Nan Ryan (22 page)

And most of Sunday as well.

Muttering oaths, Niles leaned back in his swivel chair and gripped his throbbing temples. Eyes shut, he cursed everybody and everything he could think of to curse. He finally opened his eyes, sighed wearily, and wondered if it was too early to pour himself a good stiff drink.

He automatically fished inside his vest pocket for his diamond-and-gold watch. And cursed anew when he remembered it was not there. Furious, Niles swiveled his chair around, rose to his feet, crossed the plushly carpeted office to the back door.

There he paused to compose himself.

Niles Loveless appeared totally serene when he stepped out the back door to confront the three men waiting patiently in the alleyway. Looking pleasant, Niles nodded to them all in turn and the tense trio collectively breathed a deep sigh of relief.

Smiling, Niles said, “Boys, come on in for a minute.”

He turned, went back in, and they all eagerly followed.

Inside, Niles asked, “Which one of you rode out to the old Burke farm and hid my watch?”

Harry Boyd threw back his thick shoulders. “It was me, boss! I did it. The sheriff been out there yet and found it?”

The words were barely out of Boyd’s mouth before Niles was on him. All traces of his former fake smile now gone, Niles grabbed the big man by his open shirt collar, jerked Boyd’s startled face down a couple of inches from his own, and said, “No, the sheriff didn’t find it and you’d better damn well remember where you hid it.”

Blinking with confusion and surprise, Boyd began furiously nodding his head. “I remember. I know exactly where I hid the watch and I—”

“Good. Ride back out there tonight and get it,” ordered Niles, yanking on the man’s collar for emphasis.

“But why? I thought—”

“Just do it!” snarled Niles. He released his hold on the big man’s shirt, again clutched his own banging temples, and added contemptuously, “And get out of my sight, all of you! I can’t stand to look at you!”

The chastened Harry Boyd waited until well past midnight. Then he rode alone onto the Burke property, thanking the fates for the new moon which gave so little light. Deep into the dense pine forest Boyd rode, dodging tree branches and thick undergrowth in the darkness.

Boyd drew rein when at last he came out of the woods and into the open. Before him lay the silent farm with its level fields, old bay-front home, and sprawling outbuildings. The big house was dark. Boyd was relieved. His gaze went to the barn. Then to the connecting quarters. No lights shone. Boyd exhaled with released tension.

“Piece of cake,” the big man silently assured himself.

He dismounted, tethered his horse to a tall pine, and started toward the distant outbuildings. Under the cloak of darkness he approached the barn, tiptoeing as he neared the corral where the big sorrel stallion was penned. He stopped every few steps, expecting the horse to catch his scent and put up a racket.

No sound came from the darkened corral.

Boyd reached the old barn’s open front door. He slipped inside, paused, and blinked sightlessly. It was pitch-black. He could hardly see his hand before his face. He would have to feel his way to where he had hidden the watch.

Boyd swallowed hard, put his hands out before him like a blind man, and slowly advanced deeper into the dark interior of the barn. Getting his bearings, he remembered where the ladder was which went up to the corncrib. He quickly headed in that direction.

In seconds his searching outstretched hands came in contact with the splintered ladder and Harry Boyd shook his head happily in the darkness. Hoping the rickety rungs would hold him one more time, he began his climb. He grunted softly when he reached the landing and levered himself up.

A glassless window near the top of the barn’s steep roof allowed a small degree of moonlight to spill inside, but it wasn’t enough to be of any great help. Fortunately, Boyd remembered exactly which stack of corn he’d hidden the watch under. All he needed to do was get over to it, move a few cobs aside, pick up the watch, and then get the devil out of there.

On hands and knees the big man crawled past several neat stacks of corn, feeling suddenly as if he might sneeze at any second, knowing that he couldn’t let that happen. He stopped, lifted a hand up to cover his nose and mouth, squeezed his eyes tightly shut, and waited for the sensation to pass. When it did, he set out again, grinning in the darkness when he reached the neatly stacked mound of corn directly to the right of the high window.

Eager now to get the watch and go, he crouched on his heels and began scooping up ears of corn, rearranging those which were left. He reached a large hand into the hiding place and spread his fingers, expecting to touch cool smooth gold.

He felt only corn shucks and rough wood. He shoved his hand farther inside, patted anxiously, came up with nothing.

He tore into the stacked corn like a madman, tossing ears this way and that, clawing furiously, forgetting the need for silence. Like a raging bull he snorted and blew and crashed around, frantic to locate the watch.

On all fours, the wildly charging Harry Boyd ripped the crib apart, slinging corn and loose husks everywhere. Out of breath, heart hammering, he rose up on his knees, feeling for all the world as if he were going to cry.

The cry died in his throat and he stiffened with shock when a hand abruptly shot out of the darkness and clamped down hard over his mouth. His eyes wide with fright, he almost choked on his tongue.

“This what you’re looking for?” came a low, deep voice from directly behind.

Diamonds winked in the dim light as a gold-cased pocket watch, suspended by a glittering gold chain, was slowly lowered in front of his face and made to swing back and forth, back and forth before his startled eyes.

Afraid to breathe, afraid to move, certain that the next thing he would see or feel would be the steel barrel of a gun, the trembling Harry Boyd froze. His big, muscular arms hung useless at his sides. His eyes flashed with fear.

Kurt withdrew his hand from Boyd’s mouth. He stepped from behind the kneeling man, moved around to face him.

“I asked a question,” Kurt said softly, dangling the pocket watch inches from Boyd’s nose. “Answer me.”

Nodding furiously, fighting to swallow so that he would have enough saliva to speak, Harry Boyd finally managed to croak, “You can keep it. You can keep the watch. I’ll tell—”

“I don’t want Loveless’s watch. I don’t want anything Loveless has.” Kurt reached out, unbuttoned the man’s breast pocket, and dropped the watch inside. “Take his watch back to him. And take this message with you: I will personally see to it that he
never
gets his filthy hands on a single acre of Mrs. Courtney’s land.” One-handed, Kurt rebuttoned the kneeling man’s shirt pocket. “Think you can remember that?”

“Yes, sir,” gasped Harry Boyd. “I’ll tell him.”

“Get up.”

Harry Boyd struggled to his feet. “Anything else?”

“Yes. This is private property. You’re trespassing. If I ever catch you on it again,” said Kurt coldly, “I’ll kill you.”

Chapter Twenty-six

Yankee soldiers lie here in peace
,

Guests of strangers
,

Far from home
,

They too died for their country

K
urt stood in the early morning silence studying the epitaph he had carved on the new wooden marker. He bowed his head respectfully and offered a brief prayer for his fallen comrades-in-arms.

At his feet were the graves of the three Union soldiers Jolly had buried at the edge of Helen’s property. Union soldiers with Farragut’s fleet who had lost their lives in the Battle of Mobile.

Kurt raised his head.

Eyes squinted, he gazed toward the distant northern horizon … toward home. Come autumn, he would leave this place. He would finally go back home to Maryland. But these men would never go home. This rich Alabama soil was their final resting place.

Kurt turned away from the graves now marked by the carved wooden headstone. The sun was coming up and he had plenty of work to do. He wouldn’t leave Alabama until all the work was done. He couldn’t, in good conscience, go back to his home without first making sure Helen wouldn’t lose hers.

He was determined that she would keep her beloved land. He worked tirelessly from sunup to moonrise to finish the plowing and planting. With the team of strong-bodied grays pulling the heavy blade before him, he plowed long straight rows until his arms ached so they felt as though they were being jerked out of their sockets and his legs grew so tired he could barely walk. He worked until he felt he couldn’t grip the plow handles another minute, couldn’t possibly take one more step.

And found that he could.

On he went, the broiling Alabama sun beating directly down on his tired back. All through the long hot day, he was so soaked with sweat his clothes stuck wetly to his heated body. And he was thirsty. Always thirsty. So thirsty he felt as if he were “spittin’ cotton,” as Jolly would say.

It didn’t matter.

The only thing that mattered was getting the crops planted as quickly as possible. He was totally focused on one and only one goal: To see to it that Helen Courtney had a bountiful autumn harvest. A harvest which would provide money enough to take care of the exorbitant land taxes, pay his wages, and leave her able to live comfortably. To live comfortably without the constant worry of losing her farm to Niles Loveless.

His unflagging dedication to his backbreaking chores was not lost on Helen. A quiet admiration for him grew daily as she witnessed him toiling uncomplainingly in the sun-blistered fields. It was twilight each evening before he came in, hot, tired, and dirty.

She would look out the kitchen window and see him at the well, taking the dipper down off the hook to get a drink. Several drinks.

She’d seen the total exhaustion written on his handsome face, watched him lean wearily against the well post as he drank thirstily of the cool water. She’d noted as well that there was not a dry thread on his tall, lean body. His work shirt clung stickily to his back and chest and biceps. His face was always covered with the powdered red earth. Beads of sweat slipped down his cheeks to his bare throat. His jet-black hair was wet and clinging to his head.

Now on this warm June evening, Helen was watching when Kurt Northway ripped off his dirty work shirt and draped it over the side of the well. He lifted a dipper full of water, turned away from the well, bent down, and poured the water over his dark head. His eyes shut, he lifted his head and smiled as the cool water streamed over his dirty face, clinging to his long dark eyelashes and sluicing down his bare chest. It was such a purely masculine gesture, Helen couldn’t keep from smiling. A woman would never—no matter how hot—pour water over her head.

Only a man would do that.

Her smile widened when he lifted his hands to wipe the water from his eyes, then shook himself like a great dog and pushed his wet hair straight back off his face. She could almost hear his deep sigh of satisfaction. When a tanned hand went to his hard abdomen, spreading water over smooth taut flesh, Helen felt suddenly as if she were looking in someone’s window. It was an invasion of his privacy.

She quickly turned away, guiltily admitting to herself that she had derived a disgraceful degree of pleasure from spying on him. It worried her that she had so enjoyed it. What had gotten into her?

Helen frowned.

Was she forgetting who this man was? Had it momentarily slipped her mind that he was a Yankee? She almost wished she hadn’t burned his uniforms. Wished he still wore those cavalry trousers with their yellow stripes so there’d never be any doubt about who he actually was.

Helen ground her teeth savagely. Had it been only weeks since she’d hotly assured him that she would
never
forget he’d worn the uniform of the hated enemy? That she didn’t want to forget. Ever. That she would go on remembering for as long as she lived. That she would take her hatred of him and his murdering federal troops with her to the grave and beyond.

Dear God, was she already forgetting?

No!

No, she wasn’t. And she never would.

The work load eased a bit when all the fields had finally been planted with crops. There was still much to do, but Kurt managed to find the time to tackle a new project. It was to be a surprise for Helen. He conferred with Charlie and Jolly and warned them not to let the cat out of the bag.

Quietly he went about tearing down the rotted stairs leading from the front yard down to the bay. When every last stick of old wood had been hauled away, he took a scythe and cleared the badly overgrown path of tangled vines and choking weeds and brushy undergrowth. When he’d successfully hacked a clean wide path through the dense jungle foliage, he rounded up all the loose lumber he could get his hands on. Jolly donated to the cause, sneaking planks down to the building sight, taking special care not to be seen by Helen.

Charlie was beside himself with excitement over the proposed stairway. He’d been repeatedly cautioned not to tell Helen and spoil the surprise, but it was all he could do to keep the secret.

Something was up; Helen knew it. Charlie’s big brown eyes sparkled constantly with impishness and he did a lot of whispering to Jolly and cutting his eyes at Helen and clamping his hands over his mouth to keep himself quiet.

The secret was finally out one early morning when the sound of hammering awakened Helen. Curious, she quickly dressed and went out back to investigate. She looked toward the barn, saw nobody. Puzzled, she realized that the sound of the rhythmic hammering was not as loud as it had been when she was in her bedroom.

She went back inside, walked through the house, and stepped out onto the front gallery.

The hammering grew louder, closer.

“What the …?” She descended the porch steps and hurried across the big front yard, zeroing in on the report of the unseen hammer. It was coming from below. From down on the sloping bluff. She strolled toward the edge of the bluff. To the spot where the old rotting wooden gangway once stood. A new top step was now there in place of the old. Helen stepped cautiously onto it, looked down. Directly below her knelt Kurt, hammer in hand, nailing a piece of carefully measured wood into place.