As he was doing with her children. They sat around his feet, attention rapt as he spoke, excitement building as he raised the bugle to his mouth and played a different tune. One that ran up and down the scale so quickly she felt like she should jump into some sort of action.
He stopped playing, then gave some instruction she couldn’t hear but could easily guess when all of the children lay down. He played the tune again, and the children jumped up from the ground and started pantomiming something that resembled the making of a bed before standing up stiff and straight and giving a salute.
A delighted laugh bubbled out of her.
“‘Reveille.’”
Katherine bit her lip and turned away from the window. He was so good at creating fun and putting people at ease. Even children, apparently. He would make a wonderful father someday. A pang low in her belly brought an unexpected tear to her eye, but she blinked it away. She had potatoes to peel.
Except she didn’t. The worktable was clean. No potatoes, peelings, or even a knife in evidence. Only the pot. She stepped close and peeked inside. That man. Going above and beyond the call of duty. Not only had he prepped the potatoes, he’d cleaned up after himself. He deserved so much more than a woman too afraid to dredge up the past that she neglected him in the present. At the very least, he deserved a proper thank-you.
Resolved, Katherine marched out the back door and into the yard, where Mark was retrieving a toy horse from the elm tree. How it came to be there in the first place, she couldn’t imagine.
“The next bugle call is the stable call.” He walked halfway to the barn, used the heel of his boot to draw a rectangle in the dirt, then placed the wooden horse inside. “After a trooper wakes up, his next duty is to see to his horse.”
He lifted the bugle, pursed his lips, and blew. She hadn’t heard this call before. It moved up the scale in stairstep fashion, but on each platform note, he tongued a complex, exceedingly fast rhythm that exhibited impressive technical skill. He might actually be better now than when he’d been training for the symphony.
She hung back, not wanting to interrupt or distract from the game. Plus, she enjoyed watching him. Listening to him play. Remembering the happy times they’d shared. The laughter. The music.
“When a soldier hears this call, he hurries to the picket line to muck out the area and feed, hay, and groom his mount. So when you hear this call, I want you to hurry to our picket area here and pretend you’re wielding a pitchfork. Yes! Just like Abner’s doing.”
Soon all the kids were mimicking Abner’s shoveling charade.
Mark sounded the stable call. A herd of children descended upon the toy horse and mucked for all they were worth.
“Excellent! You all would make perfect troopers. The next call was always my favorite because it meant it was time to eat.” Mark pooched out his flat belly and thumped it like a drum. “Mmm.”
The kids giggled. Katherine grinned.
“Where do you normally eat dinner?” Mark quizzed the assembly.
“Kitchen!” Quill called out as he pointed a chubby finger at the precise location where Katherine was standing.
“The kitchen. Right!” Mark pivoted toward the house, and his gaze stumbled onto Katherine. He fell silent for a moment, his eyes locked on hers, before he recalled the game and turned his attention back to the children. “When you hear this next call, run to Miss Katherine and pretend to eat a bowl full of”—he glanced over his shoulder at her and winked—“potatoes.”
Katherine’s face warmed, but she held her ground and gave him a nod of concession. She deserved that gentle jab.
The game continued for a good thirty minutes. Mark played different calls—“Reveille,” “Stable Call,” “Mess Call,” and “Taps”—while the kids tried to keep them straight and act out the appropriate charade. At first there was much confusion. Most of the kids just waited for Abner to act and followed him. But by the end their confidence had grown, and they were soon racing each other to see who could get to the correct station first.
Mark drew the game to a close with a final call for “Taps.” The mournful sound echoed through the evening air as the children dropped to the ground and pretended to sleep.
Ruby was the first to sit up. “Can you play any other songs? Like ‘Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush’?”
Mark sat on the ground and crossed his legs in front of him. “I could if I had my valve trumpet.” He wiggled his fingers above the midsection of the bugle. “It has . . . buttons, I guess you could call them. When you push the buttons in different combinations, you can play any note a song could have. Bugles like this one, though, can only play five notes.” He laid the bugle in his lap and grinned at Ruby. “But we can sing your song!” He inhaled an exaggerated, and impressively loud, breath and launched into a rousing rendition of “Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush.”
After that, every child clamored to pick a song. Mary’s little lamb made an appearance, followed by London’s bridge. But when Ted picked “Home on the Range,” hilarity ensued. Mark gave the most melodramatic performance she’d ever seen, his mournful cowboy so comically wretched, the children laughed more than sang along.
She hummed and swayed, the music drawing her closer without conscious thought. Before she knew it, she stood directly behind Mark’s back.
Once Abner caught his breath from laughing so hard, he smiled up at her. “What song do you want to sing, Miss Katherine?”
“Oh, I don’t need to—”
“I know!” Without giving her the chance to demur, Mark handed his bugle to Abner and leapt to his feet. “There’s a park . . . and a fountain . . .”
She shook her head. He wouldn’t.
His eyes danced with equal parts mischief and pleading as he held out his hand to her. “Sing it with me, Kate. The kids will love it.”
The song they’d performed ten years ago in the Westfield Follies, their annual school production. That number had led to her own Westfield folly a few months later by making her believe she and Mark had a special connection. Making her far too bold for her own good. But oh, how she’d loved singing with him.
Singing. Holding hands. Playacting a couple in love. She’d adored every minute of it. Being in his home so his mother could accompany them on the piano. Mark’s handsome smile, his teasing flirtation whenever his mother left the room. The way he could harmonize with her using notes that weren’t even written on the sheet music. As if his voice just instinctively fit with hers.
It had been the most perfect two weeks of her life.
“Sing, Miss Katherine,” the children demanded. “Sing!”
She stared at Mark’s outstretched hand, then met his eyes.
“Come on, Kate. For old times’ sake.”
Oh, what was the harm? It was just a song.
“All right.”
The children cheered, but it was the excitement sparking in Mark’s amber eyes that set her stomach to somersaulting. Ten years, and she still hadn’t built up an immunity to those eyes. Best not tempt fate by actually touching him.
“If we’re going to do this,” she said, spinning away from him and his outstretched hand with a swirl of her skirt, “we might as well give them the full performance.”
Mark tipped his hat. “Yes, ma’am.” He strode in the opposite direction before pivoting to face her. He straightened his clothing, put on a dandified persona, and took a step in her direction.
“‘While strolling in the park one day,’” he sang, his pitch impeccable despite the lack of accompaniment.
She took a step in his direction, looking anywhere but at him, and sang, “‘All in the merry month of May . . .’” She placed a hand to her chest and leaned backward as her eyes flew wide. “‘A roguish pair of eyes . . .’”
Mark waggled his brows. Their audience giggled on cue.
“‘They took me by surprise,’” she lilted. “‘In a moment my poor heart they stole away.’”
Mark strutted forward and offer
ed her his arm as he took over the song. “‘Oh, a sunny smile was all she gave to me.’”
She tipped her head and beamed a smile at him while batting her lashes. He hummed the instrumental interlude, and then, as if ten years hadn’t passed, they came in together in perfect harmony. “‘And of course we were as happy as could be.’”
He spun her around, then led her in a prance around the children for the refrain. “‘So neatly I raised my hat.’” He lifted his hat from his head. “‘And made a polite remark.’”
She gazed at him with theatrical adoration. “‘I never shall forget that lovely afternoon . . .’”
“‘. . . When I met her at the fountain in the park.’”
They did a little vaudeville-style dance as Mark whistled the interlude, then took up their parts again for the second verse, alternating lines.
“‘We lingered there beneath the trees.’”
“‘Her voice was like the fragrant breeze.’”
“‘We talked of happy love until the stars above.’”
“‘When her loving “yes” she gave my heart to please.’”
Katherine stumbled a bit at that line. Mark caught her arm smoothly and carried on as if no great irony lived in the lyric.
They continued through the rest of the song, singing of happiness and tipped hats and shared memories. But when Mark twirled her around for the big finish, dropping to one knee so she could perch on his upraised thigh and strike the final pose, memories of another time he went down on one knee flew through her mind in a distracting wave, causing her to overshoot her seat. As Mark’s gorgeous tenor voice belted out the last note, she slid off the back of his leg. Her feet flew up as she toppled. She squealed, he tried to catch her, and they both ended up in a heap on the ground.
“Kate? Are you all right?” Mark lifted up on one arm to take his weight off her. He searched her face, concern etched into his features.
Laughter burst from her. A snuffle at first, but it soon broke into a glorious guffaw that brought tears to her eyes. He matched her with a chuckle of his own, and the children joined in. Rolls after rolls of mirth convulsed through her, stealing her breath and leaving her weak. But she didn’t care. The laughter felt so good. It cleansed away all the unnecessary worry tied to the past and allowed her to revel in the simple joy of the present.
A present that included both Mark and her children. It might only last for this single, precious moment, but she would absorb the elation of it and store it away for those days to come when loneliness tried to weigh her down.
CHAPTER
NINE
Jonah sat atop Augustus, swaying in rhythm with the horse’s walking gait. Years of military training had him scanning the road and surrounding area for signs of trouble as he and Mark meandered toward Kingsland, but his mind paid scant attention to what he saw. His internal cogitations took precedence.
Miss Southerland’s stubborn silence after they’d dropped baby Sarah off at the James home should have given him plenty of time to strategize the best way to investigate the mysterious kiddy-snatchers. However, Eliza Southerland, even when silent, proved to be a powerful distraction. And not just because of her looks, though they certainly contributed to the problem. It was the curiosity she whetted in him.
The touch of Southern drawl in her voice made him wonder at her upbringing. Had she been born on a plantation? Illegitimate daughter to some entitled white man who thought he could take whatever he wanted from his female slaves? What had it been like for her growing up? She’d obviously been educated. Likely at her father’s expense. So what kind of relationship did that imply? Did she treat all men as if they carried some kind of contagion, or just him?
That last question had shaken him and caused him to urge Miss Southerland’s team to greater speed as they made for home. He’d hoped that putting some distance between himself and Harmony House would settle his mind back on matters of actual importance—like missing children. Unfortunately, leaving the foundling home brought trouble of its own.
“We should’ve stayed for supper,” Mark grumbled as he rode at Jonah’s side. “I spent a good thirty minutes prepping those potatoes.”
Jonah raised a challenging brow. “It ain’t taters you’re missin’. It’s the lovely Miss Palmer.” At least he wasn’t the only one with a woman glued to his brain.
“Yeah, well, you would be too, if you suddenly found yourself face-to-face with the girl you nearly married ten years ago.”
Jonah’s face jerked sideways. He reined Augustus to a halt. “Married?”
Mark shrugged. “Nearly.”
Jonah let out a low whistle. Mark “the Lady’s Man” Wallace, a husband? Hard to believe. Sure, Wallace had a soft spot for the ladies, but Jonah had never pictured him settling down with any particular one. He seemed the type to enjoy a variety of women without the tangles of commitment. But maybe that had less to do with enjoying his freedom and more to do with pining for the one who got away.
“Close call, eh?” Jonah smirked, but Wallace failed to rise to the bait.
Instead he just stared off into the air, his expression pensive. “Sometimes I wonder if it wasn’t close enough.”
Jonah wanted to ask more but held his tongue. A man’s past was his own to share or not as he chose. If he started peppering Wallace with questions, his friend might expect Jonah to answer in kind. And he’d just as soon keep his thoughts—at least about women—to himself.
“If you want to head back to Gringolet in the morning,” Wallace said, nudging his gray back into motion, “I’ll give you the papers and payment from the sale to give to the captain. I’m going to stay around here a few more days.”
“Oh?”
“You saw the place.” A touch of defensiveness slid into Wallace’s tone. “Harmony House is in desperate need of repairs, and from what I can tell, they don’t have the funds to pay anyone to do the work. I thought I’d volunteer some manpower. Put a few things to rights. Wouldn’t want one of those kids to fall through a rotted floorboard, you know.”
Or a horse-phobic woman to be stranded with a broken axle.
“I think I’ll join you.”
Wallace turned in his saddle, the intensity of his gaze warming the back of Jonah’s neck. “Why?” The simple word packed a wallop of suspicion.
Jonah rolled his shoulders, trying to rid himself of the uncomfortable weight of eyes that probably saw too much. “I got my reasons. Most of which are tied to a job I just signed us on for.”
“What kind of job?”
Jonah looked straight at his partner. “A Horseman kind of job.”
Wallace, to his credit, didn’t immediately pester him for details. “Do we need to bring in Matt and Preach?”
Jonah shook his head. “Not yet. I ain’t even sure we have a real case. There’s some question about the reliability of the witness.”
“But you think it’s worth digging into?”
“Yep.”
Wallace nodded acceptance, confirming that Jonah’s opinion was reason enough on its own. No justifications required.
Jonah sat a shade taller in the saddle. He never took trust and respect for granted. Captain Hanger and the rest of the Horsemen had never been stingy with extending those commodities to him, but a lifetime of dealing with others who viewed his opinions as inferior simply because his skin color differed from theirs made him appreciate the gift each time it was given.
“Any pay?” Wallace asked.
Jonah grinned. “Nope.”
“Guess we better not break the bank on accommodations, then.” Mark winked at him as they reined in at the livery on King Street.
A young boy ran out to meet them. “Can I help you, sirs?”
The redheaded kid’s trousers exposed an inch of ankle, his shirt was missing a button, and he kept jerking his head to keep his overlong, curly hair out of his face, but he wore a friendly, welcoming grin. ’Course, the grin seemed more for the horses than for either him or Wallace. The kid
barely looked at them before lowering his gaze to Augustus and Cooper. Jonah couldn’t blame him. They were fine horses.
He and Wallace dismounted and led their mounts to the stable door. “We need to board them for the next couple of nights. Feed, water, and a nickel for you per animal if you give them a thorough brushing.”
The kid bounced in his shoes. “Yes, sir!”
Jonah pulled two nickels from his vest pocket and flipped them to the boy, who snatched them out of the air with the skill of a circus juggler.
“I’ll take real good care of ’em.” He stuffed the coins into his trouser pocket, then reached for the reins of both mounts. “We don’t get too many horses from outside Kingsland. Most folks ride the train in. Usually I’m rentin’ horses out, not takin’ ’em in. Especially not ones as nice as these.”
Augustus snuffed at the boy’s hair, earning a laugh from the kid.
Jonah collected his saddlebags and rifle from his gear, then patted the gelding on the rump to signal him to follow the stable boy. Wallace did the same, except he patted his gray’s neck and whispered something in the animal’s ear before stepping aside.
“His name’s Cooper,” Wallace said as he moved away from his horse. “And he likes his belly rubbed once the saddle comes off.”
The boy nodded. “I’ll rub him good.”
Wallace held his hand out to the boy. “Name’s Mark Wallace.” He tipped his head Jonah’s way. “That there’s Jonah Brooks.”
The boy shifted both sets of reins to his left hand, wiped his right on his trousers, then fit his palm to Mark’s. “Name’s Edgar, but you can call me Wart.”
“Nice to meet you, Wart.” Somehow, Mark managed to pronounce the name as if it were a royal title and not an unsightly skin growth. But then, he’d always had a knack for makin’ folks feel special.
Instead of extending his hand, Jonah opted for a silent nod and a tip of his hat. He didn’t want to put the kid in an awkward spot.
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