Turner's Vision (2 page)

Promising himself a closer look later, he closed the books, nodded his thanks to Mr. Goldberg once more then headed out in search of Miss Davis’ home.

* * * * *    

As his hired coach approached the address Mr. Goldberg had given him, Micah watched an old crone hobble down the block. A dark shawl wrapped around her shoulders, her head covered in some sort of scarf, she leaned heavily on her cane with each step.

Micah climbed down from the cab and paid the driver. Starting up the walk to Miss Davis’ brownstone, an odd scent of old fish, mixed with garlic and the same sweet flowers from before assailed his senses. He jerked around, stepping back off the stoop to look in the direction the old woman had gone. No sign of her. The night’s shadows had swallowed her completely.

The hairs on his neck rose. A vague image of copper hair flashed before his eyes then disappeared. Frustrated, he rubbed the back of his neck.

Since coming east, his anxiety had increased as his visions grew more and more out of his control.

With a shake of his head, he tried to dispel the sensations. He rapped briskly on the door twice. With more patience than he felt, he waited for someone to answer. A few moments later the same dark-haired lad who had assisted the spinster librarian to her carriage opened the door. He stared up at Micah with obvious suspicion.

“What ‘cha want?”

“I would like to speak with Miss Davis, if I may.”

“She ain’t here.” The boy tried to quickly close the door.

Micah put his foot in the doorway, preventing him from accomplishing his task. “I think I’d like to see for myself.”

“Criminy!” yelped the boy, when Micah pushed his way through the door.

Micah walked into the front parlor. A George II-style settee, upholstered in green damask sat opposite the fireplace. Two
petit point
Queen Anne chairs flanked it. The sofa table, too, appeared to be from the seventeenth century, and very reminiscent of his mama’s furniture in the parlor of their Georgian plantation before the war.

From the end table he picked up a framed tintype of a burly man with hard, cruel eyes, seated on a bench. His gnarled hand gripped the cane handle at his side. Behind him stood a very thin, young girl—a frightened doe, with huge, wary eyes in a pale, gaunt face. Micah’s gaze was drawn from the girl’s image to the man’s grip on the cane and back again. A wave of anger rushed over him as he realized the man was her source of terror.

He looked at the boy. “Where is Miss Davis’ butler?”

“He ain’t here, neither.” He stood belligerently, staring at Micah from the doorway. “You can’t just come in here, ya’ know! I could call the law on ya.”

“Somehow, I don’t think Miss Davis would appreciate you doing that to a man who simply wanted to deliver a letter from Miss Laura.” He watched the boy’s eyes grow round and his jaw drop. Hastily, the boy closed his mouth.

“She don’t know no Miss Laura,” he said, then stared out the window. Several times, he peeked up at Micah, apparently trying to decide whether or not to believe him.

Micah chuckled for the first time since leaving Nathan’s farm in Colorado. The boy’s loyalty obviously warred with his natural curiosity. He hoped for the lady’s sake, the lad’s loyalty would win out.

* * * * *    

The clock on the mantle chimed two hours later. Micah sat in a large, wingback chair, watching his young, reluctant host. He held his tongue well. Micah gave him credit for that. The lad spent the time alternately peering anxiously out the front parlor window and trying to bore holes through Micah’s skull.

The clatter of hooves on the cobblestoned street broke the silence. The boy’s eyes followed the carriage down the lane. The ragamuffin darted toward the rear of the house. Micah surged to his feet after him.

Just as the boy exited the back door to sound an alarm to whoever had arrived in the carriage house, Micah grabbed him around the waist with one hand, covering his mouth with the other. Holding the squirming boy firmly, he stepped behind a giant fir on the side. His view of both the porch and the carriage house remained unobstructed in the clear moonlight.

The carriage house door creaked open. Micah increased his hold on his captive. The crone from earlier in the evening hobbled toward the house.

She leaned heavily on her cane, almost bent in half, until she stood on the dark porch.

Slowly, she straightened, transforming from an arthritic, old woman into a tall, younger one. Setting the cane aside, she removed her shawl and dropped it into a basket waiting on the porch. Two more sweaters followed suit. Then she slipped her hands into the waistband of the skirt. One after another, she stepped out of four skirts. As each layer pulled away, the plump old woman before him turned into a slender young woman.

When she stripped off the final skirt, his eyes wandered from the pitch-black boots up the black-stocking-covered legs. He gulped hard. Her dark shirtwaist had to be a man’s since it hung down to her mid-thigh. He could make out the gentle swell of her hip and buttocks beneath it. She grasped a robe from a hook by the back door and slipped it on. Micah watched, puzzled, as she wiggled and shook in some sort of odd dance. When another wad of black material landed in the basket, he realized she’d removed the shirtwaist from beneath her robe.

She raised two very supple arms to remove her dark scarf from around her hair. Then she shook it loose. Moonlight flashed on its deep, russet browns and fiery reds.

He nearly moaned.

The boy took advantage of Micah’s distraction to sink his teeth into his captor’s hand. His resulting grunt sounded in the night.

The woman on the porch spun around to look in their direction. “Who’s there?”

Her voice flowed over Micah like warm honey. He let the boy slip out of his hold.

“This crum’s been wanting to see you, Miz Claudia!” The boy scrambled up the porch to stand beside her. “He says he has a letter from Miz Laura.”

Micah stepped from the shadows to stand at the bottom stair. The scent of spring flowers wafted over him again.

The slip of a woman put a protective hand on the boy’s shoulder.

Slowly, Micah smiled at her actions. “Miss Davis, I presume?”

She nodded in response. “May I ask who you are, sir?”

“Micah Turner, ma’am. And your young friend there is correct. I do have a letter for you.” He took a step up the porch stairs.

A pistol cocked behind him.

Hand in his breast pocket, Micah froze.

CHAPTER TWO

“Move very carefully, Mr. Turner. My friend, Adam, is rather new to the use of firearms. I would hate for him to get excited and blow a hole through you.” Claudia arched a brow as she looked down on the man.

He was tall. Viking tall. Even though he stood with one foot on the ground and the other on the lowest porch step, he looked directly into her eyes. Moonlight shimmered on his shoulder-length blond hair, but his features remained indistinguishable in the night shadows. Feeling vulnerable, she tightened her grip on Joey’s shoulder, grasping her robe firmly in the other hand. “You have something for me, sir?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He drawled the last word out in a deep southern accent. Warmth tingled across Claudia’s skin. The stranger carefully pulled a note from his pocket, holding it out to her. “I made a promise to your friend that I would give this directly to you.”

She made no move to take the proffered letter, instead, watching a tall, lean figure step up behind the stranger.

A second gun being cocked sounded in the night.

The man before her did not move a muscle.

She nodded to the older boy standing just behind Micah. “Henderson has the situation under control now, Adam. Lower your weapon.”

The taller of her charges came around the stranger at a wary distance to stand next to Joey on the porch, his pistol pointed at the ground. Claudia nodded at Adam reassuringly. With her oldest friend and butler, Henderson, standing guard behind the big man, she felt a little more secure. Her attention returned to the stranger. “Might I ask exactly who this friend is?”

“Laura said you would be a bit suspicious. She told me to tell you that she has always loved her cousin Clara’s singing.”

Claudia couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her. “Laura always did have a rather odd sense of humor.” She reached out to take the letter. “Won’t you come inside, Mr. Turner?”

Joey hurried to hold the door open as she led them through the dark kitchen and hall, into the parlor. She signaled for Micah to take a seat on the large, wingback chair. Striking a match, she lit the second oil lamp in the room, increasing the soft, amber glow of light.

Once Henderson arrived to stand guard near the only exit, his pistol pointed to the ground but ready if the need arose, she took her seat on the horse-hair settee opposite her guest. Both boys flanked her just behind her chair.

Claudia read the handwriting on the letter’s front. It truly was from Laura. Tears sprang to her eyes. The lettering blurred. To stem their flow, she pinched the bridge of her nose. It had been a year since she’d last seen her dearest friend. She missed her immensely.

In fact, it was over Laura’s cousin Clara’s poor singing the two became friends as young girls. The day they met, Claudia had been seated in the large church’s back pew where she and her father attended, waiting for him to finish his meeting with the reverend. A young girl sat several rows ahead, listening to another girl standing at the podium practicing a solo. Whenever the singer hit a sour note—which was almost every note—the girl in the pew would raise her hand. On one particularly bad note, Claudia couldn’t hide a giggle. Laura turned around and winked. Leave it to Laura to use the incident as a code to let her know she could trust the man seated across from her.

But could she truly trust him to treat her as an equal partner?

Micah steepled his fingers in front of him, his elbows propped on the arms of the chair. Crossing one leg over the other, he suddenly resembled the lord of the manor. One who would brook no interference by a mere woman.

Well, she wasn’t about to let him just assume control over her household!

Claudia stood. So did Micah. “Please be seated, sir. If you would care to wait, I would like to change into something a bit less comfortable.”

With a slight nod to Henderson to keep their visitor in the parlor, she hurried up the stairs to her room. She wasn’t quite ready to turn back into the doormat she’d been for thirty-one of her thirty-two years.

Once inside her room, she threw her robe on the four-poster bed, perched on the edge and opened Laura’s letter.

Dear Claudia,

The man delivering this letter is my husband’s oldest friend and partner. I am sending him to you because we believe you, Henderson, and the boys are in grave danger.

Claudia, Nigel Blackwood is dead. We do not know why he killed Senator Anderson last winter, but we do know he wasn’t working alone. Please, inform Micah of all you have learned and allow him to take over the investigation.

I could not live with myself if anything happened to any of you. As for me, I am as happy as any woman should be.

All my love,

Laura

Claudia read it again. As happy as she was for her friend, Laura could not possibly know what she asked. All her life, Claudia had dreamed of adventure. For years her father had held her a virtual prisoner in her own home. He treated her like a possession, not a thinking, functioning human being. After his death, she continued to stay in this house, doing little of the adventuring her heart yearned to do. With Laura’s knock on her door, late that fateful night a year earlier, the resulting inquiry into the senator’s murder quite literally landed at her doorstep. Her whole life changed that night. At last, she was doing something exciting, something where she was in charge, something that made her feel alive.

Allow him to take over the investigation
.

Now her dearest friend wanted her to hand all that over to some stranger? Some man?

She skimmed over the letter once more. As much as she loved Laura, she wasn’t ready to quietly submit to a man again, even one Laura trusted.

Folding the letter in half, Claudia tapped it on her chin.

For years, she’d seen Laura’s cousin and other young women at church manipulate men for their own purposes. Surely, a man, any man, would succumb to the wiles of a woman, even her, if she acted like the right kind of woman. How difficult could it be?

She crossed over to her armoire, ignoring the woman in the mirror. There was no need for her to examine herself, she knew exactly what she’d see reflected there—a rail-thin woman with hardly any of the round curves men seemed to crave. Her skin was tanned from time spent out-of-doors this past year, not the pale hue society held in high esteem. Her copper locks were outrageous and unmanageable, as her father always said they were.

Hadn’t he taunted her for years about her ugliness? Long ago, she’d learned to accept that painful truth.

In her armoire she searched through her myriad disguises. Who would she be tonight? It would take someone special to trick the stranger into revealing what he knew about the murder. She pulled out a blue gown. Eyeing it for a moment, she shoved it back in among the others.

Someone who could wrap a man around her finger.

Claudia grinned, her fingers running over the gold dress’ rich velveteen. She pulled it out. Someone who could make a man think he was the only man in the world for her. Someone who could make him think she had little brains, so he would tell her important facts without fear of her understanding them.

Hurriedly, she pulled on the low-necked gown, sucking in her breath as she worked the buttons up tight in front. The dress’ deep cut forced the little endowment of her breasts fully up into the v-cut of the bodice. The sleeves clung to her arms, all the way down to her fingertips. She stepped into soft kid slippers, scooped her hair up into a loose chignon, letting some tendrils hang down to her bare shoulders. Closing the door in front of her, she smiled at the vision of her newest creation. She craned her head from one side to the other, fanning herself in practiced coyness. This woman was just the one she needed to take on Micah Turner.