Christine Dorsey (14 page)

“Oh, I don’t know.” Jake pulled a chair across the table corner from her and sat down. “At least they’re dry.” He glanced toward the clothes he’d draped over another chair close to the stove.

“True, but they’re—”

“They’re fine, Miss Lowery.” Jake looked away then found his eyes drawn back to her. “You’re beautiful when you laugh,” he said, catching them both off guard. Her expression showed shock and disbelief, and Jake figured his matched. Why in the hell had he said that? True enough, he thought her pretty since he first woke to find her snuggled on his shoulder. But he hadn’t seen her laugh, even smile for that matter, until now.

Merriment made her blue eyes alive with silvery sparks, made her face breathtaking. But that was no excuse for his saying it. And those sparkling eyes weren’t laughing now. They were wide, turned up slightly at the corners, and staring at him in wonderment. And her mouth, that sweet mouth he had kissed into submission, was open—only slightly—but enough for him to see the tip of her tongue.

Jake leaned forward. He could swear she drew toward him too. And then Will came clambering down the ladder.

Samantha jerked, her body slamming into the chair back, the jolt knocking some sense into her scattered wits. Had she come close to kissing him... again? Taking a deep breath, Samantha reached for her sewing basket, nearly knocking it onto the floor. Jacob Morgan’s fast hands kept her pins and threads from scattering.

He jumped up when he first heard Will, and now he met the boy before Will’s feet hit the floor. Will turned, his expression apologetic. “Gosh, Jake, I thought they’d fit you better than that.”

“Hey, Will,” Jake said, tussling the boy’s shock of wheat-colored hair. “It’s all right. They’re dry. How about those socks?” he questioned when Will still seemed concerned.

The heavy wool socks did nothing to improve his comical appearance, but they were at least warm. It amazed Jake how quickly the temperature had dropped with the onset of the storm.

Because he didn’t know what else to do, Jake sat back down at the table. But this time he sat across from Samantha. She didn’t look up, just kept stitching furiously at something she was making out of obnoxious purple silk. When Will flopped down, his attention was all for Jake.

“Did you bring your mouth organ in with ya?” he asked, leaning forward expectantly.

“As a matter of fact, I did.” Jake reached into his pocket. He’d retrieved it when he changed his pants.

“Could you play something for us... please?” Will added when Jake seemed to hesitate. “Sam and I heard you earlier, and really liked it.”

“I never said I liked it...” Samantha’s words trailed off as she realized how rude she sounded. She just didn’t want the Rebel thinking she sat around listening to him play. She concentrated on her next stitch. “Of course, we’d love to hear you play, Captain Morgan.”

The Rebel’s grin told her he knew her first statement closer to the truth, but he sidled up on one hip and drew out his harmonica. After some tune-up trills, he began to play.

Some of his songs were festive and cheerful, some were full of longing, but he played them all with the same enthusiasm. And Samantha was enthralled. She followed the motion, the movement of his hands as he slid the harmonica side to side, her sewing forgotten in her lap. His clear green eyes were hidden, their lashes lowered, blocking any view of his emotions. But the music filled the gap, washing feelings of joy, sorrow, pain, and love over her.

Jake had never played for a more receptive audience. He usually only pulled out the harmonica when he was alone. He’d received it from an uncle when he was thirteen, had mastered the notes quickly, and just as quickly delegated the instrument to the box in his chifforobe where he kept useless bits of his childhood. An aggie he’d thought at one time had magical powers, a musketball he’d found while visiting cousins near Yorktown (he was certain it was the last shot fired in the Revolutionary War), a rabbit’s foot from an albino rabbit. Occasionally he’d take out his treasures, and never failed to give the harmonica a workout.

But then he’d gone North to school, leaving the harmonica in Richmond. When he married Lydia and moved to his own house, the box went with him. But his new wife wasn’t partial to the sound, and after Andrew was born, she’d been afraid the noise would wake him. And Jake had been busy with his medical practice—too busy to indulge in childish habits like sitting in a quiet corner and letting the music seep into him.

He’d almost left it behind. When he joined the Army of Virginia, his bags were packed and he’d said his good-byes to Lydia and little Andrew. And suddenly he’d thought of his harmonica stashed in his treasure box. Taking the stairs three at a time he found it, slipped it in his pocket, and rode off to war.

He regretted a lot of things over those four long years, but never bringing the harmonica.

Jake tapped the harmonica in his palm. The last strains of “My Old Kentucky Home” still hung in the air. Will was sitting, elbows on table, chin in hand, waiting. Samantha leaned back in her chair, her eyes dreamy, her soft lips tilted in a smile. She stayed that way, her breathing soft, the pulse quivering just above where her collar buttoned beneath the hollow of her neck. Then her eyes focused and locked with his, and she jerked ramrod straight in the chair.

“That was very nice,” she observed, hastily retrieving her sewing and trying to appear busy.

“It was great!” Will chimed in, and Samantha admitted her brother’s assessment was closer to the truth. “Play something else.”

Jake shrugged. “I’m afraid that’s about all I know.”

“But Jake—”

“Willy,” Samantha interrupted, then bit her bottom lip. Hadn’t she decided to stop mothering her brother so much? She searched her mind for something to say to take the sting from her reprimand. Then found she didn’t have to. The rebel picked up the copy of
Moby Dick
from the table.

“Who’s reading this?”

Will made a face that eloquently said what he thought of the novel. “I am,” he grumbled, his accusing eyes trained on Samantha. Had she thought this subject would be better?

“It’s one of my favorites,” Jake said, turning to the fly page.

“You like reading?” Will was obviously struck by disbelief.

“What?” Jake glanced up from perusing the page. Most of his books had been destroyed when Richmond burned. The ones left, those at his parents’ house, he’d packed up and put into storage when he started West. He hadn’t realized until now how much he missed them... even his medical volumes. “Yeah, I like to read.”

“But reading’s for sissies.”

“Will!” Why had she decided to stop mothering him? He needed mothering! At least he needed his manners corrected. Samantha dropped her sewing to tell him so, but the rebel’s laughter cut her off.

“Sissies, huh.” Jake rubbed his chin, his eyes meeting Samantha’s. She could see the humor shining in the clear green depths. “Guess I must be a sissy then.”

“Naw,” Will objected. “You ain’t no sissy.”

“I don’t know.” Jake leaned back in his chair. The wood creaked above the sound of the storm. Again his gaze found Samantha. “I must be because I sure like to read.”

Will was speechless. His mouth gaped open. It was no secret to Samantha that Will had made the rebel into some kind of hero. And now he was left wondering. One thing for certain, Samantha had to agree with her brother. Jacob Morgan was no sissy. She imagined Will would come to the same conclusion. In the meantime, she’d give them all something to do.

“I’m going to make some tea,” she said standing. “Would anyone like a piece of leftover pie from supper?”

Jake looked up at her. The apple pie from supper was some of the best he’d ever had. He was surprised there was any left. He’d thought he’d eaten all of it. He told Samantha as much and smiled at her blush. She wasn’t nearly as tough as she liked to make him think.

“Hey, Jake.” Will forced Jake’s attention away from watching the Lowery woman prepare tea. “You really like this book?”

“Sure do.” Jake picked it up again. “You ever read it?”

Will rolled his eyes toward his sister. His voice low, he admitted. “She read it to me, and now she’s trying to get me to do it.”

Jake kept his tone conspiratorial. “Does she listen to you?”

Will nodded. “Like a teacher. I’m too old for school.”

Jake shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. But in any case, how about if you read to me.”

“Now?”

“No. Tomorrow when we’re working. We’ll take turns reading
Moby Dick
to each other. All right?” Jake’s brow rose quizzically.

“All right.”

Samantha sliced a piece of pie for Will. Did they really think she couldn’t hear them? Samantha considered turning and informing the two males sitting at her table that they weren’t pulling a thing on her, but she didn’t. She wanted Will to read... to enjoy reading. And the Rebel was doing more to accomplish that than she ever could. She angled her knife to the left, cutting him off a larger hunk of pie than she’d originally planned.

By the time they finished eating, the storm’s fury had abated. No longer did the wind howl or the rain pelt the roof overhead. Samantha stood gathering up the dishes. “The roof held,” she said, smiling up at Jake, who’d followed her to the dry sink. “It’s the first time in over a year we haven’t had to place pots around on the floor.” She could give the devil his due. But when he was standing close to her like this, he didn’t seem much like a devil—though he sure could tempt her.

“Good.” What was it about this woman that had him constantly wanting to kiss her? Even now with her hands wrist deep in dishwater and her brother sitting five feet away, he had the strong urge to pull her into his arms.

Well, he had no intentions of making the same mistake he’d made last night. He’d stay one more day—as they agreed—then he’d ride off and never give Samantha Lowery another thought.

With that intention firm in his mind, Jake turned on his heel and left the cabin—in his stocking feet.

“I
won’t do it, and that’s final!” Samantha gave her brother a determined look before bending down to pluck a ripe prickly pear. Thoughts of its sweet, strawberry flavor made her mouth water as she placed it carefully in the burlap bag tied at her waist.

She’d risen early that morning and had decided to go on a search for the wild fruit. Why she suddenly had the urge to pick fruit today, she wasn’t sure, but it had nothing to do with avoiding the Rebel. She was certain of that.

A little solitude was all she was after. A chance to think. But apparently that wasn’t to be. As soon as she started out of the cabin, with a hasty word to her brother about her destination, he fell into step beside her.

He was still there.

“Give me one good reason,” Will persisted.

Samantha took a deep breath in an attempt to calm herself. It didn’t help. Turning on her brother, she glared at him from beneath her straw bonnet. “I can give you lots of reasons. But all you need to know is that I am
not
going to ask Jacob Morgan to stay on.”

“But Sam—”

“No arguments, Will.” Samantha went back to picking prickly pears, but she should have known she hadn’t heard the last from her brother.

“We need someone to help us with the corn.”

He had a point there. The cornfield had rows standing straight and tall as sentinels. Samantha had checked it this morning. She’d smiled at the sight of their hard work come to fruition. Water droplets left over from last night’s rain had sparkled like prisms in the early morning sun.

But though she and Will would need help to harvest the crop, it wasn’t going to be the Rebel. “I’ll talk to Jim Farley when I take Peggy Keane’s dress into town. You remember him from last year.”

“And you said he was slow as molasses in January.”

Why did Will have to pick now to have a good memory? “Well, we got the job done, and that’s what counts.”

“Sam...”

“Will!” Samantha gathered the bag shut, deciding she’d had more than enough fruit picking for one day. “Captain Morgan is leaving today or tomorrow.”

“I know.” Will followed her up the path. “I heard you two talking last night after I went to bed.”

Samantha paused. “Then you know he already has his plans made.”

“He might change his mind if you talked to him.”

“I don’t think so.”

“But he might.”

“Willy, I’m getting very tired of this. We won’t discuss it anymore.” They climbed the slight rise the cabin was built on, and Samantha continued on through the door, leaving her brother kicking at a clod of dirt. She pretended not to, but there was no way she could miss his last grumbled words.

“He wouldn’t be so anxious to leave if you were nicer to him.”

Well, this was as nice as she was going to get, Samantha decided, slamming the door behind her. Maybe he wasn’t one of Landis Moore’s men—though she wasn’t
absolutely
convinced of his innocence—but he was still a Rebel soldier.

He was still just passing through, and the faster he got on with it, the better.

But Will would miss him. Samantha sighed. She needed to be more understanding toward her brother. As surly as the Rebel was toward
her,
he’d been wonderful with Will. It was obvious Will liked him, and it was probably more than a matter of hero worship.