Patricia Hagan (3 page)

He turned to disappear behind the curtains, but Holly rushed forward and called, “Wait. Are you Mr. Garrington? I have business with you.”

He paused, then asked warily, “What kind of business?”

Reaching inside the pocket of her trousers, she brought out the carefully knotted handkerchief. Mr. Garrington waited impatiently as she untied it. She held out the emerald brooch. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” She forced a smile past the lump in her throat. “It belonged to my grandmother. I want to sell it.”

The jeweler snatched the brooch from her outstretched hand and turned it over carefully, then stepped behind the counter and picked up his magnifying glass. Finally, he lifted his gaze to her. “It is a magnificent piece. The stone is genuine. Excellent workmanship. Where’d you get this, girl?” His eyes narrowed.

“It was my grandmother’s. She left it to me, and I need to sell it…to pay the taxes on my land,” she added quickly, “and if you aren’t interested in buying it, then I’ll find someone who is.”

She held out her hand for the brooch, but he drew back. “I didn’t say I don’t want to buy it. I just asked where you got it.”

“And I told you.” She continued to hold out her hand.

He looked through the magnifying glass again, then murmured, “Lovely.” He put the glass aside and flashed her a bright smile. “Tell you what I’m going to do. You obviously need money badly, or you wouldn’t dream of parting with such a sentimental piece. So I’m going to be generous. I’ll give you fifty dollars.”

Holly snatched the emerald away. “Sir, you can’t be serious. Fifty dollars? That…that’s crazy,” she stammered, stunned.

He scowled. “Listen, girlie, there’s no money in secondhand jewelry. Especially when folks around here haven’t got any money to start with. I’m doing you a favor. Take it or leave it. Don’t make no difference to me.”

Holly turned on her heel and started for the door, but he was out from behind the counter in a flash. “A hundred,” he said. Names of wealthy Yankees had begun to occur to him. “A hundred. Not a penny more.”

Holly pushed on by him. He bolted in front of her. “Now wait a minute. How much do you want? Maybe we should go from there. But I warn you, I can’t go but so high. I’ll try to be fair.”

Holly knew what she had to have but also knew how to bargain. Grandpa had taught her well. “Four hundred,” she told him evenly.

Willis Garrington’s mouth dropped open. That was the price he’d figured he could probably get by selling the brooch. “That’s crazy. I’ll give you a hundred.”

Holly smiled. The man was no fool. He knew how to bargain too. “Three hundred.”

He slammed his fist on the counter. “Two hundred and I swear, girl, not a cent more.”

Holly pursed her lips, pretending to give the offer serious thought, then nodded slowly. “Two hundred. I want it right now.”

Mumbling that he had to be out of his mind, he disappeared behind the curtains and returned a few moments later with the money. He scowled. “I hope you know you robbed me, girl.”

Holly grinned. “No, I didn’t. I just didn’t give
you
a chance to rob
me.
”

It was only with great effort that Holly was able to walk, not run or skip, to the tax collector’s office. Entering once again, she smiled and nodded all around. When her turn came, she laid the money on the counter and declared, “I’ll have my receipt. This is one piece of land the Yankees won’t get.”

The astonished clerk stared from the money to her, then leaned forward. “Is it honest money?” he whispered hoarsely.

Holly stiffened but kept smiling. “How I got it is none of your business. Just give me that receipt so I can get out of here.”

He took care of the transaction, and Holly watched him. She didn’t notice the darting glances he sent to the well-dressed man who had quietly entered the office. She took her receipt and left as soon as she could.

The man stepped forward, and anyone in his way moved aside. Dressed in an expensive maroon coat, gray trousers, and shining black boots, he was about the only wealthy-looking man in town. There was a tight set to his jaw, and his eyes were narrowed, brooding. “That is the young lady you told me about?” he asked the clerk.

The clerk’s head bobbed up and down. “Yes sir, Mr. Bonham. Soon as she left, I sent for you, ’cause I knew you’d want to know. I knew you and your daddy were interested in that land, but there wasn’t anything I could do. She came in here with the money, and I had to take it,” he finished nervously, apologetically.

Roger Bonham touched gloved fingertips to his neatly trimmed mustache. “Of course you did, Hubert. She paid the taxes on the northeast tract?”

“Yeah. Said she inherited it from her granddaddy.”

“Anyone see where she went earlier?” Roger asked of no one in particular.

A man standing near the door spoke up. “She was going to Garrington’s. Only reason I noticed her was ’cause she’s dressed so scruffy.”

Roger left the tax office and walked down the street. As he moved along, men stepped out of his path and tipped their hats, ladies smiled. They all believed his smile was a smile of greeting, unaware that he smiled only with smug self-confidence, without any real regard for them. He knew the townspeople of Vicksburg held him in high esteem. Why not? He had planned it that way. Each word, gesture, every act since his arrival had been calculated to win them over. He had succeeded beautifully, as expected.

He opened the door of Garrington’s jewelry shop and stepped inside. At the sound of the bell, the owner appeared, grinning broadly at the sight of a prosperous customer.

Roger got right to the point. “A young lady was in here a short while ago and sold you a piece of jewelry. I wish to purchase it.”

Mr. Garrington’s smile widened. He slipped back behind the curtains and returned with the brooch. Handing it delicately to Roger Bonham for his scrutiny, he said, “It’s a lovely piece. Of course, that young woman robbed me,” he added with a nervous laugh. “I felt sorry for her. I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll let you have it for the same price she sold it to me. You’ll get a bargain. Four hundred dollars.”

Roger’s eyes mirrored contempt. “You fool,” he said. “You think I got where I am by being stupid? You paid her two hundred dollars and two hundred dollars is what I’ll pay you.” He reached for his wallet.

Mr. Garrington coughed, swallowed, and attempted to maintain control. “Well, sir, that’s ridiculous. Begging your pardon, but you can see the brooch is worth a good deal more than that.”

“It was you who robbed her,” Roger snapped, counting out two hundred dollars and dropping the money on the counter. “I intended to offer you something for your trouble, but you attempted to insult my intelligence, so this is all you’re getting.”

Roger flippantly gave the brooch a toss, caught it in midair, and put it in his pocket. He turned on his heel and walked out of the store. And now, he thought, for the formidable young woman, Holly Maxwell.

Chapter Three

Holly sat on the riverbank, knees hugged tightly against her chest. It was a day of golden sunbeams and enticing, mysterious shadows where the land rose or fell sharply. Weeping willow fronds moved in the warm spring air. A gentle breeze wafted in from the sleepy river beyond. It was a heavenly time in Holly’s special, secret world.

She laughed at a turtle lying on a rock at the water’s edge, and delighted at the plump catfish swimming teasingly within arm’s reach. “I’ll get you later,” she warned him.

Leaning back against the willow trunk, Holly felt awash with relief all over again, remembering how she had eluded her mother. Not only had she managed to rise early and go into town and take care of all her business, but she had managed to return in time to pack her haversack and escape to the swamps before Claudia returned. Now, this time, this place was hers and hers alone. She intended to hide away for three whole days and contemplate her future without any interference.

There was much planning to be done. It would not be easy to take her living from the land and the water, but Grandpa had managed and so could she. He had taught her well. There were catfish and rabbits and wild turkeys and deer. She knew the soil where Grandpa had planted his garden was rich, hungry for seeds. She would net crayfish to take into Vicksburg and sell when money was needed. And there was a not-too-distant dream of having her own fishing boat, so the catches could be larger and more profitable.

Life was going to be good once again, she thought with a sleepy sigh. No, there would be no move to Vicksburg for her. Mother and the other spiritless Southerners could cozy up to the Yankees. Holly preferred the tranquility of her beloved private world. She was free there and she always would be.

Yet she had to come to terms with her fears, too. What lay ahead was as frightening as it was desirable. She would be alone, truly alone, for the first time in her life. Her mother was still beautiful and would have no difficulty finding another husband. Holly had no one.

Suddenly, she sprang to her knees and crawled forward to the water’s edge to stare at her reflection. Am I pretty? Papa always said so, but fathers never think their daughters are plain.

Her mother had always lamented that Holly didn’t make the most of what God gave her. Sometimes, she’d said, women had to work at being pretty.

Holly touched the single braid, which had tumbled forward. Sunlight caught the red highlights of her hair and it glistened. Would she be more attractive if she brushed it to wisp about her face? Or used Mama’s curling iron to make ringlets?

Stop being so vain, she told herself. What difference did it make how she looked out there in the wilderness? She settled back against the willow. For now, she wanted only to revel in her first victory of independence—paying the taxes and making the land truly hers for always and always. No one could take it away now, no one…

The sun was sinking when Holly awoke. Rose shadows danced mysteriously in the forest as she got to her feet. There was much to be done before night set in—wood to find for a fire, food to be found. She quickly began to gather dry limbs and twigs, stacked them, then picked up Grandpa’s rifle and made her way into the woods.

She had not gone far when a movement in the brush caught her eye. Unafraid, for Grandpa had taught her that fear makes a person weak, she crept forward silently. She stiffened at the sight of a man bending over a trap.

She was shaken with fury. She hated traps. They were so unnecessarily cruel. Like Grandpa, she believed that if animals had to die, they should do so as quickly as possible, with the least amount of suffering. Who, she thought fiercely, would dare set a trap on her land?

She raised the gun and pointed, then stepped out into the open and called in an unwavering voice, “Back off from that trap, mister. Get those hands high or you’re dead.”

He turned his head ever so slightly. He made no move to obey and his tone reflected no fear. “There’s a fox caught. I’m trying to set him free. Take it easy with that thing.”

“You set the damn trap to catch something, didn’t you? Well, you caught something. Just back off,
and I’ll get him out.”

He shook his head curtly, and Holly started in surprise. Men weren’t supposed to argue with you when you had a gun on them. What was he, a fool? “Hey,” she quickly informed him, “maybe you think I don’t know how to use this thing, but I do. And I will if you don’t back your smart ass away from there right now.”

She was quite surprised to hear him laugh. “Now where’d you learn to swear like that? Maybe you need your mouth washed out with lye soap, so you’ll learn to talk like a lady.”

Holly tensed, finger tightening on the trigger. “You’re going to find your mouth shut for eternity, mister, if you keep running it. I’m not telling you again.
Move your ass!
”

He turned back to the trap. “I’m going to set this little fellow free, and then I’ll oblige you.”

She watched, dumbfounded by his bravery or whatever it was. He sprang the trap, and the fox limped away as quickly as his injury would allow, without stopping to contemplate his brush with death.

The stranger stood up and dusted his faded brown trousers. “No bones broken. Now what’s all this about? I don’t like someone slipping up behind me with a gun.”

Looking at him closely, she felt a strange rush. He had the most unusual eyes she had ever seen, so dark they were almost black, but narrow, as though his lids were partly closed. But he could see her very well anyway. Sleepy eyes, a deep, thoughtful gaze. And the way he was looking at her with those strangely beautiful eyes made her feel very odd indeed.

His face was rugged, but nice. His lips were firm, yet looked soft. His hair was as black as the water at night, damp, clinging to his neck, sideburns tapering in front of his ears. His trousers were tight against firm thighs, and the way his shirt stretched across his chest and arms, he surely had rock-hard muscles. His shoulders were broad and strong, too.

He let her stare at him as long as she wanted to, and then he said, “Put that gun down—unless you plan to use it. If you do plan to use it,” he gave her a crooked smile, “make the first shot count, because you won’t get a second.”

She held the gun steady. “This is my land and you have no business here.”

He took a step closer, and she realized that the top of her head came barely to his shoulder. Why did she like the sudden protective feeling that his exuding strength gave her?