Page 3 of Just Imagine

Hamilton Woodward stood as Cain walked through the mahogany doors of his private law office. So this was the Hero of Missionary Ridge, the man who was emptying the pockets of New York’s wealthiest financiers. Not a flashy dresser, that much was in his favor. His pinstriped waistcoat and dark maroon cravat were expensive but conservative, and his pearl-gray frock coat was superbly tailored. Still, there was something not quite respectable about the man. It was more than his reputation, although that was damning enough. Perhaps it was the way he walked, as if he owned the room he’d just entered.

The attorney came around the side of his desk and extended his hand.

“How do you do, Mr. Cain. I’m Hamilton Woodward.”

“Mr. Woodward.”

As Cain shook hands, he made an assessment of his own. The man was middle-aged and portly. Competent. Pompous. Probably a lousy poker player.

Woodward indicated a leather armchair drawn up in front of his desk.

“I apologize for asking you to see me on such short notice, but this matter has been delayed long enough. Through no fault of my own, I might add. I only learned of it yesterday. I assure you, no one associated with this firm would be so cavalier about something this important. Especially when it concerns a man to whom we all owe so great a debt. Your courage during—”

“Your letter said only that you wanted to speak with me on a matter of great importance,”

Cain cut in. He disliked people praising his wartime exploits, as if what he’d done were something to be unfurled like a flag and hung out for public display.

Woodward picked up a pair of spectacles and settled the wire stems over his ears.

“You are the son of Rosemary Simpson Cain—later Rosemary Weston?”

Cain hadn’t made his living at the poker tables by telegraphing his feelings, but it was difficult to hide the ugly emotions that sprang up inside him.

“I wasn’t aware she’d remarried, but yes, that’s my mother’s name.”

“Was her name, don’t you mean?”

Woodward glanced at a paper in front of him.

“She’s dead, then?”

Cain felt nothing.

The attorney’s plump jowls jiggled in distress.

“I do apologize. I assumed you knew. She passed on nearly four months ago. Forgive me for having broken the news so abruptly.”

“Don’t trouble yourself with apologies. I haven’t seen my mother since I was ten years old. Her death means nothing to me.”

Woodward shuffled the papers before him, not appearing to know how to respond to a man who reacted so coldly to the death of his mother.

“I, uh, have a letter sent to me by a Charleston attorney named W. D. Ritter, who represents your mother’s estate.”

He cleared his throat.

“Mr. Ritter’s asked me to contact you so you can be advised of the terms of her will.”

“I’m not interested.”

“Yes, well, that remains to be seen. Ten years ago your mother married a man named Garrett Weston. He was the owner of Risen Glory, a cotton plantation not far from Charleston, and when he was killed at Shiloh, he left the plantation to your mother. Four months ago she died of influenza, and she seems to have left the plantation to you.”

Cain didn’t betray his surprise.

“I haven’t seen my mother in sixteen years. Why would she do that?”

“Mr. Ritter included a letter that she wrote to you shortly before her death. Perhaps it will explain her motives.”

Woodward withdrew a sealed letter from the folder in front of him and passed it across the desk.

Cain put it in the pocket of his coat without glancing at it.

“What do you know about the plantation?”

“It was apparently quite prosperous, but the war took its toll. With work, it might be reclaimed. Unfortunately, there’s no money attached to this bequest. And there’s also the matter of Weston’s daughter, Katharine Louise.”

This time Cain didn’t bother to hide his surprise.

“Are you telling me I have a half sister?”

“No, no. She’s a stepsister. You aren’t related by blood. The girl is Weston’s child from his previous marriage. She does, however, concern you.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“Her grandmother left her quite a lot of money, fortunately in a Northern bank. Fifteen thousand dollars, to be exact, to be held in trust until her twenty-third birthday or until she marries, whichever event occurs first. You’ve been appointed administrator of her trust and her guardian.”

“Guardian!”

Cain erupted from the deep seat of the leather chair.

Woodward shrank back in his own chair.

“What else was your mother to do? The girl is barely eighteen. There’s a substantial sum of money involved and no other relatives.”

Cain leaned forward over the gleaming mahogany surface of the desk.

“I’m not going to take responsibility for an eighteen-year-old girl or a run-down cotton plantation.”

Woodward’s pitch rose a notch.

“That’s up to you, of course, although I do agree that giving a man as—as worldly as yourself guardianship over a young woman is somewhat irregular. Still, the decision is yours. When you go to Charleston to inspect the plantation, you can speak with Mr. Ritter and advise him of your decision.”

“There is no decision,”

Cain said flatly.

“I didn’t ask for this inheritance, and I don’t want it. Write your Mr. Ritter and tell him to find another patsy.”

Cain was in a black mood by the time he arrived home, and his mood wasn’t improved when his stable boy failed to appear to take the carriage.

“Kit? Where the hell are you?”

He called twice before the boy raced out.

“Damn it! If you’re working for me, I expect you to be here when I need you. Don’t keep me waiting again!”

“And howdy to you, too,”

Kit grumbled.

Ignoring her, he leaped from the carriage and strode across the open yard to the house. Once inside, he went straight to the library and splashed some whiskey into a glass. Only after he’d drained it did he pull out the letter Woodward had given him and break the red wax seal.

Inside was a single sheet of paper covered with small, nearly indecipherable handwriting.

March 6, 1865

Dear Baron,

I can imagine your surprise at receiving a letter from me after so many years, even if it is a letter from the grave. A morbid thought. I am not resigned to dying. Still, my fever will not break, and I fear the worst. While I have strength, I will dispose of those few responsibilities I have left.

If you expect apologies from me, you will receive none. Life with your father was exceptionally tedious. I am also not a maternal woman, and you were a most unruly child. It was all very tiresome. Still, I must admit to having followed the newspaper stories of your military exploits with some interest. It pleased me to learn you are considered a handsome man.

None of this, however, concerns my purpose in writing. I was very attached to my second husband, Garrett Weston, who made life pleasant for me, and it is for him that I write this letter. Although I’ve never been able to abide his hoydenish daughter, Katharine, I realize she must have someone to watch out for her until she comes of age. Therefore, I have left Risen Glory to you with the hope that you will act as her guardian. Perhaps you will decline. Although the plantation was once the finest in the area, the war has done it no good.

Whatever your decision, I have discharged my duty.

Your mother,

Rosemary Weston

After sixteen years, that was all.

* * *

Kit heard the clock on the Methodist church in the next block chime two as she knelt in front of the open window and stared toward the dark house. Baron Cain wasn’t going to live to see the dawn.

The predawn air was heavy and metallic, warning of a storm, and even though her room was still warm from the afternoon’s heat, she shivered. She hated thunderstorms, especially those that broke at night. Maybe if she’d had a parent to run to for comfort when she’d been a child, her fear would have passed. Instead, she’d huddled in her cabin near the slave quarters, alone and terrified, certain that the earth was going to split open at any minute and gobble her up.

Cain had finally gotten home half an hour ago. Mrs. Simmons, the maids, and Magnus were gone for the night, so he was in the house alone, and as soon as he’d had time to fall asleep, the way would be clear.

The distant rumble of thunder jangled her. She tried to convince herself that the weather would make her work easier. It would hide any noise she might make when she slipped into the house through the pantry window she’d unlocked earlier. But the thought didn’t comfort her. Instead, she imagined herself as she’d be in an hour or so, running through the dark streets with a thunderstorm crashing around her. And the earth splitting open to gobble her up.

She jumped as lightning flashed. To distract herself, she tried to concentrate on her plan. She’d cleaned and oiled her daddy’s revolver and reread Mr. Emerson’s essa.

“Self-Reliance”

to bolster her courage. Then she’d bundled her possessions and hidden them in the back of the carriage house so she could grab them quickly.

After she killed Cain, she’d make her way to the docks off Cortlandt Street, where she’d catch the first ferry for Jersey City. There she’d find the train station and begin her journey back to Charleston, knowing the long nightmare that had begun when that Charleston lawyer had come to her was finally over. With Cain dead, Rosemary’s will would become meaningless and Risen Glory would be hers. All she had to do was find his bedroom, aim her gun, and pull the trigger.

She shivered. She’d never actually killed a man, but she could think of no better place to start than with Baron Cain.

He should be asleep by now. It was time. She picked up her loaded revolver and crept down the stairs, being careful not to disturb Merlin as she left the stable. A clap of thunder made her shrink against the door. She reminded herself she wasn’t a child and shot across the yard to the house, then scrambled through the shrubbery to get to the pantry window.

She tucked the revolver into the waistband of her breeches and tried to open the window. It didn’t budge.

She pushed again, harder this time, but nothing happened. The window was locked.

Stunned, she leaned against the house. She’d known her plan wasn’t foolproof, but she hadn’t expected to be thwarted so soon. Mrs. Simmons must have discovered the unfastened latch before she left.

The first drops of rain began to fall. Kit wanted to run back to her room and hide under the covers until the storm passed, but she summoned her courage and circled the house, looking for another way inside. The rain fell harder, striking her through her shirt. A maple tree thrashed in the wind. Near its branches she spotted an open second-story window.

Her heart pounded. The storm roared above her, and her breath came in short, panicky gasps. She forced herself to grab the lowest branch of the tree and pull herself up.

A bolt of lightning split the skies, and the tree quivered. She clung to the branch, terrified by the force of the storm and cursing herself for being so lily-livered. Setting her teeth, she forced herself higher into the tree. Finally, she began edging out onto the branch that seemed to grow closest to the house, although the driving rain made it impossible to see how far it went.

She whimpered as another thunderclap left the stink of brimstone in the air. Don’t swallow me up! She willed herself to move farther out. The limb pitched in the wind then began to sag under her weight.

The skies lit with another lightning bolt. Right then, she saw that the branch didn’t grow close enough for her to reach the window. Despair washed over her.

She blinked her eyes, wiped her nose on her sleeve, and worked her way back down the tree.

As she reached the bottom, lightning struck so close that her ears rang. Trembling, she pressed her spine against the trunk. Her clothes stuck to her skin, and the brim of her hat hung like a sodden pancake around her head. Tears she refused to shed burned hot behind her lids. Was this the way it would end? Risen Glory taken from her because she was too weak, too chickenhearted, too girly to get into a house?

She jumped as something brushed her legs. Merlin stared up at her, his head cocked to the side. She sank to her knees and buried her face in his wet, musty fur.

“You no-account dog . . .”

Her arms trembled as she drew the animal closer.

“I’m as worthless as you.”

He scraped her wet cheek with his rough tongue. Another blast of lightning struck. He howled, and Kit jumped to her feet, fear igniting her determination. Risen Glory was hers! If she couldn’t get into the house through a window, she’d get in through the door!

Half crazed from the storm and her own desperation, she raced toward the back door, fighting the wind and rain, too desperate to pay attention to the tiny voice that told her to give up and try again another day. She threw herself against the door, and when the lock didn’t give, she began pounding it with her fists.

Tears of fury and frustration choked her.

“Let me in! Let me in, you Yankee son of a bitch!”

Nothing happened.

She continued to pound, cursing and kicking.

A jagged bolt of lightning shot from the sky and struck the maple that had so recently sheltered her. Kit screamed and threw herself inside.

Directly into the arms of Baron Cain.

“What in the hell . . .”

The heat from his naked, sleep-warmed chest seeped through her cold, wet shirt, and for a moment, all she wanted to do was stay where she was, right there against him, until she could stop shivering.

“Kit, what’s wrong?”

He grabbed her shoulders.

“Has something happened?”

She jerked back. Unfortunately, Merlin was behind her. She stumbled over him and sprawled down on the hard kitchen floor.

Cain studied the tangled heap at his feet. His mouth quirked.

“I take it this thunderstorm is a little too much for you.”

She tried to tell him he could go straight to Hades, but her teeth were chattering so hard she couldn’t talk. She’d also landed on the revolver tucked in her britches, and a sharp pain shot through her hip.

Cain stepped over them to shut the door. Unfortunately, Merlin chose that moment to shake himself off.

“Ungrateful mutt.”

Cain grabbed a towel from a hook near the sink and began rubbing it over his chest.

Kit realized her revolver would be visible under her clothes as soon as she stood up. While Cain was preoccupied drying off, she slipped it out of her britches and hid it behind a basket of apples near the back door.

“I don’t know which of you is more scared,”

Cain grumbled as he watched Merlin disappear down the hallway that led to Magnus’s room.

“But I wish you both could have waited till morning.”

“I’m sure not scared of a little damn rain,”

Kit retorted.

Just then there was another crash, and she leaped to her feet, her face turning pale.

“My mistake,”

he drawled.

“Just because I—”

She broke off and swallowed as she finally got a good look at him.

He was nearly naked, wearing only a pair of dun-colored trousers slung low on his hips, with the top two buttons left unfastened in his haste to get to the door. She’d been around her share of scantily clad men working in the fields or at the sawmill, but now it was as if she’d never seen a one of them.

His chest was broad and muscular, lightly furred. A raised scar slashed one shoulder, and another jutted over his bare abdomen from the open waistband of his trousers. His hips were narrow and his stomach flat, bisected by a thin line of tawny hair. Her eyes inched lower to the point at which the legs of his trousers met. What she saw there fascinated her.

“Dry yourself off.”

She lifted her head and saw him staring at her, a towel extended in his hand, his expression puzzled. She grabbed the towel and reached under the collapsed brim of her hat to dab at her cheeks.

“It might be easier if you’d take your hat off.”

“I don’t want to take it off,”

she snapped, unsettled by her reaction.

“I like my hat.”

With a growl of exasperation, he headed into the hallway, only to reappear with a blanket.

“Get rid of those wet clothes. You can wrap up in this.”

She stared at the blanket and then at him.

“I’m not takin’ off my clothes!”

Cain frowned.

“You’re cold.”

“I’m not cold!”

“Your teeth are chattering.”

“Are not!”

“Damn it, boy, it’s three o’clock in the morning, I lost two hundred dollars at poker tonight, and I’m tired as hell. Now get out of those damned clothes so we can both get some sleep. You can use Magnus’s room tonight, and I’d better not hear another sound from you till noon.”

“Are you deaf, Yankee? I said I wasn’t takin’ off any clothes!”

Cain wasn’t used to anybody standing up to him, and the grim set of his jaw told her she should have killed him right away. As he took a step forward, she shot toward the basket of apples where she’d hidden her gun, only to jerk to a stop when he caught her arm.

“Oh, no, you don’t!”

“Let me go, you son of a bitch!”

She started swinging, but Cain was holding her at arm’s length.

“I told you to take off those wet clothes, and you’re going to do what I say so I can get some damn sleep!”

“You can rot in hell, Yankee!”

She swung again, but her blow bounced off as harmlessly as thistledown.

“Stop it before you get hurt.”

He shook her once as a warning.

“Go fuck yourself!”

Her hat flew off as she felt herself being lifted off the floor. There was a clap of thunder, Cain sank down onto a kitchen chair, and she found herself upended over his outstretched knee.

“I’m going to do you a favor.”

His open palm slammed down on her bottom.

“Hey!”

“I’m going to teach you a lesson your father should have taught you.”

Once again his hand came down, and she cried out, more from indignation than from pain.

“Stop it, you rotten Yankee bastard!”

“Never cuss at people who are bigger than you are . . .”

He gave her another hard, stinging smack.

“Or stronger than you are . . .”

Her bottom began to burn.

“And most of all . . .”

The next two smacks left her bottom on fire.

“. . . don’t cuss at me!”

He pushed her off his lap.

“Now, do we understand each other or not?”

She sucked in her breath as she landed on the floor. Fury and pain swirled in a haze around her, clouding her vision, so she didn’t see him reaching for her.

“You’re going to get out of these clothes.”

His hand clamped her wet shirt. With a howl of rage, she leaped to her feet.

The old, worn fabric ripped in his hand.

After that, everything happened at once. Cool air touched her flesh. She heard the faint patter of buttons skittering across the wooden floor. She looked down and saw her small breasts exposed to his gaze.

“What in the—”

A sense of horror and humiliation suffocated her.

He released her slowly and took a step back. She grabbed for the torn edges of her shirt and tried to pull them together.

Eyes the color of frozen pewter stared down at her.

“So. My stable boy isn’t a boy after all.”

She clutched the shirt and tried to hide her humiliation behind belligerence.

“What difference does it make? I needed a job.”

“And you got one by passing yourself off as a boy.”

“You’re the one who assumed I was a boy. I never said any such thing.”

“You never said any different, either.”

He picked up the blanket and tossed it to her.

“Dry yourself off while I get myself a drink.”

He moved toward the hallway door.

“I’ll expect some answers when I come back, and don’t even think about running away, because that’d be your biggest mistake yet.”

After he disappeared, she flung down the blanket and raced toward the basket of apples to retrieve the revolver. She sat at the table to hide it in her lap. Only then did she gather her tattered shirttails together and tie them in a clumsy knot at her waist.

Cain stalked back just as she realized how unsatisfactory the result was. He’d ripped her undershirt along with her shirt, and a deep V of exposed flesh extended down to the knot.

Cain took a sip of whiskey and stared at the girl. She was sitting at the wooden table, her hands folded out of sight in her lap, the soft fabric of her shirt clearly outlining a pair of small breasts. How could he have believed for a moment that she was a boy? Those delicate bones should have been a giveaway, along with her eyelashes, which were thick enough to sweep the floor.

The dirt had thrown him off. The dirt and the cussing, not to mention that pugnacious attitude. What a scamp.

He wondered how old she was. Fourteen or so? He knew a lot about women, but not about girls. When did they start growing breasts? One thing for sure . . . she was too young to be on her own.

He set down his whiskey tumbler.

“Where’s your family?”

“I told you. They’re dead.”

“You don’t have any relatives at all?”

“No.”

Her composure annoyed him.

“Look, a child your age can’t run around New York City alone. It isn’t safe.”

“The only person who’s given me trouble since I got here’s been you.”

She had a point, but he ignored it.

“Regardless. Tomorrow I’ll take you to some people who’ll be responsible for you until you’re older. They’ll find a place for you to live.”

“Are you talkin’ ’bout an orphanage, Major?”

It irritated him that she seemed amused.

“Yes, I’m talking about an orphanage! You sure as hell—heck—aren’t going to stay here. You need some place to live until you’re old enough to look after yourself.”

“Doesn’t seem to me I’ve had too much trouble up till now. Besides, I’m not exactly a child. I don’t think orphanages take in eighteen-year-olds.”

“Eighteen?”

“You havin’ trouble hearing?”

Once again she’d managed to shock him. He stared down the length of the table at her—ragged boy’s clothing, a grimy face and neck, short black hair that was stiff with dirt. In his experience, eighteen-year-olds were nearly women. They wore dresses and took baths. But then, nothing about her bore the slightest resemblance to a normal eighteen-year-old.

“Sorry to spoil all your nice plans for an orphanage, Major.”

She had the nerve to smirk, and he was suddenly glad he’d spanked her.

“Now, you listen to me, Kit—or is your name phony, too?”

“No. It’s my real name, all right. Leastways it’s what most everybody calls me.”

Her amusement faded, and he felt a prickling at the base of his spine, the same sensation he’d felt before a battle. Odd.

He watched her jaw set.

“Except my last name’s not Finney,”

she said.

“It’s Weston. Katharine Louise Weston.”

It was her last surprise. Before Cain could react, she was on her feet, and he was looking down into the barrel of an army revolver.

“Son of a bitch,”

he muttered.

Without taking her eyes from him, she came around the edge of the table. The gun pointing at his heart was steady in her small hand, and everything fell into place.

“Doesn’t seem to me you’re so particular about cussin’ when you’re the one doin’ it,” she said.

He took a step toward her and was immediately sorry. A bullet whizzed by his head, just missing his temple.

Kit had never fired a gun indoors, and her ears rang. She realized her knees were shaking, and she tightened her grip on the revolver.

“Don’t move unless I tell you, Yankee,”

she spat out with more bravado than she felt.

“Next time it’ll be your ear.”

“Maybe you’d better tell me what this is all about.”

“It’s self-evident.”

“Humor me.”

She hated the faint air of mockery in his voice.

“It’s about Risen Glory, you black-hearted son of a bitch! It’s mine! You’ve got no right to it.”

“That’s not what the law says.”

“I don’t care about the law. I don’t care about wills or courts or any of that. What’s right is right. Risen Glory is mine, and no Yankee’s takin’ it from me.”

“If your father’d wanted you to have it, he’d have left it to you instead of Rosemary.”

“That woman made him blind and deaf as well as a fool.”

“Did she?”

She hated the cool, assessing look in his eyes, and she wanted to hurt him as she’d been hurt.

“I suppose I should be grateful to her,”

she sneered.

“Hadn’t of been for Rosemary’s easy ways with men, the Yankees would’ve burned the house as well as the fields. Your mother was well known for sharin’ her favors with anybody who asked.”

Cain’s face was expressionless.

“She was a slut.”

“That’s God’s truth, Yankee. And I’m not goin’ to let her get the best of me, even from the grave.”

“So now you’re going to kill me.”

He sounded almost bored, and her palms began to sweat.

“Without you standin’ in my way, Risen Glory will be mine, just what should of happened in the first place.”

“I see your point.”

He nodded slowly.

“All right, I’m ready. How do you want to go about it?”

“What?”

“Killing me. How are you going to do it? Do you want me to turn around so you won’t have to look me in the face when you pull the trigger?”

Outrage overcame her distress.

“What kind of fool jackass thing is that to say? You think I could ever respect myself again if I shot a man in the back?”

“Sorry, it was just a suggestion.”

“A damn fool one.”

A trickle of sweat slid down her neck.

“I was trying to make it easier for you, that’s all.”

“Don’t you worry about me, Yankee. You worry about your own immortal soul.”

“All right, then. Go to it.”

She swallowed.

“I intend to.”

She lifted her arm and sighted down the barrel of her revolver. It felt as heavy as a cannon in her hand.

“You ever killed a man, Kit?”

“You be quiet!”

The trembling in her knees had grown worse, and her arm was beginning to shake. Cain, on the other hand, looked as relaxed as if he’d just awakened from a nap.

“Hit me right between the eyes,”

he said softly.

“Shut up!”

“It’ll be fast and sure that way. The back of my head will blow off, but you can handle the mess, can’t you, Kit?”

Her stomach roiled.

“Shut up! Just shut up!”

“Come on, Kit. Get it over with.”

“Shut up!”

The gun exploded. Once, twice, three times, more. And then the click of an empty chamber.

Cain hit the floor with the first shot. As the kitchen once again fell silent, he looked up. On the wall behind where he’d been standing, five holes formed the outline of a man’s head.

Kit stood with her shoulders slumped, her arms at her sides. The revolver dangled uselessly from her hand.

He eased himself up and walked over to the wall that had received the lead balls originally intended for him. As he studied the perfect arc, he slowly shook his head.

“I’ll say this for you, kid. You’re one hell of a shot.”

For Kit, the world had come to an end. She’d lost Risen Glory, and she had no one to blame but herself.

“Coward,”

she whispered.

“I’m a damn, lily-livered coward of a girl.”