Shelter from the Storm

by Patricia Rice

  “Laura, if you get up one more time, I’ll hog-tie you to the chair. Unless you tell me you’re going upstairs to take a nap, I’m not letting you out of my sight.” Jonathan rose, forcing her back toward the sofa with an intimidating glare.

  Jonathan wasn’t an excessively tall man, but he was taller than Laura, and he appeared exceedingly protective as he steered her back to the chair. Ward scarcely had time to absorb their interaction when the doctor turned determined gray eyes in his direction.

  “Ward, if Miss Laura doesn’t object, I would like your permission to court her. I realize now isn’t the appropriate time to begin my addresses, but I wanted you to know where things stand.”

  Startled, Laura lifted her gaze to Jonathan’s slim frame. Never had she considered his interest as anything but a fatherly one. Yet, seeing him now, his long serious face solemn, his gentle hands relaxed and confident, she realized she had underestimated him. Jonathan Broadbent resembled her in more than stature. He was a quiet, resourceful man who got things done. Even if it had never occurred to her to look at him as a potential husband, she knew she would be honored to be his wife.

  Ward met her startled gaze, and sadness flickered in his eyes even as a smile curled his lips. “Well, Miss Laura, do you have any objection?”

  Her knees quaked almost as badly as they had the night before. She had made a very large mistake in her one and only suitor. She had reason to doubt her judgment in matters of this consequence. But if she would ever trust anyone again, it would be Jonathan Broadbent.

  Vowing never to seem a helpless ninnyhammer again, Laura returned to her feet and met Jonathan’s look squarely. “I am honored at your interest, sir, and I offer no objection, but you will forgive me for reminding you that I am not Sallie. I do not even know how to be Sallie. So please don’t expect me to look or act like her, even if I am a Kincaid.”

  She swept off despite their protests. She couldn’t wear her hair in elegant curls or balance fashionable hats upon her chignon. She wasn’t tall enough to look graceful in long trains or formal gowns. She couldn’t wave her fan and look interested at a party where the only topic was gossip. She couldn’t do that and wouldn’t try. She knew herself better these days.

  Chapter 7

  August 1865

  Cassius Marcus Wickliffe leaned his shoulders against the post of the captain’s deck of the steamboat and drew thoughtfully on his cheroot as he gazed over the muddy brown waters in the boat’s wake. They had just pulled away from Cairo and were headed up the Ohio, and he was seriously doubting his sanity in choosing this river instead of the broad expanse of the Mississippi just on the other side of the bank.

  He could always get off at Paducah and turn back, he supposed. He didn’t have to go on with this fool’s journey. But he really had no reason to go back. Grimacing at this stark realization, he flung the cigar over the side, watched the wind carry it safely past the lower deck to the water, then stretched to his full height and started for the stairs to the main salon.

  A gambler who had judged him an easy mark at the beginning of the journey slapped him on the back as he entered the salon. “Cash, just the fellow I don’t want to see. Go away and titillate the ladies, why don’t you, while I find me an easier partner to complete this table.”

  Cash gazed down at the table, where two neatly attired gentlemen sat sipping bourbon and shuffling a deck of cards. Both wore the tailored linen coats, expensively embroidered waistcoats, and high top hats of wealthy men returning from a successful business trip. Old urges flared, and with reckless disregard to the gambler’s anxiety and his own new status, Cash pulled out a chair and sat down.

  “Don’t mind if I do, thank you, Jack. Gentlemen, how do you do? My name’s Wickliffe, Cash Wickliffe. And yours?” He enjoyed throwing out his name and waiting for the signs of recognition or nonrecognition. In the West his name was met with discreet admiration and perhaps some wariness. The farther east he came, the less likely anyone was to recognize him. He had a feeling that was about to change, and not for the better, but these gentlemen apparently weren’t from Kentucky. They nodded politely.

  The dapper gambler hid his dismay and resignedly settled in the remaining chair to make the introductions.

  “You ain’t from these parts, are you? What’s your business, Wickliffe?” an older gentleman asked.

  The polished cards snapped on the table. Cash scooped his up and fanned them as he spoke. “I’m from California, sir. Grand territory, where the streets are paved with gold if you kill enough prospectors for it, and the ladies are sweet as honey as long as you stick to the golden streets.”

  Jack threw out his stake and discarded a card. “In other words, Mr. Wickliffe here made his money drifting across country and built himself a fancy ranch with the proceeds.”

  A younger man laughed and threw in his coins. “That sounds like a warning. Are you a professional gambler, Mr. Wickliffe? If so, I’ll start counting my cards. I don’t cotton to being cheated.”

  Cash unbuttoned his tailored black frock coat, pulled a coin from his gold brocade waistcoat and flipped it to the table with lazy grace. “Every successful businessman is a gambler, sir. I don’t claim to be anything else. One who counts his cards can usually play the odds; you should be safe.”

  “Why do I have the feeling you’re glossing over the truth, Wickliffe?” The older man perched his hand of cards on his paunch to better peruse it.

  “Because who would listen to crude reality, sir? I have an appointment with a lovely lady at six, gentlemen. Shall we play?”

  By the appointed time, the stack of coins in front of Cash considerably outweighed those before the other players, and they regarded his impending departure with relief.

  “Give us a chance to earn it back later, Wickliffe?” the younger inquired.

  Cash pocketed his winnings. “I don’t expect to be free until morning, gentlemen. Perhaps some other time.”

  They watched as he strode off to greet an impatient lady tapping her slippered toe outside the salon. At Cash’s approach, a smile spread across her lovely face, and she took his arm with a flirtatious look. The men watched the sway of her hips all the way down the promenade deck.

  “She his wife?” the older man inquired, clipping off the end of his cigar.

  “Not likely,” the gambler answered resignedly, scooping up the small sum Cash had allowed him to keep. “Why should a man like that marry when he can have all he wants without the strings attached?”

  The other man grunted, drew deep on his cigar, and expelled the smoke in a single ring before replying. “For money and power, of course. Watch out for hungry men, they’ll eat you alive.”

  The younger man pocketed his few remaining coins with a grimace. “Why didn’t you give me that warning earlier?”

  At dawn a few days later, Cash was out on deck watching the sun rise over the horizon that would all too soon include a view of his destination. The lady in his cabin wouldn’t miss him until he was gone.

  He didn’t know why he had decided to return. The initial excuse had been a desire to improve his breeding stock with some high-quality thoroughbreds from Kentucky, but the arduous task of transporting them to California scarcely made the excuse creditable.

  He was bored. That was part of the problem. In the eight years since he had left this place, he had traveled across country, learning to gamble from professionals, working on railroads when desperate, riding herd on cattle when he had contemplated settling in Texas. He hadn’t found another place like Kentucky until he had reached the northern valleys of California, and there he had stayed and built his initial nest egg into a considerable sum. He wasn’t wealthy by California standards, but he was comfortable. And bored.

  White teeth flashed in a sardonic grin at himself. He’d never thought to see the day when having money would bore him. He still remembered all too clearly the tarpaper shack that leaked every time it rained and dripped icicles when it snowed. The scars of working as ano
ther man’s slave still marred his flesh as well as his mind. His hatred of the ignorant fools who had allowed his mother to die had not diminished with time, but wealth couldn’t bring her back to life or replace the love he had lost with her passing.

  Perhaps that was why he was returning. The only saving grace he had ever known was here in the lush bluegrass of Kentucky. He remembered the soft, cool voices of the women, their delicate perfumes, their elegant walks. He had been an outsider looking in, but he remembered them more distinctly than the dim image of his drunken father. He’d met with nothing like them in all his journeys. And it was time he began to look around.

  He wondered how the inhabitants of Stone Creek had survived the war. The wealthy would have bought their way out of conscription, but many were young and hotheaded enough to take to battle. The Breckinridge men had probably marched off in glory and to the sighs of the women. He knew Doc Broadbent had sense enough to stay out of the conflict. He would really enjoy seeing the old cynic again. His infrequent letters had the power to make him homesick.

  Cash drew out his cheroot as the smoke of Louisville clouded the skyline. He was curious to know who Sallie Kincaid had chosen. Doc had never seen fit to mention her in his infrequent letters. Perhaps there would be a whole new crop of young lovelies to choose from. ’Twas a pity he couldn’t wait another ten years or so to marry. He could come back and court some daughter of Sallie’s, give her proper fits. His sardonic grin didn’t reach his eyes.

  That was the challenge he really sought. Doc had mentioned the older Kincaids were dead and the farm was having trouble. The idea of someday owning Stone Creek Farm had always been in the back of his mind. He would take it with or without Sallie, but a house like that needed a woman like Sallie to adorn it. Stone Creek offered one more exciting challenge he had yet to conquer.

  Cash’s memory swung to the image of a determined urchin in top hat and too-long skirts. She would be married by now too. He wondered what kind of husband she would have chosen. Funny to think of that little monkey married and having children, but he’d rather like to see her again, just to see what kind of woman the intelligent child had grown into.

  ***

  The branches of the overhanging oak provided ample shade from the afternoon sun, and the August breeze played with Laura’s skirts. A thunderstorm the previous day had swept away the humidity, and the air was fresh and clean for a change. Even the grass had regained some of its springtime color.

  Laura gazed at the tiny diamond in the box she held in her hand, and her heart beat nervously against her ribs. This should be a moment of joy, but she was more terrified than she had been as a six-year-old arriving at Stone Creek. She gazed up to Jonathan’s familiar angular face for reassurance, but found only further concern there.

  “I know I must seem as old as your father to you, Laura, but it’s not as if you were still a young debutante. You’re a grown woman now, a widow who knows what life is like. I’ll not press you to make a choice just yet, if you’re not ready. I just want you to know what my intentions are.”

  In that moment Laura knew how easy it would be to love this man. Wonderingly, she touched his taut cheek, and watched hope flare in his eyes. He was a curious, sensitive man, too sensitive for this world, and he covered the flaw with a worldly cynicism that struck a chord in her.

  In some ways they were too much alike. They were observers more than participants in the gay society that whirled around them. She wasn’t at all certain that was a healthy basis for marriage, but it was more than she had in common with any other man of her acquaintance.

  If her soul cried out for something more, for life and love and the desire for freedom that she hid, Laura knew she had little chance of finding better than Jonathan. At times she still dismayed him. He was better than Ward at understanding that she had her own mind. He didn’t expect her to be the useless trophy that Sallie was.

  Perhaps Jonathan would prefer it if she were more conformable to his opinions, and perhaps she would learn to bow to his wishes when they did not interfere too strongly with her own. She had learned not to expect marriage to be the hearts and flowers her romantic youth had envisioned. There would be compromises. She could only hope she had found a man willing to accept that the compromises worked both ways.

  Laura slid her hand shyly back to her lap. She had kissed only one man in her life. She knew it was expected of her now, but she had no idea how to begin. “I don’t think a woman could ask for a man better than you, Jonathan.”

  Jonathan touched her chin to turn her face in his direction. “Does that mean yes? Or that you still wish to think about it?”

  Laura loved the honesty of his gray eyes, the way hope joined with eagerness and a hint of amusement. All doubt fled, and she returned his honesty with courage. “I would have said yes that first day you asked Ward to court me, but I feared you would realize your mistake in time.”

  Jonathan grinned and swept the bulky old-fashioned bonnet back from her face to touch her hair. “I’m not old enough to make a fool of myself over a pretty face. I’ve known you for what you are since you were a little girl, Laura. You don’t scare me any.”

  His mouth closed firmly over hers. A ripple of shock coursed through Laura. Passion rose behind the gentleness of Jonathan’s touch, and she knew a momentary fear. She was a fraud, and he would soon know it. What would he do then? Her fears froze her in his arms, but he didn’t seem to think that at all odd. He gentled his kiss, brushed his lips across her forehead, and settled her more against his shoulder. The leather hood of his old barouche hid them from the road, but anyone passing by would recognize the carriage. This was not the time or place for intimacy. Laura relaxed as all he did was slide the ring on her finger.

  “Name a date, my love. After waiting all these years to make up my mind, I find I am suddenly impatient. I would have you in my house, under my roof, as soon as possible.”

  The thought was terrifying. All she had ever known was Stone Creek, with the exception of that horrible time in Cairo. Her memories of the days before Stone Creek were too vague and hazy to count. Stone Creek was her home, but he was asking her to leave and make another home with him, a home that another woman had once shared with him.

  She could not let him know her fears. Jonathan was a proud man, and a sensitive one. She would never hurt him. She should be as eager as he. Removing her bonnet so the breeze could ruffle her hair, Laura met his gaze squarely. “I see no reason to linger. We neither of us require a large ceremony. Just whatever time it takes to notify friends and family and find a preacher.”

  He couldn’t possibly hear the nervous pounding of her heart or read the lie in her eyes. Jonathan’s narrow face lit with quiet joy, and he pressed one last kiss to her lips. “I knew you would make me happy,” he whispered against her lips, and Laura buried her head against his shoulder to hide the tears as he wrapped her in his arms.

  Chapter 8

  Cash scraped his chair back from the drink-stained table and began to stash his winnings in his pockets. He didn’t know why he had come to this tavern, of all places, on his return to his boyhood home. The stale stench of cigar smoke probably dated back to the years his father had haunted these environs. From the lines on their faces, he dared say the scantily clad women leaning over his shoulder had been there then too. They would all know his name, but none had asked it.

  The gamblers at the table were much the worse for the night’s excesses. It was near noon now, but heavy thunderclouds turned the day to night through the filthy windows. The flickering oil lamp created sallow masks of their weary faces, and Cash wondered in disgust if his own looked as dissipated as theirs. He suffered no regret at pocketing their cash. He had not stolen it; they had given it away, fools that they were.

  When he rose none too steadily to his feet, the one who had lost the most made a howl of protest. “You can’t leave yet! A man don’t leave when he’s winning. Give us time to earn it back.”

  Cash had finally p
laced a name to the face and knew the protester to be a well-to-do planter who had made him sit in the kitchen when he had accompanied Doc to the planter’s sickbed. The fool had already placed the deed to part of his acreage on the table, and it wouldn’t be a moment’s work to take it, but self-disgust prohibited further excess. Cash shoved his chair back under the table.

  “Where I come from, a man would have to be a fool not to walk away when he’s winning. It’s been a pleasure, gentlemen, but it’s time I took some sleep.” For some odd reason he didn’t care to analyze, he had carried his Stetson to the table, and he put it on now. The low-crowned felt looked out-of-place among the stiff top hats of the wealthy and the crumpled slouch hats of the tenant farmers, almost as out-of-place as Cash felt.

  Before he could walk away, one of the farmers rose and grabbed Cash by the shoulder, shoving him toward the wall. He was a big man with broad shoulders and a belly falling over his belt, with arms hardened by years of manual labor. As a hush fell over the room, it was obvious the farmer was accustomed to having his way, and they waited for the slender newcomer to bow to his wishes.

  “We don’t take to smart-ass strangers telling us how to play the game, mister. Now, sit back down there and take your medicine like a man. The game ain’t done until we say it is.”

  Within a second, Cash had sized up his opponent’s strength and determined which ploy would work best. Size was the only advantage the farmer had, but he wasn’t in the mood for a fracas. With a sigh, he removed his Stetson and set it down, then straightened his shoulders to ease back the man’s hand. He dusted off his light linen coat, and at this seeming acquiescence, the man stepped back.

  When the tension had lightened to the degree desired, Cash balled up his fist and let swing with a right to the man’s belly. He followed it with a double-fisted blow to the back of the man’s neck as he bent over in pain. It was a dirty blow, but it worked. The farmer crumpled with a moan and a gagging sound.