by Tracy Sumner
His lids slipped low, the spasm of pain in his chest hitting him hard. Protect. Zach had spent his life trying to protect people. And so far he’d failed his wife, his brothers, and 81 passengers that he and his men had not gotten to in time. All events Reverend Tiernan said were in God’s hands and God’s hands only.
On good days, Zach agreed.
Opening his eyes, he forced his way back to his work, recording the wrong number in the wrong column. “Hyman Carter is a decent man. Pays his taxes, attends town meetings. He even donated enough money for the church to buy new pews last spring.”
“He bought your loyalty in exchange for pews?”
His head snapped up. “No one buys my anything, Miss Connor.”
She simply raised a perfectly shaped brow, sending his temper soaring two notches.
“Listen here, ma’am. That scene you caused today isn’t the way to accomplish much in a town like this, though I’m sure it works fine in New York City. Personally, I don’t cotton to taking orders from a mulish suffragette whose only aim in life is to secure the vote.”
She took a fast step forward, her cheeks pinking. “Constable Garrett, you’ve grown too comfortable.”
“That I have.”
“No excuses?”
“Not a one.”
“Well, you must know I won’t rest until we come to a reasonable compromise.”
“All right, then, you must know I can’t change a man’s way of running his business if it doesn’t fall outside the law.” He dipped his head in a mock show of respect. “Ma’am.”
“Don’t you realize that the situation at the oyster factory isn’t just?”
A headache he hadn’t felt coming roared to life. Pressing his fingers to his temple, Zach said, weary and unrepentant, “When did you get the idea life was just, Miss Connor?”
Savannah turned, pacing the length of the small cell, the sudden flicker of emotion in Zachariah Garrett’s smoke-gray eyes more than she wanted to see, more than she could allow herself to. Feeling sympathy for an opponent violated a basic tenet of the abolitionist code. And whether she liked it or not, this man was the gatekeeper.
In more ways than one. She’d only been in town a week, but it was easy to see who people in Pilot Isle turned to in crisis. She had heard his name a thousand times already.
Just when she had devised a skillful argument to present for his inspection, a much better one strolled through the office door.
The woman was attractive and trim... and quite obviously smitten with Constable Garrett. Unbeknownst to him, she smoothed her hand the length of her bodice and straightened the straw hat atop her head before making her presence known.
“Gracious, Zach, what is going on in town today?”
Zach slowly lifted his head, shooting a frigid glare Savannah’s way before pasting a smile on his face and swiveling around on his stubborn rump. “Miss Lydia, I hope you didn’t get caught up in that mess. Caleb should have it under control by now though.”
Miss Lydia drifted toward the desk, her clear blue gaze focused so intently on the man behind it that Savannah feared the woman would trip over her own feet if she wasn’t careful. “Oh, I didn’t get near it, you know that would never do. If Papa heard, he’d have a conniption. But I was at Mr. Scoggin’s store and it was all anyone could talk about.” She placed a cloth- covered basket on his desk. The scent of cinnamon filled the room. “Lands, imagine the excitement of a rally, right here in Pilot Isle.”
Zach sighed. “Yes, imagine that.”
“And”—Lydia glanced in her direction—”you’ve, um, detained her.”
“I haven’t—”
“Constable Garrett, if I may?” Savannah gestured to the cell door she’d shut while Miss Lydia stood in the threshold, hand-pressing her bodice. “I promise to be on my best behavior. It’s just so hard to converse through metal bars.”
“Oh, dear Lord.” Zach yanked a drawer open and fished for a set of keys he clearly didn’t use often. Stalking toward the cell with murder in his eyes, he asked in a low tone, “What game are you playing, Miss Connor?”
“Forewarned is forearmed, Constable.”
With a snap of his wrist and a compelling shift of muscle beneath the sleeve of his shirt, he opened the door. “Out.”
“My, my, Constable, such hospitality for a humble inmate.” She plucked her skirt between her fingers and circled him as she imagined a belle of the ball would.
Belle of the ball was called for with Miss Lydia, Savannah had realized from the first moment. The bored woman of consequence needing fulfillment.
And a cause.
Savannah would gladly give her one.
“If I may introduce myself.” Savannah halted before Miss Lydia and flashed a hesitant smile. “Savannah Connor. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Miss Lydia struggled for a moment but good breeding won out. In the South, it always seemed to. “Lydia Alice Templeton. Pleased, also, I’m sure.” She gestured to the basket on the desk. “Would you like a muffin? You must be starved, poor thing. These are my special recipe. Cinnamon and brown sugar, and a secret ingredient I won’t tell to save my life. Zach, oh.” She tapped her bottom lip with a gloved finger. “Mr. Garrett, loves them.”
“I’m sure he does,” Savannah said, not having to turn to see his displeasure. It radiated, like a hot brand pressed to her back. “And I would love one. I’m practically faint with hunger.”
Miss Lydia sprang into action, unfastening and cutting, spreading butter, and clucking like a mother hen. Savannah admired women who could nurture like that; Miss Lydia was a born mother when children scared Savannah half to death.
“Here, dear,” Miss Lydia murmured, full of warmth and compassion. “Mr. Garrett, haven’t you a pitcher of water?”
No reply, but within a minute a chipped jug and a glass appeared on the desk with a brusque clatter.
“Do you mind if I perch right here on the corner of your desk, Constable?” Savannah asked and bit into the most delicious muffin she had ever tasted. “Truly, these are good. Ummm.”
“I win the blue ribbon every year at the Harvest Celebration.” Lydia shrugged as if this were a certain thing in her life. “My father owns a commercial fishing company, and my mother passed some time ago, so I take care of him now. I bake all day some days.” She turned her hand in a dreamy circle. “To fill the time.”
Savannah halted, a mouthful of muffin resting on her tongue. She couldn’t stop herself—really, the urge was too powerful—from looking up. Constable Garrett stood in the cell’s entryway, shoulder jammed against a metal bar, feet crossed at the ankle, those startling gray eyes trained on her. Trained without apology.
“No,” he mouthed. An honest appeal from an honest man.
She hadn’t dealt with many honest men in her life, including her father and her brother. Also, she was confident she hadn’t ever had as attractive an opponent. It was wicked to feel a tiny zing when she imagined besting him, wasn’t it? Was that letting personal issues and professional ones collide?
Swallowing, she returned her attention to her prey. “You could find other ways to fill your time. I’m happy to tell you that this is precisely what I did.”
“But—”
“My mother also passed away when I was a young girl. After that my life consisted of living in our home in New York City, while making a life for my father and my older brother. They were helpless when it came to running a household, so I took over. My childhood ended at that time, but later on, I made sure I would have something to show for it.”
“Ohhh,” Lydia said, clasping her hand to her heart.
Savannah ignored the audible grunt from the back of the room and continued, “One day I simply found the endless duties and tasks, many of which I was uninterested in, to be so monotonous as to make my life seem worthless. I forced myself to search for meaning—a cause, if you will. I attended my first women’s rights meeting the next afternoon.” She failed to mention she h
ad been all of sixteen and had nearly broken her ankle jumping from the window of her bedroom to the closest tree limb outside. After dragging her home from the meeting, her father had locked her in her bedroom for two days.
Without food or water.
He didn’t let her out until that lovely old tree outside her window no longer stood tall and proud.
“Miss Connor, I couldn’t possibly attend a meeting like that here.”
Savannah dabbed a muffin crumb from the desk and licked her finger. “Why ever not?”
“It’s not... I’m not....” Lydia’s voice trailed off.
“You’re not resilient enough? Oh, you are. I could tell right away. Can you honestly say that you are satisfied with your life? What, pray tell, are you doing completely for yourself?”
“Redecorating my father’s stu—”
“That’s for him. Try again.”
“Cooking.”
Savannah smiled and shook her head.
Lydia snapped her fingers. “Oh, I have one! I host an information-gathering tea in the historical society office one morning a week. Although Papa feels it’s shameful for me to work, even when the position is entirely without compensation.”
Savannah relaxed her shoulders, dabbed at another crumb, as if the news weren’t simply wonderful. The glow of heat at her back seemed to increase. “And how do you feel about working?”
“I love it. I’m very good at keeping records and tallying donations. I raised more money for the society last year than any other volunteer, even though Sallie Rutherford’s total arrived at five dollars more than mine.” She leaned in, cupping her hand around her mouth. “Hyman Carter is her uncle, and he gave it to her at the last minute to lift her total past mine.”
The wonder, Savannah thought, dizzy with promise. “Miss Templeton, this is a propitious conversation. I need a co-leader for my efforts and until this moment, I wasn’t sure I would be able to locate the right woman in a town the size of Pilot Isle.” She smiled, placing her hand over Lydia’s gloved fingers. “Now, I think I have.”
“Me?” Lydia breathed, hand climbing to her chest. “A co-leader?”
Savannah nodded. “I have to govern Elle Beaumont’s school in her absence. Teach classes and mentor her female students until her return. You may have heard that she’s returned to university in South Carolina. Yet, I couldn’t possibly stay here and watch women live in a state of disability and not try to improve their situation. Women working exhausting hours for half the pay a man receives, for instance. Did you know about that?”
“The oyster factory? Well, I have to say, that is, yes.” Her gaze skipped to the constable and back. “Although, I haven’t ever been employed. Not in a true position of payment. And the factory,” she said, voice dropping to a whisper, “isn’t where any ladies of, what did you call it, consequence are likely to pay a visit.”
“As co-leader of the Pilot Isle movement, you should make it your first stop. Let’s plan to meet there tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock sharp. Bring Miss Rutherford, who even if she is a bit of a charlatan, might prove a worthy supporter. Too, she can gain access for the group without the burden of another impassioned assembly.”
Savannah smiled and added, “Surely her uncle doesn’t want that.”
“Now wait a blessed minute.”
Savannah glanced up as Zach’s shadow flooded over them. Bits of dust drifted through the wide beam of sunlight he stood in, softening the intensity of his displeasure. No matter his inflexibility, the man was attractive, she thought.
“A problem, Constable?”
“You’re damn right there’s a problem.”
A soft gasp had him bowing slightly and frowning harder. “Beg pardon, Miss Lydia. I apologize for the language, but this doesn’t concern you.” He swung Savannah around on the desk, her knees banging his as he crouched before her, bringing their eyes level. “It concerns you, and I remember telling you I wasn’t putting up with this foolishness.” He stabbed his finger against his chest. “Not in my town.”
She drew a covert breath. Traces of manual labor and the faintest scent of cinnamon circled him. Savannah valued hard work above all else and never minded a man who confirmed he valued it as well, even if he smelled less than soap-fresh and his palms were a bit rough. Forcing her mind to the issue at hand, she asked, “Are we prohibited from visiting the factory, Constable?”
“After today, you better believe you are.”
She arched a brow, a trick she had practiced before the mirror for months until it alone exemplified frosty indifference. “My colleagues, Miss Templeton and Miss Rutherford, will attend in my absence, then.”
“No.”
She scooted forward until the stubble dotting his rigid jaw filled her vision. “You can’t stop them and you know it. In fact, I’m fairly certain you cannot stop me without filing paperwork barring me from Mr. Carter’s property. That takes time and signatures, rounding up witnesses to the dispute. However, I’m willing to forgo this meeting. During the initial phase at any rate. For everyone’s comfort.”
Sliding back the inch she needed to pull their knees apart, she decided that for all Zachariah Garrett’s irritability—a trait she abhorred in a man—he smelled far, far too tempting to risk touching during negotiations. “Don’t challenge my generosity, Mr. Garrett. You won’t get more.”
“Are you daring me to do something, Miss Connor? Because I will, I tell you.”
“Consider it a gracious request.”
“You can take your gracious request and stick it....” Jamming his hands atop his knees, he rose to his feet. “Miss Lydia, will you excuse us a moment?”
Lydia cleared her throat and backed up two steps. Before she left, she looked at Savannah and smiled, her eyes bright with excitement. Savannah returned the smile, knowing she had won that series if nothing else.
“You must be crazy,” Zach said the moment the door closed. “Look at the blood on your dress, the scrapes on your hands. Do you want Miss Lydia to suffer the same? The things you want her to experience are things her father has purposely kept her from experiencing and for a damn good reason.”
She gazed at the torn skin on her hands and the traces of blood on her skirt as she heard him begin to pace the narrow confines of the office. “It’s a mockery to talk of sheltering women from life’s fierce storms, Constable. Do you believe the ones who work twelve-hour days in that factory are too weak to weather the emotional stress of a political campaign? Do you believe Lydia cannot support a belief that runs counter to her father’s? A child is not a replica of the parent. The sexes, excuse my frankness, do not have the same challenges in life.”
Watching him, his hands buried in his pockets—to keep from circling her neck she supposed—she couldn’t help but marvel at the curious mix of Southern courtesy and male arrogance, the natural assumption he shouldered of being lawfully in control. “Engaging in a moral battle isn’t always hazardous to one’s health, you know.”
“Doesn’t look like it’s doing wonders for yours.”
“Saints be praised, it can actually be rewarding.”
Looking over his shoulder, he halted in the middle of the room. “Irish.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You. Irish. The green eyes, the tiny bit of red in your hair. Is Connor your real name?”
“Yes, why,” she said, stammering. Oh, hell. “Of course.”
“Liar.”
She felt the slow, hot roll of color cross her cheeks. “What could that possibly have to do with anything?”
“I don’t know, but I have a feeling it means something. It’s the first thing I’ve heard come out of that sassy mouth of yours that didn’t sound like some damned speech.” He tapped his head, starting to pace again. “What I wonder is, where are you in there?”
“I’m right here. Reasonable and... and judicious. Driven perhaps but not sassy, never sassy.”
“You’re full of piss and vinegar, all right. And some powerful
determination to cause me problems when I have more than I can handle.” He halted in the middle of the room. “And here I thought Ellie was difficult. Opening that woman’s school and teaching God knows what in that shed behind Widow Wynne’s, putting husbands and fathers in an uproar. Now you’re here, and it’s ten times worse than it ever was before.”
“Do women have to roll over like a dog begging for a scratch for men to value them?”
“That and a pretty face work well enough for me.”
She hopped to her feet, her skirt slapping the desk. “You insufferable toad.”
“Better that than a reckless nuisance.”
“There’s nothing wrong with feeling passionate about freedom, Constable Garrett. And I plan to let every woman in this town know it.”
“If it means causing the kind of scene you caused today, you’ll have to go through me first.”
Savannah laughed, wishing it hadn’t come out sounding so much like a cackle. “I’ve heard that several hundred times in the past. With no result, I might add.”
“Guess you have.” Halting before a tall cabinet scarred in more places than not, he went up on the toes of his boots and came back with a bottle. Another reach earned a glass. “With thirteen detentions, I can’t say I’m surprised.” She watched him pour a precise measure, tilt his head, and throw it back. “Did any of them happen to figure out you were working Irish underneath the prissy clothes and snooty manners?”
She lowered her chin, quickly, before he could spotlight her distress. Working Irish. A term she hadn’t heard in years. Every horrible trait she possessed—willfulness, callousness, condescension—her father said came from the dirty Irish blood flowing through her veins. Her mother had been the immigrant who had trapped him in an unhappy marriage.
A marriage beneath his station, thank you very much.
And he had never let his family forget it.
“Would you like a medal for your perspicacious deduction, Constable?” she asked when she’d regained her composure.
He laughed and saluted her with his glass. “Heck, I don’t even know what that means.”
“Astute, Constable. Which you are. Surprisingly so.” She closed the distance between them and took the glass from his clenched fist, ignoring the warmth of his skin when their fingers touched.