Just Imagine (9 page)

"Do you mean to tell me there isn't anyone in this entire community who'd be willing to take over the guardianship of Miss Weston? Not even if I pay her expenses?" Cain studied the Reverend Rawlins Ames Cogdell of Rutherford, South Carolina, who studied him in return.

"You must understand, Mr. Cain. We've all known Katharine Louise a good deal longer than you have."

Rawlins Cogdell prayed that God would forgive him for the satisfaction he was taking in putting a spoke in this Yankee's wheel. The Hero of Missionary Ridge, indeed! How galling it was to be forced to entertain such a man. But what else was he to do? These days blue-uniformed occupation troops were everywhere, and even a man of God had to be careful not to offend.

His wife, Mary, appeared in the doorway with a plate holding four tiny finger sandwiches, each one spread with a thin glaze of strawberry preserves. "Am I interrupting?"

"No, no. Come in, my dear. Mr. Cain, you do have a treat in store for you. My wife is famous for her strawberry preserves."

The preserves were from the bottom of the last jar his wife had put up two springs ago when there was still sugar, and the bread was sliced from a loaf that had to last them the rest of the week. Still, Rawlins was pleased she was offering it. He would sooner starve than let this man know how poor they all were.

"None for me, my dear. I'll save my appetite for dinner. Please, Mr. Cain, take two."

Cain wasn't nearly as obtuse as Cogdell believed. He knew what a sacrifice the offering on the chipped blue willowware plate was. He took a sandwich even though there was nothing he wanted less and made the required compliments. Damn all Southerners. Six hundred thousand lives had been lost because of their stiff-necked pride.

Cain believed their arrogance was a product of the disease of the slave system. The planters had lived like omnipotent kings on isolated plantations, where they held absolute authority over hundreds of slaves. It had given them a terrible conceit. They'd believed they were all-powerful, and defeat had changed them only superficially. A Southern family might be starving, but tea sandwiches would still be offered to a guest, even a despised one.

The Reverend Cogdell turned to his wife. "Please sit down, my dear. Perhaps you can help us. Mr. Cain finds himself on the horns of a dilemma."

She did as her husband requested and listened as he outlined Cain's connection with Rosemary Weston and the fact that he wanted to transfer his guardianship of Kit. When her husband was finished, she shook her head.

"I'm afraid what you want is impossible, Mr. Cain. There are a number of families who would have been only too happy to take Katharine Louise in during her formative years. But it's too late for that. My goodness, she's eighteen now."

"Hardly a Methuselah," Cain said dryly.

"Standards of behavior are different in South Carolina than they are in the North." Her rebuke was softly spoken. "Girls of good family are raised from birth in the gracious traditions of Southern womanhood. Not only has Katharine Louise never shown any inclination to conform to these traditions, but she mocks them. The families of our community would be concerned about the influence Katharine would have on their own daughters."

Cain felt a spark of pity for Kit. It couldn't have been easy growing up with a stepmother who hated her, a father who ignored her, and a community that disapproved of her. "Isn't there anyone in this town who feels affection for her?"

Mary's small hands fluttered in her lap. "Gracious, Mr. Cain, you misunderstand. We're all deeply fond of her. Katharine Louise is a generous and warmhearted person. Her hunting skills have put food in the mouths of our poorest families, and she never fails to cheer us up. But that doesn't alter the fact that she conducts herself outside even the most liberally defined boundaries of acceptable behavior."

Cain had played too much poker not to know when he was beaten. Willard Ritter had given him letters of introduction to four families in Rutherford, and he'd been rejected by all of them. He finished his cursed jelly sandwich and took his leave.

As he rode back to Risen Glory on the bony mare he'd hired at a livery stable in Charleston, he faced the unpleasant truth. Like it or not, he was stuck with Kit.

The plantation house came into view. It was a handsome, two-story structure of stucco-covered brick that sat at the end of a twisting overgrown drive. Despite the general air of neglect from peeling paint and broken shutters, the place was sturdy. The house had weathered to a warm shade of cream with bricks and mortar visible beneath the stucco. Live oaks heavy with Spanish moss shaded each end and draped the tiled roof. Azaleas, smilax, and holly spilled from overgrown beds, while magnolias scattered their waxy leaves across the knee-high grass of the front yard.

But it wasn't the house that had caught Cain's interest when he'd arrived two days ago. Instead, he'd spent the afternoon inspecting the ruins of the burned outbuildings, crawling over broken machinery, setting aside rusted tools, and occasionally stopping in an empty field to pick up a handful of rich soil. It trickled through his fingers like warm silk. Once again he found himself thinking about New York City and how it had begun to suffocate him.

Cain turned his horse over to Eli, the bent old man and former slave who'd met him with a shotgun the day Cain had arrived at Risen Glory.

"That's far enough," he'd said. "Miz Kit told me to shoot anybody steps foot on Risen Glory."

"Miss Kit needs to have her britches tanned," Cain had replied, not adding that he'd already done the job.

"You sure enough right 'bout that. But I still have to shoot you if you come any closer."

Cain could have disarmed the old man without difficulty, but he'd wanted his cooperation, so he'd taken the time to explain his relationship to Kit and Rosemary Weston. When Eli understood that Cain wasn't one of the fancy scalawags who'd been preying on the countryside, he'd put down his shotgun and welcomed him to Risen Glory.

The middle of the house curved in a graceful bow. Cain stepped into the wide center hallway that had been designed to carry a breeze. Parlors, a music room, and a library opened off it, everything shabby and dust-shrouded. The handsome teak table in the dining room bore fresh gouges. Sherman's troops had carted it outside and used it to butcher the plantation's remaining livestock.

Cain caught the scent of fried chicken. Eli couldn't cook, and as far as he knew, there was no one else in the house. The former slaves, enticed by the promise of forty acres and a mule, had gone off after the Union army. He wondered if the mysterious Sophronia had returned. Eli had made several references to Risen Glory's cook, but Cain hadn't yet seen her.

"Evenin', Major."

Cain stopped in his tracks as a small, much-too-familiar figure appeared at the end of the hallway. Then he began to curse.

Kit's hands twisted nervously at her sides. She wasn't moving any closer until he'd had a chance to adjust.

She'd left Cain's house in New York the same way she'd entered it. Over the back wall. She'd taken her bundle with her, along with
The Sybaritic Life of Louis XV
, which was the inspiration for the desperate plan she'd conceived the day after Cain left.

Now she plastered a smile on her face that was so big and fat it made her cheeks ache. "I sure hope you're hungry, Major. I got some fried chicken and hot buttermilk biscuits just beggin' for somebody with an appetite. I even scrubbed down the table in the dining room so we could eat there. 'Course, it's kinda scratched up, but it's a gen-u-wine Sheraton. You ever heard of Sheraton, Major? He was a Englishman and a Baptist to boot. Doesn't that seem strange to you? Seems like only Southerners should be Baptists. I—"

"What in the hell are you doing here?"

She'd known he'd be mad, but she'd hoped he wouldn't be quite this mad. Frankly, she wasn't sure she was up to it. She'd endured the train trip back to Charleston, a bone-jarring wagon ride, and, just today, a fifteen-mile hike that had left her with blisters and a sunburn. The last of her money had gone to buy food for tonight's dinner. She'd even taken a bath in the kitchen and changed into a clean shirt and britches so she didn't smell. She was surprised to discover that she liked being clean. Taking baths hadn't turned out to be such a bad idea after all, even if it did mean she had to look at her naked breasts.

She attempted a simper even though it about curdled her stomach. "Cookin' dinner for you, Major. That's what I'm doin'."

He clenched his teeth. "No. What you're doing is getting ready to
die
. Because I'm going to
kill you
!"

She didn't exactly believe him, but she didn't entirely disbelieve him, either. "Don't you yell at me! You'd of done the same thing!"

"What are you talking about?"

"You wouldn't have stayed up there in New York City while somebody was takin' away the only thing in your life you ever cared about! You wouldn't have sat in that fancy bedroom readin' books and tryin' on ugly dresses while it all slipped away. You'd of got yourself back to South Carolina as fast as you could, just like me. And then you'd have done anything you had to so you could keep what was yours."

"And I'm getting a pretty good idea what you've decided to do." In two long strides, he closed the distance between them. Before she could jump back, he began to rake his hands over her body.

"Stop that!"

"Not till you're disarmed."

She gasped as he touched her breasts. A tingle of sensation shot through her, but he didn't seem affected. He moved on to her waist and her hips.

"Stop it!"

He found the knife strapped to her calf. "Were you planning to use this on me when I was asleep?"

"If I didn't have the guts to kill you with a gun, I'd hardly do it with a knife, now, would I?"

"I suppose you were carrying it to open cans?"

"You took my gun. I couldn't travel without some kind of protection."

"I see." He set the knife out of her reach. "Then if you're not planning to kill me, what do you have in mind?"

This wasn't going the way Kit had hoped. She wanted to tell him to stop towering over her, but she wasn't that much of a fool. "Why don't we eat dinner first, and then I'll tell you? Food's hard to come by. No sense in lettin' everything get all dried out."

He took a moment making up his mind. "All right, we'll eat. But afterward we're having a serious talk."

She hurried toward the kitchen. "Supper'll be on the table in a minute."

Cain should have confronted her right away, but he was hungry, damn it. He hadn't eaten a decent meal since he'd left New York.

He disposed of her knife, then stalked back into the dining room. Kit appeared with a platter of fried chicken she placed on the table, and he finally noticed what had escaped him earlier. Everything about her was clean. From her cropped hair to the plaid shirt with a button missing at the neck to the dark brown britches that hung loosely on her small hips, she was scrubbed up as shiny as a new penny. He hadn't imagined anything short of force convincing her to bathe voluntarily. She was obviously prepared to go to drastic lengths to please him.

Not that she was going to have any success. He still couldn't believe she'd done this. But then, why not? She didn't understand the meaning of caution.

"Sit down and eat, Major. I sure hope you're hungry."

Cain had to admit it was a great meal. The chicken was fried a gold brown and steam rose from the buttermilk biscuits when he split them open. Even the dandelion greens were richly flavored.

When he'd eaten his fill, he leaned back in the chair. "You didn't do this by yourself."

"'Course I did. Normally Sophronia would have helped, but she's not here."

"Sophronia's the cook?"

"She also looked after me when I was growing up."

"She didn't do a very good job of it."

Those violet eyes narrowed. "I've got half a mind to comment on your upbringing, too."

The food had mellowed him, so this time she didn't get his dander up. "Everything was delicious."

She rose to fetch a bottle of brandy she'd put on the sideboard earlier. "Rosemary hid this before the Yankees came. Thought you might like to have a glass to celebrate your arrival at Risen Glory."

"Trust my mother to take better care of the liquor than she did of her stepdaughter." He took the bottle and began prying out the cork. "How did Risen Glory get its name? It's unusual."

"It happened not long after my granddaddy built the house." Kit leaned against the sideboard. "A Baptist preacher man came to the door askin' for a meal, and even though my grandma was strict Methodist, she fed him. They got to talkin', and when he heard the plantation didn't have a name yet, he said they should call it Risen Glory on account of it was almost Easter Sunday. It's been Risen Glory ever since."

"I see." He fished a piece of cork from his glass of brandy. "
I
think it's time you tell me what you're doing here."

Her stomach lurched. She watched him take a sip, his eyes staying on her the whole time. He never missed anything.

She moved toward the open doors that led from the dining room to the overgrown garden. It was dark and quiet outside, and she could smell honeysuckle in the night breeze. She loved it all so much. The trees and brooks, the sights and smells. Best of all, she loved watching the fields dance white with cotton. Soon, they'd be that way again.

Slowly she turned back to him. Everything depended on the next few minutes, and she had to do it right. "I came here to make a proposal to you, Major."

"I resigned my commission. Why don't you just call me Baron?"

"If it's all the same, I'll just go on callin' you 'Major'."

"I suppose it's better than some of the other things you've called me." He kicked back in the chair. Unlike a proper Southern gentleman, he'd hadn't worn a cravat to the table, and his collar was open. For a moment she found herself staring at the strong muscles in his neck. She forced herself to look away.

"Tell me about this proposal of yours."