for twenty-four hours, until her throat was raw and the sound was as coarse as she could wish. She almost forgot to use it as she recognized the voice of the man in the buggy. Was this the gentleman for whom Angelique was waiting? There could be little doubt of it. No wonder the girl had been confident of her future.

  There was no time to reconsider, no time to change plans. He had released one hand from the reins, reaching inside his coat.

  "Don't!" she rasped. "Put your hands in the air. Now!"

  He obeyed her, though slowly. "You stupid bastard," he said, his tone low and grating. "Do you know who I am?"

  "I know. Get down."

  "What?"

  "You heard me. Get down!" She raised the gun, pointing it at his heart. At this distance, she couldn't miss.

  "I'll have your balls for this!"

  "Try," she said.

  The amusement in her whisper seemed to enrage him. He surged to his feet, reaching once more toward his inside coat pocket. She aimed and squeezed the trigger of the weapon in her hand without conscious thought or remorse.

  The gun exploded, the recoil numbing her arm. Orange fire spat from a cloud of smoke. The man whipped around, falling back on the seat and grabbing his arm. His virulent curses singed the air.

  Lettie had not wanted to hurt him, not that he deserved much consideration after what he intended to do to Angelique. In any case, he had brought it on himself.

  She had to hurry now. The La Cour family might board themselves up inside their house at the sound of a shot in the night or they might come running to investigate. Behind the buggy, there was a movement at the edge of the plum thicket and the gleam of starlight on a rifle barrel. An instant later there was nothing.

  "I would advise you not to try that again!" she said, the words hard. "Now get down."

  "Who the hell do you think you are? The Thorn?"

  The gibe was thrown at her as he wrapped the reins around the whipstock and climbed down slowly, holding his arm. It shocked her, for that was the impression she wanted to convey. If she did not, what was the point? The certainty that she was not who she pretended to be rang so loudly in his voice that it sounded strange to her ears, but there was no time to consider it, nothing to do but to continue. She walked her horse a step closer and to the left, keeping the man well in sight.

  "Take off your clothes."

  There were more curses, but he obeyed. His jacket was thrown in the dirt. His cravat landed on it in a silken twist, followed by his shirt. His suspenders were lowered with difficulty as he favored his arm. There he stopped.

  "Boots and trousers, too."

  "Go to hell!"

  "After you," she answered. She meant the words to be harsh and drawling, but instead they had a crisp sound.

  He stared at her for a long moment. Abruptly he said, "I know your voice."

  A frisson of terror and purest dislike ran through her. She repeated slowly, as if to an idiot, "Boots and trousers."

  "It will come to me, and when it does …"

  He allowed the threat to hang in the air as he bent, hopping on one foot, to tug off first one boot, then the other. He lowered his trousers and stepped out of them, leaving him dressed only in his linen drawers.

  "Over against the tree." She waved the gun toward a post oak she had selected earlier. There were several lengths of grass rope around her saddle horn. She took them in her hand without removing her gaze from the pale figure of the man before her. Kicking her foot from the stirrup, she slid to the ground and ducked under her mount's head.

  "Arms behind you," she snapped.

  "I'm bleeding, damn you."

  He was, but not seriously. She had done no more than plow a furrow across his forearm, a source of satisfaction even as the sight of the damage made her feel a little queasy. Holding the revolver steady, keeping her distance, she eased around behind the tree.

  How to keep him covered and tie him up at the same time? There was no need to struggle with the question. Lionel was there, a silent shadow. As she grasped the man's wrist and pulled it back, the boy took the grass rope from her and looped it about her prisoner's hand, drawing it tight as she brought the other wrist behind the tree. In a moment it was done. To secure his feet presented no problem. As a final precaution, she took a handkerchief from her hip pocket and, stretching to her full height, bound his eyes.

  The man had fallen silent as if in angry concentration. She paused, considering whether to gag him or not. It made no real difference if he was found, providing they were well away by that time. She decided against it. At her gesture, Lionel melted back into the grove of oaks, heading toward the plum thicket. She saw the thicket shake as the others began to move out.

  She eased away from the tree, surveying her handiwork. It appeared that it would do. It would have to do. She had almost forgotten. From the pocket of her coat, she carefully removed the locust shell pierced by a thorn. She considered the man before her for long seconds. She could hang the emblem in the hair on his chest, but it might not stay. His nose was a handy place, but the handkerchief over his eyes was in the way. She allowed her gaze to settle on his drawers. There was a conspicuous spot. Before she could change her mind, she reached out and attached the locust shell.

  She swung away. Striding to the buggy, she unwrapped the lines, then slapped the horse on the rump with them, sending the buggy rattling away into the night. She turned to her own mount, taking up the trailing reins. Only then did she notice the pile of clothes. Her face grim, she made a bundle of them, tying the sleeves of the coat around it. Something in one of the pockets made a dull, clanking sound.

  Her prisoner began to jerk at his bonds, uttering frantic protests and
curses. Lettie ignored them as she slung the bundle up and looped it on her saddle horn. Her heart was beating so strongly, there was such excitement in her veins, that this time it was as nothing to mount her horse. She turned its head in the direction of the dark farmhouse.

  The others, using the covering sound of the departing buggy, had already moved the wagon into the road and some distance along it. Lettie kicked her horse into motion, catching up to them. They paused long enough for her to toss the bundle of clothing into the wagon and climb in after it. The moment her horse was secured to the tailgate and Lionel's eyes were covered, she began to strip. In a few brief moments, they were only a party of women and a small boy once more.

  They proceeded sedately homeward. Behind them, struggling and cursing against the post oak, they left not the tax collector O'Connor but Martin Eden.

  They toasted the success of their mission with blackberry cordial, using Aunt Em's special glasses of fragile Venetian crystal that had been a wedding gift. Even Lionel had a glass of it, though two minutes after he had drunk it, he put his head down on the kitchen table and closed his eyes.

  Their spirits were treetop high with their success and the relief that the ordeal was over. The other women had little doubt that when Martin was found with the locust symbol on his drawers, it would be taken as another exploit of the Thorn, and Ranny's release would shortly follow. Aunt Em speculated endlessly about when Ranny would be home. Her best estimate would not allow her to think he would make it before dinner of the following day; still, she and Mama Tass had an enjoyable time planning the meal they would give him in celebration. Sally Anne put in a suggestion now and again. Lettie listened to them and smiled at their sallies, but she could not be quite so sanguine about the outcome of what they had done.

  "Lettie, honey," the older woman said, "let me pour you a little more cordial. You are still so pale. You aren't going to turn all vaporish on us now that it's over, are you?"

  She shook her head, her lips curving in a faint smile. "I just keep thinking of Martin. What if he frees himself before anyone can find him and see the locust? What if he doesn't report what happened? It will all be for nothing."