He removed his worn straw hat and swiped the back of his hand across his sweaty brow. “Miz Celia, I don’ think ya should be helpin’. Yer not well enough.”
“Yes, I am.” She stopped in front of him and yanked the long machete out of his hand. “We have no other choice. Either I help, or we’ll lose the plantation and all of you will be looking for work in the near future.”
The large black man’s eyes widened again. “Waal, when ya put it that way...”
Her heart softened. Samuel took time to show her what needed to be done, pointing to the rows of stalks needing to be chopped and to the wagon where they were laid. It didn’t take her long to catch on, and within an hour, they had one bed full of stalks.
Her back ached, her hands blistered, and the cursed humidity made her dress stick to her body, but she continued, nonetheless. Determination led her to see this thing through.
Samuel grabbed the reins of the leading horse and urged the animal toward the mill to unload the stalks waiting to begin the grinding process.
Thunder reverberated through the air. She glanced up and frowned. The rainy season had come. It looked as if rain would try to thwart her afternoon plans after all.
THANK YOU, LADY LUCK.
Peter kissed the wad of bills he clasped before stuffing them in his pocket and stepped down the few steps of the coach he’d been riding in. Galveston’s gaming tables had paid off and good. Although he didn’t have enough money to buy back the plantation, he was back in Brazoria County and on his way once again. At least he’d won enough to bribe the mistress of Belle Grove...and dickering he’d do, even if it took all of his charm.
Sheriff Hampton told him Hank had left town three weeks ago, which meant getting a foot in the door to Belle Grove would be easier. He didn’t know Miss Ashby’s age, but he’d always been a ladies’ man, so he had no doubt Lady Luck would help him charm a sweet woman once again.
He stopped by his hotel room to freshen up and change clothes. Dressing in his best clothes, he donned a nice pair of trousers and shirt and slid on his black felt hat. He even went as far as to spit-shine his boots. He whistled while slapping a little cologne on his face—something he didn’t do very often.
Purchasing a horse was harder than he’d thought and took most the afternoon. Although he needed the animal, parting with a small portion of his earnings was almost too much. After squabbling with the owner over a price, he soon headed out of town with a new horse toward the plantation. He wiped his moist hands on his trouser legs, his heartbeat meeting the rhythm of the clip-clop from the horse’s hooves.
Mistress Ashby probably wouldn’t cave in easily, so he must formulate a plan. Although nothing came to mind right away, something would eventually. His brain had been in apple-pie order most of the time, Pa had always told him.
Memories from the past flooded his mind and he frowned. Peter knew Pa thought poorly of him now, but he couldn’t worry about that. Peter was old enough to decide which path he wanted to take, and right now...he would take the path leading to Belle Grove.
A gush of wind blew in his face, wobbling his hat. He reached up and steadied it. Thunder boomed, and a flash of lightning streaked the sky. Shoot. Why hadn’t he noticed the weather earlier? Being caught in a downpour didn’t thrill him at this point, especially since he wore his fancy duds.
When the wind picked up, he kicked his horse a little faster. Dust flew around him, and he squinted. Too bad the wind wasn’t behind him pushing instead.
He lowered his head and urged his horse more rapidly. Heavy gusts of wind whipped through the branches of the oak trees, blowing the leaves around him like a shroud. He cursed and brushed them away. All he needed was to arrive at the plantation looking like a wild animal had tackled him. That would certainly make a good impression, wouldn’t it? Then again, maybe the mistress would take pity on him and allow him inside.
Soon, Belle Grove loomed before him, and his heart sang. Almost as he remembered. The years had certainly added wear and tear to the old place, but this was home. His granddaddy’s home...soon to be Peter’s home, if only his plan worked.
He rode to the porch, dismounted, and tied his horse. Flexing his hands at his sides, he walked up the wide cement stairs. The front door was different from what he remembered. The new fancy carvings in the oak only enhanced the grandeur.
He raised his hand and rapped with his knuckles. Taking deep breaths, he concentrated on what he would say—what he’d do if she refused. He mustn’t allow that to happen. He knew how to swindle. Shoot, he could sweet-talk a rattlesnake into singing a lullaby if given the chance.
He knocked again. Louder. Still, nobody came to the door. It was still early in the evening, so where were the servants? Perhaps the rumors had been correct. Maybe the Ashbys didn’t have the money to keep good help around.
He lifted his brow. If that were the case... He stepped off the porch and walked around the house toward the fields.
The sugar stalks stood full and ready to harvest. Unfortunately, if there weren’t enough servants, it wouldn’t be done in time. All the cane would go to waste.
He hurried up the path, glancing down the rows of stalks—void of people. Finally, a movement caught his eyes, and he stopped. Through the growth, four men and a woman labored, cutting the stems and throwing them on the bed of boards tied to a horse.
Only five people?
He narrowed his eyes and gazed past them toward the barn. No way could they get this field harvested in time. By the looks of things, the Ashbys didn’t have an overseer.
Blowing out a frustrated sigh, he took off his hat and raked his fingers through his hair. There was only one thing to do. Make their acquaintance and offer his services. He had experience working the fields, since his granddaddy taught him—and his brothers—how to harvest the sugarcane when they were younger.
He flexed his arm, wondering if the knife wound would give him problems for working in the fields. Hopefully not. This was something he needed to do. Besides, Doc Copeland had been a great doctor and stitched him up perfectly. In the three weeks since he’d left Doc’s office, he’d exercised his arm, hoping his wound would heal quicker. So far, he hadn’t run across any problems.
Pulling the hat tighter on his head to keep it from being blown off, he squared his shoulders and strode to the small group. The wind howled through the stems, and they bent, blocking his path. He pushed passed them, determined to help any way he could.
“Miz Celia,” the big black man yelled over the wind. “Ah think it’s time to go inside. The wind is gettin’ mighty strong an’ will lift ya right up an’ take ya away.”
Peter widened his eyes. Miss? She couldn’t be the mistress of Belle Grove, could she?
“No, Samuel. We can’t stop. Not now. Let’s do three more rows.”
Three more rows? In this wind? Impossible.
Maybe with a half dozen more men but not with this crew, and especially not with a woman as tiny as this one.
He glanced at the sky. Thick gray clouds loomed overhead, but it didn’t look like hurricane weather. Yet these weren’t the kind of conditions the lady of the house should be out in, and working in a cane field, no less. Where was her stupid brother, Hank, and why wasn’t he helping?
Peter scanned his fancy clothes and gritted his teeth. Looked like he’d dressed up for nothing, because he would help them out.
“Good afternoon,” he called, waving his hand. Stepping over the cropped stems, he made his way toward the small group.
Every head turned his way, but he kept his gaze on the mistress, Miss Cecilia Ashby. The wind whipped the dress around her legs, but it was her hair she tried to tame, plastering her hands over the netting. She squinted, probably more from the dust flying through the air than anything. When he neared, her eyes widened and her face drained of color.
He’d heard the mistress was a sickly woman, so why did she work the field if she obviously couldn’t handle it? Would she swoon right now?
She nodded.
“Appears to me you need an extra pair of hands.”
Again, her head nodded, slower this time as her lips parted.
“I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you’re using this knife wrong. With your permission, I’d like to show you the correct method.”
She licked her lips. “All right.”
He squashed the hat back on his head before he stepped to her. She still looked as if he’d caught her off guard. Her wide eyes wouldn’t leave his face.
He took the machete out of her trembling hands, then grabbed the stem of the sugarcane and raised the machete. “This is how you’re supposed to use this.” Whipping it through the air on the way down, he sliced the stalk perfectly.
A different expression registered on her face. This time, her brows lifted and her mouth shaped into an O.
He tipped his hat. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Peter Grayson.”
She blinked but remained silent.
The large colored man behind her smiled wide. “Golly-gee, mistah. Yer an answer to our prayers.”
Another gush of wind hit Peter from behind, and he stumbled forward. Miss Cecilia’s dress blew up, showing her shapely knees down to her ankles. She bent to pat the material back in place but still kept one hand on the black netting covering her hair.
“Forgive me for saying this,” Peter yelled above the high-pitched whistle, “but I think you ought to get inside. This weather isn’t taking kindly to your lovely dress or your styled hair.”
“You don’t understand, Mr. Grayson.” She spoke high above the wind. “This field needs to be harvested...and soon.”
“I know, miss. I used to work in a sugarcane field as a boy.”
The black man cheered and punched his fist through the air. “Thank de Lawd!”
Peter grinned. “Miss, I wouldn’t mind helping you. I’m in need of a job right now.”
Her jaw hardened, and her eyes narrowed as she directed her stare at him. Finally, she nodded. “I would greatly appreciate some help.”
“I’d be more than happy to do it.” He motioned with his head toward the house. “But I think you should go back inside. You don’t look cut out for this kind of work.”
A slight grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Thank you, Mr. Grayson.” She glanced up at the sky, shielding her eyes with her hand against the flying dust. She looked back at him. “Do as much as you can before the storm hits, then come inside and I’ll feed you supper.”
He nodded. “I’d be much obliged, ma’am.”
She hiked up her dress to the tops of her ankle boots and hurried away from the stalks of cane. Peter scratched his chin. She was surely a pretty little thing, not at all what he’d expected. He liked women who weren’t afraid to work, and Miss Cecilia definitely tried to save her plantation. Made for a fine quality in a woman.
He sighed and turned toward the other servants. Saving the plantation was a good thing, but that would make it harder for him to eventually buy it from her. He’d have to do some quick planning to figure out what he could do now. Of course, his first priority was to concentrate on the field. He didn’t need a pretty face distracting him from his task.
WHAT HAD SHE DONE IN her life to cause terrible things to happen to her? If her brother’s crime wasn’t bad enough, the threat of losing the plantation became a burden to her heart. Now another peril loomed over her like a dark cloud. Mr. Grayson—who was better looking now than he’d been as Doctor Copeland’s patient—walked back in her life. The handsome man had shaved his moustache and beard. Oh, he was powerfully rugged and easy on the eyes.
Hadn’t she given him money to go back to Montana? Of all the places he could go to find employment, why did it have to be here?
She wiped her moist brow as she slaved over the pot of stew. This rotten humidity would melt her eventually. She tugged at the high collar of her dress. Too bad she couldn’t take some layers off. Then again, she’d been padded around the middle while disguised as Doctor Copeland, so she should be able to handle the heat now.
Glancing out the window, she looked toward the fields. The men weren’t coming yet. They’d been out in the terrible storm for a couple of hours. The wind howled through the trees while the sheeting rain beat upon the windows. The men were probably drenched clear to their bones.
Being a proper hostess, she’d offer Mr. Grayson a room in which to change out of his wet clothes, perhaps even let him stay the night. From the looks of the dark sky and howling wind, the storm wasn’t going to let up for a while.
Focused on the boiling pot of vegetables, she swallowed hard. Soaked to the bone or not, it wasn’t proper to have a man in her house without an escort. Too bad Hank wasn’t still here. Then again, Hank could not be here, especially not with Mr. Grayson accusing him of stabbing him and stealing his money.
She’d just have to make certain Samuel and the others stayed. And when was Anna-Mae getting back? Samuel mentioned his ma left three weeks ago, so why hadn’t the woman returned? Cecilia prayed the older woman hadn’t found better employment.
Cecilia picked up a fork from the counter and brought it to the pot, testing the vegetables. Almost done. She placed the lid on the pot and stepped away to the dish cupboard. The moment she touched a bowl, a wail of wind shrieked outside the house and rattled the windows. She jumped and placed a hand over her heart. Tarnation, today’s storm sounded awful. It had been a while since she’d stayed in this house during a tirade like this.
Another sound caught her attention, and she swung toward the kitchen door. Men’s voices raised in cheerful song grew louder and actually overrode the blustery weather.
She ran toward the servants’ entryway where the harmonizing choir came from. She whipped open the door then used her hand to block the downpour of rain. Five men, all soaked clean through, walked up the steps with wide smiles, Mr. Grayson in the lead.
She’d already collected some blankets for them to dry off with, so she turned to retrieve them from the other room. Carrying them back to the wet men, she was privileged to hear the end of their lively song and the rounds of laughter accompanying it.
Handing the first towel to Mr. Grayson, she tilted her head. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were all drunk.”
Mr. Grayson took the blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders. The rain had plastered his sandy hair to his head, but shoot if he didn’t look handsome, anyway. When he smiled, his eyes twinkled, and her heart fluttered in response. She silently scolded her body for acting this way. After all, he was just a man.
A man who plans to see my brother in jail and maybe hung.
She ran her gaze over his clothes, molded to his body like a second skin, emphasizing the generous muscles he had. Although it had been a few weeks, the image of his sturdy body popped into her head as if she’d seen him yesterday. Heat rushed to her cheeks, and she quickly looked away, handing a blanket to Samuel.
“You were out there for a while in the rain. I thought you’d use the sense the Lord had given you and come in.”
Samuel laughed, and his body shook. “We couldn’t, Miz Celia. Mistah Grayson here dun show’d us a quicker way to cut the stalks. I’ve only been cuttin’ stalks a few years now, and Mistah Grayson knows more than me. We dun got more than three rows chopped.”
She glanced at the tall, handsome man rubbing a corner of the blanket over his hair. “Three rows?”
“Yes, Ma’am.” He lowered the towel. A section on the back of his head rose like a rooster’s tail.
She bit back a grin. “Well, that’s a downright miracle.”
He nodded.
“An’,” Samuel continued, “Mistah Grayson said he could get us another grinder.”
She raised her brow. “Indeed?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Peter answered. “Fo
r your size of field, you’d be better off having two. In fact, with your permission, I’ll leave here in the morning tomorrow and purchase a grinder for you.”
She caught her breath. By his words, she received the impression he’d already planned on staying the night. Mentally, she shook away her negativity. Of course he’d stay the night. It’s only what any good Southern hostess would do. It’s what her mother would have done. Although, her mother would have had other women servants around.
“Mr. Grayson, although that’s a grand idea, I fear I don’t have the funds to purchase new tools at this time.”
“Ma’am, if you don’t mind me offering, I could buy them.”
She creased her brow. Where had he gotten the money? The last time she’d talked with him as the doctor, she had lent him money. She hadn’t given him that much, either. Would it be too rude to ask where he’d obtained such funds? Yet she didn’t need him suspicious. Perhaps he’d found the money he thought had been stolen? If so, why was he still here?
She frowned. No. Hank had already confessed to stealing it. Then how did he get money so fast? Gambling? Probably.
“Mr. Grayson, that wouldn’t be right. After all, you did come to me for a job.”
He took a step closer. She had to tilt her head back to keep her gaze on his.
“Miss Cecilia, I don’t mind. Really. You can pay me back once the sugar is sold.”
She let out a pent-up sigh. “I suppose now would be a good time to tell you.” She took a deep, courageous breath. “I don’t exactly know how I’ll pay you for working for me, either. I really do need your help, but for the life of me, I don’t know where I’ll find the funds to pay your salary until after the harvest.”
His pleasant smile never faltered nor did the gleam in his eye. “For right now, all I ask is for room and board.” He glanced at Samuel. “I could stay where he’s staying.”
She folded her arms and thinned her lips. She didn’t exactly want him living here, yet, she did need him. By the excitement jumping in Samuel’s eyes, it seemed her other servants needed Mr. Grayson, too.
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