Come Love a Stranger

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  “I…um…don’t…” he murmured weakly, then turned away from that mean-eyed stare and managed somehow to gather some semblance of bravado: “There’s no tellin’ how violent that woman might be. Someone should…”

  “Here!” A rusted antique of a long, double-barreled flintlock shotgun was thrust into his other hand. “She’s primed and loaded, so’s you treats her like a baby, see?”

  Guns were another item Horace failed to understand. They had always left him hurting in one part or another. At first his father had scorned him because he could not shoot, then, relenting, had tried to instruct him in the proper use of firearms. An hour later the elder Titch had found himself seriously contemplating a savaged hat and shredded coattails while a doctor plucked buckshot from the lower portion of his backside. He had hastened to agree with the medical man that the son would likely fare just as well without a knowledge of hunting in his education, and the subject had never been broached again…until now.

  “Come on!” someone shouted. “Let’s be about it!”

  All around him men were mounting horses that seemed to have been gathered from nowhere, and somehow Horace found himself in the saddle with the gun cradled in his arm. He hurt almost at once and, glancing around in dismay, searched for some trace of his driver or carriage. He noticed the sheriff’s bewhiskered deputy surveying the happenings from a short distance away, but the man’s tobacco-chewing reticence gave Horace no reason to hope that this ride would be terminated. Several men climbed into a wagon, and the whole entourage assembled behind the short-legged dandy, with a pair of buckboards bringing up the rear. Though he sought heartily to catch a glimpse of his carriage and promised himself that he would deal harshly with his driver whenever he found him, there was no escape for M. Horace Titch.

  Someone slapped his horse, and they were off amid shouts and a noisy scramble. Horace was quite astounded by the fact that a steed could have such a bone-jarring trot. The corners of his mouth turned down in an agonized grimace as his backside bounced unmercifully against the saddle. To escape the abuse he tried to stand in the stirrups for a moment, but that position threatened to topple him headfirst over the horse’s neck. When he clamped his legs tighter around the horse’s belly, it only seemed to excite and encourage the animal into a faster trot. Horace jerked on the reins to keep the pace slower, and the best the confused mount could do was a stiff-legged half-trot. Horace’s dark head jerked with every downward motion of his body, and he became a mass of jiggling ripples from his jowls to his toes. It was a long way to Belle Chêne, and he was more than a little afraid that the ride went directly through hell.

  The harpsichord took unto itself a new life under the slender, agile fingers that caressed the keyboard. Lierin was enthusiastic at her ability to play the instrument and, while the ladies napped upstairs, had slipped into the parlor to examine the extent of her talent. The sweet fluid notes had drawn Ashton to the room immediately upon his arrival home. He had seen to the last details of the steamboat’s departure upriver and left his captain and Mr. Logan to the matter of boarding the passengers.

  Breathing out the smoke of a long, black cheroot, Ashton leaned back in his chair and watched the vapors drift slowly toward the ceiling as the light, airy music filled his head and echoed through the house. He was bathed in a sea of bliss. He could name no other woman who could stir his emotions so completely and bring such pleasure to his senses. Her merest presence touched his life with happiness, and yet he realized she was still much of an enigma to him. She had a great deal to tell him about herself and her life and where she had been for these past three years.

  The mood was broken by a sudden and persistent knocking on the door. Lierin stopped playing and glanced around as if she had forgotten there was another world beyond the parlor. When Ashton called out, bidding admittance, he was amazed when one of the stablehands answered the summons and hurried in with hat in hand. It was unusual for Hickory to come into the house, and Ashton knew before the man spoke that a crisis was imminent.

  “Massa,” the groom wheezed and waggled a finger in the general direction of Natchez. “Massa, dey’s a whole passel o’ men acomin’ dis way, ridin’ lickety-split an’ lookin’ like dey’s up to no good.” The black paused to swallow and catch his breath before continuing: “Suh, Ah do believe dey’s headin’ here. Dere jes’ ain’t no other place fo’ dem to go.”

  Ashton pondered the matter as he tapped the burning end of his cigar in a dish. “Perhaps we should see what kind of reception we can arrange for them. Do you have any more running left in those long legs of yours?”

  “Yassuh, Massa Ashton.” Hickory grinned and nodded an eager affirmative. “Ah was jes’ up in de hayloft when Ah seen dem acomin’. Why, Ah gots at least a mile or more o’ dust raisin’ left.”

  “Judd is cleaning some of the brush away from the creek.” Ashton rattled out orders in rapid-fire sequence. “You get down there and tell him to come back and bring every man he can lay a hand to. Tell him to come ready for trouble. I’ll leave instructions with Willabelle in the kitchen. Best be on your way now, Hickory.”

  The man was already turning to leave, and the door quickly closed behind him. Ashton went to Lierin, who had risen from the bench. He smiled to ease her worried frown and took her hands into his.

  “No need to fret, my love,” he soothed. “Some of the boys from town get themselves liquored up once in a while and start cavorting around the countryside, seeing what kind of trouble they can get into. We’ve learned how to handle them without anyone getting hurt, so just continue to play. The sound of your music pleasures me greatly, and I would hear more of it. I must have a word with Willabelle now, and then I’ll just step outside on the porch.” He pressed a quick kiss on the back of her hand, then released her and left. Lierin returned to her music, but with Ashton’s departure from the parlor, the delightful interlude had ceased to be. The luster of the moment had definitely fled with him.

  The group of horsemen drew near the porch where the master of Belle Chêne awaited them. They dissolved into a roiling, struggling mass as each one jockeyed for a position. Of course, the loser of this melee had to be the rider least skilled in the art of horsemanship, in this case one Mumford Horace Titch. This stalwart who had led the hardy band came to a stumbling, scrambling halt with the hooves of his gallant mount almost banging into the bottom step. A shocked expression contorted his face at the last stiff-legged bounce, and he sucked in his breath through gritted teeth at the pure agony of the moment. He stood up in the stirrups, trying to ease his pain, and surreptitiously sought to untangle the butt of the overlong shotgun from the loose ends of the reins. The gaping twin bores of the eight-gauge swung in a wide arc, and there was a sudden scurrying as Mr. Titch’s companions wisely concluded that their spokesman needed more room.

  Horace finally succeeded in freeing the recalcitrant locks of the smoothbore from the tenacious leather straps and, glancing around for support, found that his allies had withdrawn several paces to the rear, leaving him solely in charge of delivering the elements of their complaint to Mr. Wingate. Since everyone seemed to be waiting for him to open the proceedings, he cleared his throat and, in spite of his bruised state, drew himself up to his full height, only to find that he still had to look up to meet Ashton’s gaze. The sun-bronzed features hinted of that one’s amusement, which severely unsettled Horace’s composure. Nervously he cleared his throat again, but strive though he might, he could not lay tongue to a single sensible word with which to begin.

  Ashton Wingate saved the day as he squinted at the sun briefly and then greeted his visitors. “Good afternoon, Mr. Titch.” He nodded to the others. “Gentlemen.” He leaned indolently against a pillar, his fingers jammed in the tops of his pockets. “You seem to have picked a fine day for a ride in the country.”

  M. Horace Titch tried to hitch himself a notch or two higher, then had to grab for the gun as it began to slip away from him. “I doubt, suh, that you will be able to dea
l with these good men through the use of inane pleasantries.”

  Ashton arched a condescending brow. “I have a feeling that you’re about to correct my error, Mr. Titch. You can start by telling me what the lot of you are doing here on my lawn.”

  The fowling piece was growing heavy, and Horace shifted it to a new position before he answered: “That’s just what I’m about to do, suh, and I warn you to be wary. I assure you that we represent the whole of Natchez and Davis County.”

  “Indeed?” Ashton let the single word convey his doubt.

  “There’s been a grievous wrong perpetrated upon the good people of our area.” Horace was sweating heavily and would have wiped his brow had he found a free hand. “As you are well aware, suh, several of those madfolk escaped from the sanitarium when the place burned down. I have it on very good authority that you have involved yourself in this travesty….” Horace noticed an almost imperceptible hardening of the hazel eyes, but he continued, encouraged by the presence of those behind him. Even Ashton Wingate would not think of standing against such odds. “It seems you have taken one of those crazy people into your home.”

  Horace almost held his breath as he awaited the man’s reaction to this bold statement. Other than a slight tensing of the lean jaw, he saw no real sign of change and came to the conclusion that Ashton Wingate had either not heard him or had misunderstood his statement.

  “I mean to say, suh, that the…uh…young woman you brought home a couple of weeks ago might just be one of them mad ones.”

  A murmur of agreement rose behind Horace, but Ashton only glanced at the sun again, and then consulted his pocket watch.

  Seeing no threat forthcoming, Horace warmed to his topic and rushed on: “Really, Mr. Wingate, I can’t understand why you would take such a risk by bringing one of them right into your own home. We must insist that she be delivered into the hands of the authorities.” M. Horace Titch realized he had finally gained Ashton’s full attention when he found himself under the unwavering regard of those penetrating green-brown eyes. He hastened to add, “Just until it can be determined who she is, of course…and only for the safety of the women and children around these parts.”

  Now that the demand was out, the rest of the men relaxed a bit. There was a full chorus of assents, with a lot of bobbing heads.

  “’At’s right!”

  “Way to tell ’im, Titch!”

  “We gotta take ’er in!”

  Ashton seemed strangely undisturbed by their proposition. “You men have had a long ride out here, and the day has been unseasonably warm.” He called out to include the lot of them: “And you seem mighty uncomfortable on those horses. Why don’t you climb down and rest for a spell?”

  A pause followed as they considered this, and a general mumbling rose among them as they agreed that Ashton Wingate wasn’t such an almighty ogre after all. As invited, they dismounted.

  M. H. Titch was overjoyed at the prospect of standing on good, solid earth again. A considerable degree of havoc had been wreaked upon his posterior and anterior parts, and he was not at all sure that a walk back to Natchez was not preferable to another ride on this wretched beast. He tried several times to swing his leg over the saddle, as some of the others had so easily done, but the long weapon got in his way. Somehow he ended up sitting on top of the thing, and had the trigger assembly been any less stout, he might have lost his manhood or, at the very least, a part of his leg.

  Horace considered his predicament for a moment, giving no heed to the gaping stares he had collected. If he could just hold the gun up high, he thought, then get his right leg free and over the saddle…Amazing! Of a sudden, he found himself standing in the left stirrup with nothing tangled or caught. He was not completely aware of the danger of having his foot deeply wedged in the iron when he began to lower himself from the saddle, but he began to have some inkling of this when he found his other leg too short to reach the ground. He hung there, debating his next maneuver, when the matter resolved itself. The weapon slipped from his grasp, falling between him and the steed, and on the way down, the outsized hammers raked him from breastbone to belly. Forgetting his tenacious grip on the horse’s mane, he snatched for the evil weapon. At the same time his right foot shot underneath the belly of the nag, and with a thud and a loud “whoof,” Horace hit the ground in an absolutely prone position. The weary steed craned its neck to view this latest inanity with a good measure of disdain. The gun teetered precariously on top of the dazed man’s chest, and it was nearly a full minute before Horace came to his senses. Sudden visions of being dragged all the way back to town moved him to immediate action. Dust billowed up around the short, stout man as he struggled frantically to free his foot from the stirrup.

  One of his companions had mercy on him and came to his aid. When the boot was untangled, Horace climbed slowly to his feet, using the gun for a crutch, and ruefully dusted off his new suit, causing an epidemic of sneezing fits to strike those nearest him. He slapped the beaver hat against his leg until it regained some semblance of its former hue, then settled it once more upon his head. With the completion of this simple toilet, he lifted his gaze to his host and immediately detected the fact that Ashton Wingate was regarding him with something akin to pity. He could have endured outright hatred far better; at least that emotion would have made him feel less like a bumbling clod.

  “Suh, I must warn you,” he began angrily, but had to pause to spit dirt out of his mouth. “We will not be put off lightly. We’ve come here to see that our community is made safe again.”

  The troop of unworthies began to exchange self-righteous comments as they regrouped behind their leader. They lifted clubs and guns en masse to affirm their agreement with what Horace had stated.

  With calm deliberation, Ashton perused the crowd of men, then casually called over his shoulder for a bucket of cool water to be brought up fresh from the well and a jug of rum to accompany it. Unruffled, he waited until both had arrived and made a show of emptying the dark, potent brew into the bucket. He stirred the lot with a long-handled dipper, then raised the cup and took a long, slow sip, following his action with a smile of obvious pleasure.

  The mob had grown strangely quiet as envious eyes marked his every movement. Dry tongues licked longingly over parched lips, while nostrils quivered to catch the scent. When he was sure he had gained their rapt attention, Ashton lifted the dripping ladle aloft and dribbled the liquid in a slow, tantalizing stream.

  “The road from town is hot and dusty. I’m sure you men could use a bit of cool water.”

  Sighs of relief were quickly overwhelmed by shouts of assent, and a mass of burly bodies gathered near the stoop. Nudging elbows prodded slighter forms aside as each sought to receive his ration. Ashton stared down at them and almost smiled as he stepped back.

  “Aye, that’s the way, lads. Nothing like a good swig of grog to cut the grime in a man’s throat.”

  They nodded eagerly in a rushing tide of agreement. Horace finally yielded to his own thirst and deigned to put the brimming dipper to his lips. He swirled the first draft around in his mouth and then spewed a muddy stream onto the lane before he quenched his thirst. As he passed the dipper on, he got back to the matter at hand. “Mr. Wingate!” He gained that one’s rather skeptical regard almost immediately. “Do you intend to hand the woman over to us so we might deliver her to the sheriff?”

  His cohorts suddenly recalled the reason for their visit and, since the bucket was nearly empty, clustered around their selected spokesman. Horace had never been leader of anything before, and he felt a surge of importance as he laid the gun over his arm and turned to survey his fellows. There was a wild dash for cover as the bore of the weapon swung with him.

  Had Ashton been in a better mood, he might have found some humor in these antics, but he could manage no more than a coldly tolerant smile when the little man’s round, dirt-streaked face confronted him again. He had not heard the harpsichord for some moments and could only hope that Wi
llabelle had had the foresight to escort Lierin up to her room.

  Horace cleared his throat. “You understand clearly why we’ve come, suh. If you would be so kind as to fetch the girl, we’ll take her in to the sheriff and let him decide what to do with her. I’ll see that no action is taken against you.”

  Ashton neither spoke nor changed his expression, but Horace’s eyes widened perceptively as the front door swung open and Belle Chêne’s huge black overseer, Judd Barnum, stepped casually out, with a pair of oversize horse pistols tucked in his belt. In the crook of his arm rested an ancient but well-kept, bell-muzzled blunderbuss, and across his chest he wore a wide leather strap from which dangled a dozen or so wooden charges for the awesome weapon. The black held his silence, but braced his feet apart and proceeded to dip into the large pocket of his waistcoat, removing a handful of small, jagged metal pieces, which he ceremoniously dumped into the muzzle of the blunderbuss. Laying the piece again over his massive arm, Judd glanced up to meet the startled and disturbed stare of the short man, then his gaze ranged leisurely over the rest of the gathering.

  At least one of the onlookers shuddered as he conjured a mental image of the mayhem such a charge would cause. Bellies tightened and grumbled as they churned in sudden consternation. Somewhere the note of lighthearted fun had vanished from this afternoon’s foray, and they began to have second thoughts about the wisdom of disturbing the occupants of Belle Chêne.

  “You gentlemen are under a misconception,” Ashton announced almost pleasantly.

  Horace tried to form a question, but he found his mouth gone dry, this time with roweling dismay. He had heard that Ashton Wingate had a penchant for turning the tables on pranksters or anyone else who meant him harm, but he had not expected the man to stand firm against such odds and surely not to take the upper hand. Intensely aware of the threat that faced them, Horace could only stand and gape.