“I’ll ask him.”
Starla leveled herself along him, her body a silken enticement, her soft kiss a velvety reward. “Thank you, Tony.”
He’d already forgotten the conversation because of something else that had come up, demanding immediate attention. He gripped her slender waist, lifting her to her knees and settling her back and down atop his urgent manhood, taking a moment to absorb the indescribable sensation of her wrapped hot and tight about him. Then he moved her in an increasing rhythm until they both took their pleasure in noisy abandon.
As she curled up against her husband’s side, her
fingers playing through the matting of his chest hair, Starla’s thoughts grew serious.
“Tony?”
“Hmmmm?”
“Do you mind about Christien coming to live with us? He’ll be no trouble. He’s a beautiful little boy. I just know you’ll love him.”
“He’s a part of you, Star. That means he’s already family.”
“I love you, Tony,” she cried, pulling him down to smother his face with kisses. Then she hugged him tightly, trying to crush the guilt from her heart.
She was bringing her son home.
Dodge woke early, warmed by the figure of his wife draped over him, and more deeply by his feelings for her. He hadn’t thought to ask for more than just her to complete his life, but now she’d given him an unexpected gift, the hope of a family after all. Once he’d gotten over the initial surprise, the notion had settled in, curling contentment about his soul. A son, a boy to nurture and raise, to encourage along the path to manhood to make his own choices and know his own strengths.
Christien. Christian. Chris. Even as he let the name play about his heart, he warned himself not to get excited too soon—not until they knew for sure that Noble could sway LeBlanc and the Louisiana courts. He tried to ignore the quicksilver pang of worry, for already he’d opened his arms to embrace this boy he’d never met.
Too energized to spend another minute abed, he slipped away from Starla, leaving her to a well-deserved
slumber, and began to ready himself for work. It was early, but he had things to do if he was to get the jump on those who would jump him.
Placing a light kiss upon his wife’s glossy head, Dodge started for the door. He was halfway there before he realized he wasn’t using his cane. He’d been so preoccupied, he’d forgotten he needed it.
Perhaps he no longer did.
Grinning in self-congratulation, he snatched up the cane, and with a twirl, tucked it under his arm, proceeding with a bit more care out into the balmy morning. With a fresh cigar clenched between his teeth, he walked toward the bank, enjoying the day and his freedom to move through it on his own.
He was only slightly disturbed by the news that Reeve had gone to Lexington for the day to talk with a prospective horse buyer. Feeling strong enough to hold off the gang of cowards with his bare hands, Dodge went for coffee at Sadie’s.
“ ‘Morning, Delyce. Is that coffee thick enough to float a horseshoe yet?”
“Almost, Mr. Dodge.”
“How are your brothers?”
She looked alarmed by the question and stammered, “What do you mean?”
“I mean, what have they been up to lately?”
“They don’t discuss their plans with me, Mr. Dodge. Did you want anything else with that coffee?”
“Bring me everything but the hooves and tail, cooked just long enough so it doesn’t moo.”
She smiled at him shyly, then her eyes went round to see him standing on his own.
Taking advantage of the moment, he asked, “Where are your brothers this morning?”
“What? I think they were going over to Fair Play later on. Mr. Dodge, you’re up and walking. That’s wonderful!” She gave him a quick hug, then stepped back, embarrassed by her own boldness. It was no secret that her brother Poteet had shot the town’s banker in the back. If none of the no-good scoundrels had the decency to feel bad about it, she vowed to make up for it with her own sense of guilt and shame.
Dodge devoured his breakfast, plotting as he chewed. Fair Play. Going to fetch Tyler to participate in their party? Or to lead it? He wished Starla’s brother was less of an enigma.
And by the end of the day, he wondered if the sly Southerner had just been fooling with him.
A steady flow of Pride’s citizens visited him. Some came for help, some for advice, some to actually make deposits, and a few to express their regrets over Starla’s loss of their child. Those few, with their genuine sentiments and shy smiles, were reward enough to offset any difficulties ahead. Slowly, one by one, as Reeve had said, he was making friends in Pride, and acceptance would follow. He was too smart to think it would be an easy road; hearts and minds didn’t change overnight. He couldn’t work miracles. But for every Deacon Sinclair who slipped beyond the grasp of his assistance, there were a handful of others he could get squared away and moving forward again. Those were the ones he’d concentrate on while he mourned his failure to save the others.
And that’s when he got to thinking about the mortgage on Sinclair Manor and something he remembered glimpsing early on, just after he’d arrived in Pride—a grant of ownership to the family deeding them an inalterable right to the house and the land it sat upon.
“Son of a—”
That’s
what he’d been missing. That old wrinkled land grant, with its florid wording and solid legal claim for as long as a member of the Sinclair family lived. The incontestable right of ownership.
He tore through the haphazardly filed old papers in the bottom desk drawer, the ones he hadn’t had the opportunity to send for safekeeping to the state capital. Finding the one that would guarantee Deacon Sinclair a stay from his own foolishness against Tyler’s clever scheming. Tyler couldn’t refuse the buy-back offer, not under the terms of the original grant.
“Yes,” Dodge said with a fierce sense of satisfaction. Such news wouldn’t wait until morning. He’d carry it out to the manor himself as soon as business was put away for the night. He’d found his means to settle with Tyler on a less than personal level, in a way that wouldn’t trap Starla in the middle or cause her undue pain.
By the time he’d locked up his vault and closed his back doors, the sense of being close to meeting all his ambitions had settled comfortably upon Dodge’s shoulders. He had a beautiful wife, was soon to be a father, had a modest home and a successful business, was walking on his own two feet
again, and was on the fringe of community acceptance.
What more could he ask?
As he stepped from the back room of the bank, smiling at his good fortune, he happened to glance at his desk and paused in puzzlement. The heavy leaded glass windmill that Patrice had given to Jonah was missing.
His only warning was a whisper of sound to his left. Before he could turn toward it, colors exploded through his head, making everything go black.
The Dermonts and Tad Emmerick arrived at Fair Play to meet an unusually sober Tyler Fairfax on the front porch. They all preferred the airy setting to the stagnant interior of the house.
“We got business to attend to, Tyler,” Ray drawled, already mean drunk and looking to cause trouble.
Tyler gave him a steady look, seeing the mindless anger motivating the man, for the first time feeling uncomfortable at their association.
“Well now, Ray, I don’t rightly know if it’s my business.”
“What you talkin’ about, Ty?” Poteet demanded, as liquored up and surly as his older brother. His hand was crudely bandaged, a reminder of his personal interest in this particular business. “You ain’t goin’ soft on us, are you?”
Tyler leveled a cold, glassy glare at him that made him step down from his combative attitude. “You know me better’n that, Po.” He flashed a
lethal smile. “I ain’t about to change my spots to a yellow stripe.”
“Then what you draggin’ your feet for, boy?” Ray patted his back in hardy camaraderie. “We got things to do.”
“I’m jus’ saying, I think I’ll pass on this particular bit of business.”
“You got a sudden fondness for Yankee bankers who stick their noses in our way of doing things?”
“No. But I am right fond of my sister, and he’s her husband. I never asked questions about what happened here on this porch, and I’ll keep it that way, provided you pass me by on this one occasion.”
Poteet sputtered in outrage. “You can’t back out, Fairfax. We need you—”
“You need my name and my money backing you. You don’t need me to light a fire under one stubborn Yank. I’m sitting this one out. When my sister asks if I had anything to do with it, I don’t want anything hanging on my conscience when I tell her no.”
“You ain’t got no conscience.” Poteet laughed at the idea.
Tyler smiled with him, a fierce baring of his teeth. “Maybe not, but it makes me feel better to think I do.”
“Ty, this is important. You know Judge Banning wants this done, and he’s willing to be generous.”
“Split the money among yourselves. That ain’t why I’m in it, anyway.”
“It’s ‘cause you’re a true patriot to the South, right, Ty?” Poteet sneered.
“That’s right.”
Ray gave him a narrow look, trying to penetrate the wealthy Creole’s mask to see what was really behind his reluctance. “I don’t like leaving you behind, Tyler.”
“Why? You think I’m going to go to the law on you?”
They all laughed at that. Tyler tossed Virg a bottle of Fairfax Bourbon. “That’s to get ready. When you boys are finished, stop on by and we’ll share another.”
“I still don’t like it.”
Tyler stared through Ray Dermont with a .44-.40 caliber intensity. “An’ I don’t like anybody making rough with my sister. You want to carry this further, Ray?”
The tip of Tyler’s knife suddenly notched in under Dermont’s ear, next to the faint welts left by Starla’s fingernails, pressing slightly for emphasis. Ray smiled carefully.
“Nossir, Ty. Let’s just let it go.”
The blade disappeared and Tyler was all charm once more. “I got me some business to tend to myself this afternoon, so if I ain’t back when you get here, jus’ make yourself to home down at the office.”
That meant plenty of free whiskey, and they all were agreeable to that.
After they’d gone, Tyler paced the porch, his mood restless, his mind too clear for his own comfort. The conscience he vowed not to have was stirring up trouble, goading him to do something he’d regret. He’d already warned the obstinate Yank;
what more could he do? If the fool decided to throw caution to the wind, it wasn’t his problem.
He wanted a drink—a long, tall tumbler of his daddy’s finest. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and fought to suppress the need.
He hadn’t forgiven Ray Dermont for what had happened to Starla. Someday he’d exact a payment. If Ray was smart, he’d know better than to turn his back ever again. But neither Ray nor his brothers were terribly bright, which was why they were easy to lead. And he liked that about them. They were pack animals, loyal to whomever intimidated them, but what they didn’t realize was that Tyler was loyal to only one thing, and that was his sister.
Which was why Tyler found himself loitering by the bank, carefully out of sight and cursing himself for being a fool. His hands were shaking for lack of fortification, and that clarity of thought was beginning to make his head ache.
Maybe Ray and the others had changed their minds. Or gotten too drunk to carry it off.
Then he saw a faint curl of smoke seep out from under the front door to the bank.
He waited.
No alarm sounded. There was no sign of Dodge or any activity in the bank.
Surely the dumb bastards hadn’t killed him, or left him inside to burn to death.
He’d lit his share of torches without remorse, but he’d never had a hand in murder. Was that the difference between where he and the Dermonts drew the line? He paced the sidewalk opposite, watching
as uneven flickers of light flashed against the bank’s leaded panes.
Was everyone else in town blind?
He glanced about anxiously, but no one strolling the walk was paying any mind to what was happening across the street.
Cursing in his mother’s native French, he grabbed the arm of one of the area’s dirt farmers.
“Hey, what’s going on at the bank?”
As the man looked, Tyler slipped away, leaving the fellow to draw his own conclusions. He couldn’t get caught up in the matter. But he couldn’t keep himself from wondering what would happen to his sister if the scrappy little banker died.
Obviously, the Dermonts had come out through the back, so that was where Tyler headed. Against his better judgment, he slipped inside. And it was there that he found Dodge, sprawled facedown, blinking blood out of his eyes as he tried to crawl toward the smoldering fire. Tyler gripped the back of his coat, hauling him away from the smoke.
“My records,” Dodge was groaning.
“Easy, Yank. A little fire ain’t gonna touch that big old vault.” He dragged the nearly insensible banker out into the back alleyway, where the fresh cut of air got Dodge coughing. He didn’t look good, his face all sweat-slicked, his eyes glazed over. “Sit tight. Help’s coming.”
Tyler started to stand when Dodge’s hand cuffed his wrist, pulling him back down.
“My papers … in my desk.”
Tyler glanced down in dismay at the key Dodge pressed into his palm before swooning dead away.
Tyler looked from the key to the smoke-filled interior.
“He think I’m crazy?” he muttered to himself.
He’d done enough already, first in giving a warning, then in spreading the alarm. Now the damn fool Yank was asking him to risk his life to rescue papers he’d just as soon see destroyed.
“Just because I don’t jump to cut your throat don’t mean I’m anxious to cut my own. I ain’t that crazy.”
He was drowning.
Try as he would, he couldn’t make his legs respond to lift himself out of the ever-deepening pool of blood. As it closed over his mouth and nose, his hands flung out wildly. And found solid purchase.
“It’s all right, Tony. You’re all right,” somebody said.
Dodge blinked his eyes open, scattering the last vestiges of his nightmare by clinging to Starla’s hands. He focused on her lovely face, bringing the rest into view around her.