The Raging Hearts: The Coltrane Saga, Book 2 (29 page)

It was chilly inside the tax collector’s office. A thin, bespectacled little man peered at her with irritation from where he sat huddled before a potbellied stove. “Yes, what do you want?” he asked impatiently, wiping at his runny nose with a soiled handkerchief.

“Are you the tax collector?” she asked, ignoring his rudeness.

“I work for the tax office, yes. What do you want?”

She told him her name. “I want to inquire about the tax on my property, formerly the John Wright farm. Now it is mine. I was in here last spring to pay what was owed.”

Without comment, he flung aside the carriage wrap that covered his bony legs, exaggerating every movement to let her know that he resented the intrusion. Let him be annoyed, thought Kitty. He was being paid to do a job, and she was a customer.

Moving through a swinging gate, he stepped behind a high counter, then bent out of sight. Kitty moved to stand beside the warmth of the stove. After a few moments, he straightened, holding a large, thick book, which he dropped on the counter with a loud plop. Licking the tip of his right forefinger, he began to flip through the pages. She wondered who he was. He was not the same man she had dealt with on her previous visit, and she had never seen him in town before.

“Ah, here we are.” He was actually smiling, his eyes sparkling. “Yes, yes, indeed. Miss Katherine Wright. Your property is listed as delinquent. I will check the other list to be sure, but from what I see here, you are in arrears for your ’65 taxes…”

She had moved to the counter and was about to ask the amount when the little man’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Oh.” His fingertips flew to his lips. “Your tax certificate has already been sold, Miss Wright.”

“Sold?” she cried, trying to twist the book around so she could see the records for herself, but his hands gripped the book tightly.

“Let me see. This is my property. Who would dare buy a tax certificate on my land? And why wasn’t I notified that the taxes were due?” She was babbling almost hysterically, her heart pounding wildly in her chest.

She slapped her palms down on the countertop in frustration and anger. “Just what does this mean? Has my land been sold out from under me? How can you get away with such a thing when I was not notified and given a chance to pay the taxes myself?”

“Miss Wright…” He gave her an indignant glare while blowing his nose again. “Delinquent tax notices were posted on the door of the county courthouse, according to law. After the time limit, as set by law, expired, anyone could come in here and pay your taxes and therefore own your tax certificate.”

“But what does this all mean?” She shook her head from side to side, bewildered.

He slammed the book closed with a loud clap. “It means, my good woman, that someone else has the tax lien against your farm now, and not Wayne County. You negotiate with them, or, after a certain period of time, as set by the law, they will be able to take your property from you, just as we could have if someone had not bought the certificate.”

“You keep saying ‘the law’,” she snapped indignantly. “Why wasn’t I notified?”

“We posted the notice on the courthouse door.” He looked at her as though she were simple-minded. “That is all that is required. We don’t have to go out and knock on your door, Miss Wright, and beg you for money. If you did not see the notice, then that is your problem, not ours. We followed the legal procedures to the letter. So you have no recourse against this office. If you have the necessary funds to buy your certificate, in addition to whatever interest your certificate holder will require, then you will have your land back, free and clear and unencumbered. Until then, there is a lien against your property. I suggest you get in touch with that person. I can do nothing more for you.”

“Jerome Danton.” The words escaped her lips in a barely audible whisper.

“What did you say?”

“Jerome Danton,” she repeated. “That…that carpetbagger from Virginia. He bought the tax certificate, didn’t he?”

“No. No, it wasn’t Mr. Danton. Come to think of it, I believe I do recall him coming in and asking about your property, but the certificate had already been sold. Yes.” He nodded vigorously. “I do remember him coming in. Got real mad, he did, when he found out someone had beat him to it. Wanted that land real bad, he did.”

“Then who—”

“Corey McRae.”

“Corey…”

“Yes, Mr. McRae.” He smiled. “He’s the one you have to see. You and about twenty others. Bought up land right and left, soon as those on the list reached the deadline. Yours was the first. I remember it all clearly now. Wanted your land worse than Mr. Danton did.”

Kitty stormed out of the tax office. The nerve of Corey McRae to pay the taxes on her property and not even have the decency to tell her about it! And why wasn’t she notified about the list and told about the law? Jerome Danton could have been gentleman enough to explain the situation to her. She had been confined to her little shack with a small, sick baby, unable to get out and tend to such matters. All the while, they had been working against her, conspiring to take her land. Well, they would not succeed, by God. No one was going to take her land.

She entered the small bank with the force of the winter wind. Spying a heavyset man seated behind a desk at the rear, she marched straight through the room while he watched her with curious interest. “My name is Katherine Wright. I want to borrow money, using my farm as collateral. I need to pay off a tax certificate at once. I need additional money as well, to tide me over until I can get a crop in this spring. I—”

He held up his hand for silence and got to his feet slowly. He had bushy gray eyebrows that wiggled when he spoke. “Miss Wright, let me interrupt you before we continue to waste each other’s time. This bank will not loan money on land that has a tax lien against it.”

“But that’s why I want the money,” she sputtered. “To pay off the tax lien so the land will be free and clear!”

He gestured helplessly. “I’m sorry, truly I am, but that is the policy of this bank and all other banks. When property has a lien against it, ownership is not clear. Then we cannot lend money on the land involved.”

“Then…then what am I to do?” She spoke more to herself than to the bushy eyebrows.

“I would suggest that you deal directly with the person who purchased the tax certificate. There is nothing we can do for you here. I’m sorry.”

Kitty did not remember stumbling from the bank. She did not know how long she had been standing outside in the frigid weather. She was unaware of anything for a long time. Finally she came out of her stupor. Her body began to tremble with cold. General Schofield. He would help her. He would send a wire to General Sherman, and they would find Travis. And even if Travis no longer loved her—even if he had never loved her—he would help her for the sake of their son. It was the only hope she had.

Sergeant Jesse Brandon nearly fell backward in his chair when Kitty Wright walked through the door. Her face was the color of the ice that covered the world outside, and her eyes were glassy. “I…want…to see…the general,” she managed with chattering teeth.

“God almighty, you look awful. You sick?” He leaped to his feet, grabbed a chair and helped her lower herself into it.

“Please,” she whispered, her head weaving. “I must speak to the general…”

Jesse hurried to the cot in the corner and grabbed a blanket. Once he had it tucked about her, he went to his desk and got a bottle of whiskey. Pouring some into a tin cup, he handed it to her, watching as she began to sip it.

He started talking, explaining that General Schofield had already left Goldsboro. “And I’m leaving, too, in just a few weeks now. I’m mustering out. Federal marshals will be coming in to see that things run smooth, Miss Wright. But is there anything I can do for you right now? Godawmighty, you look awful sick to me.”

She raised a weak hand to wave away his concern. “Do you know that I have a son, Sergeant Brandon? Captain Coltrane and I have a son…a son that he doesn’t even know about. You’ve got to help me find him. They…they’re trying to take my land away from me. They already burned my home. My son is sick. I have no money…”

Raising blurry eyes to the anxious face before her, she cried, “Please find Captain Coltrane for me, Sergeant.”

He looked frightened. “Right now, I’m going to find a doctor—”

“No.” She clutched his sleeve. “Just find Travis.”

She gulped down the whiskey. It felt good, warming. Jesse quickly refilled the cup, and she began to drink again, mumbling. “… find Travis and everything will be all right. He won’t let them do this to me and our baby.”

She continued to babble while Sergeant Brandon stood by helplessly. Corey McRae had issued strict orders that no wires were to be sent to either Sherman or Coltrane. The order had not been easy to follow, what with General Schofield about, but the few times Miss Wright had sent messages, he had been able to dispose of them safely. He, and a few others who were secretly on McRae’s payroll, knew that men had been sent to kill Coltrane. They had not returned. That was months ago.

Jesse knew, also, about the two wires that Coltrane had sent to Kitty. One had asked why Kitty had never written to him. Coltrane’s wires had been destroyed, and Kitty did not know he had sent them.

Now Jesse stood, staring down at the pitifully ill woman, and he felt ashamed. The two must have loved each other. But Corey McRae had money and plenty of it, and being on his payroll had made Jesse’s life a hell of a lot easier. He had enough saved to return to Pennsylvania, buy a nice farm, and make a new life for himself and the family he’d left behind. Besides, he soothed his conscience, this girl would be better off in the hands of a man like McRae, who had plenty of money. She’d live a good life. Why, she should be pleased to live in that fine mansion. The only one around anywhere near as rich was that Danton fellow’s. He didn’t know too much about him, but there was a strong rumor he was head of the group of night riders called the Ku Klux Klan. Well, that wasn’t Jesse’s problem. Not now. He, by God, was going home. He’d never give the South another thought.

Kitty looked as though she were going to faint. Corey would want to know that she was here, sick, and demanding a wire be sent to Sherman or Coltrane. He was anxious to get her out before someone came in and heard her. Questions might be asked about why she had not received replies to the messages she claimed had been sent.

He left her there, huddled in her chair, holding the tin cup with both hands as she sipped the whiskey. Stepping out into the gray, cold day, he felt snowflakes touch his cheeks. Staring upward, he shivered and pulled his coat tighter about him. Those were snow clouds, all right. A good three or four inches would be dumped before nightfall.

How in the heck was he going to get word to Corey McRae? He couldn’t leave Kitty alone, and it was a long ride out there to the country. Maybe Corey was in his office in town. Ducking his head against the wind, he moved quickly down the street.

The office was closed and locked. McRae came to town only a few times a week, and on a day like this, Jessie was not surprised that he hadn’t bothered. He looked about, scratching at his stubby chin, wondering what to do next. He spied the old Negro again, the one who had been hanging around outside his office. The fellow had obviously followed Jesse down here. “What the hell you doin’ following me, nigger?” he snapped, taking out his frustration on the frightened man who stood twisting his hat, shuffling nervously.

“I sorry, but I’s worried ’bout Miss Wright. She okay?” Ben asked cautiously.

Jessie appraised him suspiciously. Corey had told him about the loyal old Negro who took care of Kitty, but Jesse had never seen him. If this was the one, he didn’t want him to know anything. “She’s fine,” he said, the anger leaving his voice. “Just fine. You can go home now.”

“Yassuh, yassuh, I’ll do just that.” Ben’s head bobbed up and down as he backed off the boardwalk and down the steps into the street. “I told her when I give her a ride into town that I’d be glad to take her home, but she say she gonna try to find a doctor to take her back. Then I see her come out of the bank. She looked mighty upset, so I wanted to make sure ever’thing was all right, befo’ I went back to Mistah McRae’s.”

“Mr. McRae?” Jessie’s eyebrows shot up with interest. “You work for Mr. McRae? You aren’t the old nigra that works for Miss Wright?”

“Naw, suh, I works for Mistah McRae. My name’s Ben. You talkin’ ’bout Jacob. Miss Kitty, she say Jacob stayin’ home with her baby, little John, and little John he sick, and that’s how come she gonna try to find a doctor.”

Jesse leaped from the boardwalk to the street, clutched the old Negro’s shoulders and gave him a shake that made his eyes widen. “You listen to me, and listen good. You head for Mr. McRae’s now, and you get there as quick as you can. You tell him that Miss Kitty is in Sergeant Brandon’s office, and she’s bad off sick, and for him to get here as soon as possible. Get somebody here to take her off my hands. You got that straight?”

“Yassuh, yassuh.” His cotton-top head bobbed up and down. “You gonna get a doctor fo’ her now?”

“Let me worry about that,” Jesse snapped. “Now be on your way, fast.” He watched the old Negro scurry away and hoped he’d get to McRae soon. Damn it, the roads were bad, and it was starting to snow hard. Hell, he couldn’t call in a doctor for that woman. She might start rambling about Sherman and Coltrane and how come they hadn’t responded to her wires. Then the questions would start. The only thing he could do now was see to her himself and hope McRae showed up soon.