Deception (17 page)

Connor’s thought turned back. There had been the night her door was open. She remembered the incident clearly. She’d been sure she’d locked the door. But if Clay had the only spare …

“I’ve tried to impress on Renata how rude it is to poke into other people’s private business, but she hasn’t learned yet. Do keep your door locked.”

“She’s just a child.” Connor said the words, but she didn’t mean to excuse Renata’s behavior. The idea of Renata or anyone else going through her personal items was irritating.

“Child or not, she has to learn to respect other people’s privacy. After all, I don’t want to find that I’ve raised some scurrilous reporter.”

The sides of Connor’s mouth twitched into a smile. After hours of serious conversation, they were finally creeping back to some light-hearted banter. “Only a politician would say that about a member of the Fourth Estate, the watchdogs of the public, the protectors of our freedom.”

Clay laughed out loud. “Mount up, or eat my dirt.”

Connor swung into the saddle and nudged Cleo into the lead. With a laugh thrown over her shoulder, she gave the mare full rein and let her gallop.

“We always felt that Hilla was an innocent caught in the web of evil spun by that horrible outlaw.” Opal Bounds leaned her elbows on the high library counter and rehooked her sweater clasp. The silver fox heads bit deep into the red acrylic yarn. “I know these things are out of style, but I like my sweater over my shoulders, and if I put the button in the hole it stretches it out.”

Connor smiled at the librarian. The woman was eccentric as all get-out, but she knew plenty about the past history of Lucedale, Mississippi, and how it had come to be. She was much better informed than most big-city librarians. Of course, there wasn’t as much history in the small town.

“Hilla Lassfolk was really a footnote to the Dickerson story,” Opal continued. “In the long run, she had no real effect on him, and we can only hope that his wicked, wicked influence on her wasn’t permanent. Since you’re living proof she married and found happiness, then James Dickerson didn’t do too much damage.”

“Is there a book about the Clan here? Willene Welford was telling me that there was some type of history written about the Dickerson Gang.”

“Oh, my yes! It was quite a scandal in those days. The story was that Dickerson spilled his guts in print. That book named names, and I guess for an outlaw on the gallows, he had nothing to worry about. Once he was hanged, what were they going to do, sue him for libel?” Opal giggled. “You can’t do much damage to a dead man.”

“That’s true,” Connor agreed. “Do you have the book?”

“We’ve had at least three copies of it. Someone keeps stealing it. Last one was taken even before I was librarian here, and that’s several decades ago.”

Connor frowned. “That’s the same thing that happened to the copy in the Mobile library. Who would do such a thing?”

“Well, that book named names, as I said, and some were prominent Mobile families. Families that still have a lot of power today. Those people would just as soon bury the past. See, Dickerson had some powerful friends in high places over in Mobile. They helped the Clan carry out their evil deeds. Lots of people believe James Dickerson couldn’t have carried on his thieving and murdering ways without the help of those people. So they’re as guilty of murder as Dickerson was. They just never got caught. Folks around here believe that James buried his treasure over in Mobile in a swamp and that some of those Mobilians know exactly where it is.”

“Prominent families, buried treasure, stolen slaves—why hasn’t someone made a movie of this?”

Opal shrugged. “Somehow, those Hollywood movie moguls got it in their heads that the only real outlaws were out West. Maybe John Wayne couldn’t do a southern drawl. Anyway, no one wanted to hear about a southern outlaw. Not one that used revivals and camp meetings.”

“But that’s what makes it so fascinating,” Connor countered.

“My thoughts exactly,” Opal said. “But I can’t help you with that book.”

“Would it be possible to look up your records and see who checked it out last?”

Opal narrowed her eyes. “You’re not aiming to go out there and tell them they’ve stolen a library book, are you?”

“No, just curious … wouldn’t it be interesting if the person who took the book was related to one of the names you might remember?”

That prompted Opal to bring down a stack of dusty overdue notices. She leafed through them, and then went back. “The card’s not here.” Her eyebrows arched. “Whoever took that book deliberately stole it. Just took it off the shelf. They didn’t even bother to check it out because they meant to steal it all along.”

“Willene warned me that history is very much alive in the South. She wasn’t kidding. The Dickersons rode in the 1850s. That’s a long time to try and cover up a family member’s sin.”

“Honey, you don’t know the half of it. Folks around here are constantly recreating their past. Some of those fools come in here to look up family trees.” She laughed. “It’s amazing how they can twist a few simple facts and presto, before you know it, they’ve found themselves a coat of arms.”

Connor couldn’t help but join in the laughter. Opal Bounds was a robust, genuinely likable character. Connor felt she could have spent the rest of the afternoon listening to her talk about Lucedale and the past, but there were chores waiting back at Oaklawn.

“Thanks for your help, Mrs. Bounds.”

“Now, you come back if you need any information. Willene knows all the old stories. She can fill you in on the gory details of bloody Dickerson and all his gang. She might even be able to take you down to the swamp where he was supposed to have stashed all his jewels and money. Just remember, if you go digging around and find something, I get a commission. Or at least, the library does. We need some new books in the worst kind of way.”

Connor held up two fingers. “At least twenty percent,” she agreed with a laugh. “See you later.”

She left the library and drove a block to Main Street. The town had been newly replanted with trees—a vast improvement on the barren and ugly four blocks that comprised the heart of the old business section. Traffic was painfully slow. The big WalMart and Delchamps on the south side of town had drawn most of the customers away. When the light changed, she took a left and drove by the restaurant called the Coffee Cup. Willene had told her that once the Coffee Cup, with its scratching post, had been famous. People from all over the country had driven through Lucedale for a cup of coffee and a slice of homemade pie. There wasn’t much business in the restaurant on this day.

She reached the end of town in a matter of minutes and was headed east, toward Mobile. Oaklawn was really only about thirty-five minutes from Lucedale. For her great-great-grandmother, who had to make that trip in a horse and wagon with creeks and rivers to ford, it must have been a long, brutal ride.

In the mid 1800s life had been hard, especially for a young woman with an education and an active imagination. Connor tried to imagine it—clothes boiling in a kettle on a wood fire in the yard, water brought up from a creek or pump in a bucket, children without antibiotics or vaccines, livestock to tend, long dresses and petticoats, lamplight, outdoor toilets. No, it wasn’t an easy life. What had Hilla Lassfolk entertained herself with, other than the dangerous and forbidden embraces of an outlaw?

The big Chevy truck moved easily down the two-lane highway. Connor was at Big Creek Lake before she expected. She was almost home. Just eight or ten miles to the south was Oaklawn.

It was mid-November, and the days were far too short. As she crossed the bridge over the lake, the sun was touching the tops of the big pines. Orange and pink flamed the sky, sending out the promise that dark would descend in little more than half an hour.

Connor sighed. She’d stayed at the library too long. Looking through the books of local history, she’d let time slip away from her. And she had so much to do. She’d purchased the big chestnut gelding, Apollo, for Clay. Although he was five, with little or no training, somehow the horse seemed perfect for him. Connor’s reputation was based on her ability to see potential, in horse and rider, and Apollo was loaded. He had the build of an athlete and a willing attitude.

But he needed to be ridden, and there wasn’t going to be enough light.

Jeff and Old Henry were setting up arena lights, but they weren’t ready yet, and the night had a sharp nip to it. The wind was blowing from the north, and the newscasters on the radio were predicting a heavy frost for morning. Connor would just have to call it a day. Apollo could wait until sunup.

She turned left on the narrow road that wound through the countryside among old farms and plantations now sectioned into nurseries. Mobile had at one time been the camellia capital of the world. European royalty and Oriental businessmen had come halfway around the world to visit the Semmes, Alabama, nurseries.

The grounds of Oaklawn were filled with hundreds of the beautiful shrubs. Their dark evergreen shapes were scattered around the premises, creating small alcoves of privacy in the shade of the enormous oaks that had given the estate its name. Willene had promised that the blooms would start as early as December and continue through the cold months. And then the frills of azalea and dogwood, wisteria and honeysuckle, would sprout forth. Connor found the lush vegetation and the rich perfumes to be one of her favorite parts of the deep South.

As she eased onto the Sumner estate, she turned the truck toward the barn. Even though she couldn’t ride, there were some things she wanted to do before she went to the house.

Though she tried to push the thought aside, she knew Clay would be at the house. Renata had told her he was coming out for a special dinner. Anticipation tingled through her as she drove along the shell drive. Renata and Danny had been in residence at Oaklawn all week because Clay had been in Montgomery. Planning his campaign strategy, Connor suspected, but she hadn’t asked. Now he was home.

Connor wanted him to have plenty of time alone with the children. That was one reason she mentally made a list of chores at the barn. The other was that she wanted to see him too much.

Since the day he’d told her about Talla’s death and his involvement with a young woman, Clay had given her a wide berth. He’d said he wanted her to have time to think about what he’d said, and he’d honored his word. Even though he’d been at Oaklawn on several occasions, he’d scrupulously avoided catching her alone. But Connor knew, by the super-charged glances he threw at her whenever he was at the barn watching Renata or Danny ride, or sitting at the gleaming mahogany table for a meal, that the emotions between them were far from over. And Clay Sumner wasn’t a man who left business unfinished.

For her part, Connor couldn’t make a decision. Every scrap of intelligence she’d learned told her to steer clear. That contrasted with her body clamoring for his touch. The end result had been a kind of limbo, emotional and intellectual.

The lavender haze of dusk had settled over the barn when she pulled up in front of it. Cleo and Tinker both whinnied a greeting to her as she slammed the truck door and went into the barn.

She fed every morning and every night. When she’d first arrived at Oaklawn, Jeff had offered to help her with the task, but she’d thanked him and said no. Jeff would do the work, but he wouldn’t care enough. If she allowed anyone to tend to her animals it would be Old Henry. She’d caught him frequently standing at Cleo’s stall, watching her with appreciation. He had a real fondness for the mare, and he seemed to know a bit about horses—whenever she could get him to utter a syllable or two. For the most part, she did all the horse work herself. She liked to listen to the horses eat. She watched them for any nuance of discomfort. She made sure they cleaned their feed buckets and drank adequate amounts of water. And she cleaned their stalls, checking there for any little sign out of the ordinary.

It was a chore, but it was one she enjoyed, the nightly ritual of putting the horses to bed. The barn was empty and she could relax with the creatures she loved.

“Hey, girls,” she spoke softly as she walked into the barn. A light had been left in the feed room, and the horses were black silhouettes against the windows of their stalls where the sky died minute by minute.

“Hey, Apollo.” She went to her newest charge and rubbed his neck. He nuzzled her hand in greeting.

“How about some supper?” She walked to the feed room and scooped out the feedings. As she dumped the grain into each horse’s feed bucket, she listened to their soft noises of approval.

“Maybe I’ll clean my saddles,” she said. The habit of talking to the horses went all the way back to her childhood, when she’d listened to Thomas Tremaine soothe and relax his own horses. Plenty of other trainers had teased her about it, but the horses seemed to appreciate the conversation.

Since she’d decided to stay in the barn, Connor went to close the door. She glanced up at the house and saw the lights on in the dining room. Clay would be there with Renata and Danny. She could almost feel his presence at Oaklawn. She quickly closed the barn door, shutting out the night.

The barn was warm; the heavy stone walls blocked the rising north wind. Connor brought out her close contact saddle and the saddle soap. The tackroom had a full bath and shower and the luxury of hot water, so she drew a large bucket of warm water and took off her jacket.

The only sounds were the wind moaning high in the eaves of the barn and the horses munching on grain. Connor immersed the slick bar of glycerine soap in the water and filled her cloth. The smell was wonderful. She set to work cleaning the saddle as she listened to the wind and the horses.

Her first warning that someone stood behind her was a tickle of warm breath on her neck. She froze, arms immersed up to the elbows in the warm, soapy water. The work had warmed her and she’d unbuttoned the two top buttons of her long-sleeved shirt and rolled the sleeves well above the elbow.

Before she could turn around, Clay’s hands dipped into the bucket beside hers. His breath was warm on her cheek as he stood behind her, his arms circling her.