Hope Reborn (5 page)

Be certain of his intentions before she slapped him. “Really?”

“Yes, and on Bourbon Street. I’ve always loved New Orleans. It’s a rather large home.”

Why would she think such a thing just because he used one wrong word? After all, he was a gentleman. He’d given her no reason to believe he might suggest such a sortie.

A tingle danced up her spine, and her pulse quickened even more. “Well, that’s interesting. I love most of New Orleans.”

“We lay over there for three days, before we sail on to Panama.”

“I see. It’s very nice that you have a house to stay in.”

“Yes.” He smiled again, but this grin held a more sinister glean. “I’ve read two of your novels this past week. I can hear your voice.”

His confession took her back. “You have? Well, what did you think?”

“That there’s something lacking.”

“Lacking?” She pulled her hand away. So this was why he wanted to get her alone. Tell her how to fix her books. How could she have been so stupid? “And tell me, in your opinion, exactly what would that be?”

“There’s a certain passion missing, but that’s what I’m offering. Leave Chester here on the Georgia and come home with me. Call it research for your next book. Put some steam on your pages.”

She backed away.

“You are no gentleman. If I wanted to trash my novels, I wouldn’t need the likes of you for my exploring.” She gave him her best you’ll-never-know-what-you’re-missing smile then slipped out of the door—and his life.

May didn’t say a word until Chester unlocked her door. “Get us a drink, would you, please.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He spun around and unlocked his door. Before she had the second lamp lit, he returned with a nice-sized bottle.

“What’s that?”

“Rum, the sailor’s drink of choice.”

“Fine, pour me a double.”

He poured, she drank and motioned for more. He poured again, and she flopped into her writing chair. Either it had conformed to her derriere or vice-versa, but she would miss sitting in it.

About the only thing she’d miss about the miserable ship. She sipped the hard liquor. It burned a bit, but did have a pleasant aftertaste. “This liquor is pretty good. Rum, you say?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“He wanted me to leave you on board and spend three days with him in his Bourbon Street hideaway.”

“Did he mention his wife?”

“No, you knew that he was married and didn’t tell me?”

“The purser told me while you two were having your little chat.”

She drained her glass then held it out toward him. “I should have known. The philandering fool.”

He splashed her only a daub, not nearly enough. “It’s why he didn’t offer to take you ashore in Havana. That’s where she lives and oversees their sugarcane plantation.”

“The purser told you all that?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I hate men.”

He smiled at her. “No you don’t, you love us.”

She curled her lip. He knew her so well, and she hated that. But he was right, as usual, though she’d never admit it aloud. What a shame that her life’s path had not crossed with Mister Right’s.

“He also insulted my novels, said they lacked passion, that I needed experience.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What do you mean, yes, ma’am? My books have plenty of passion. Do not tell me, Chester, that you are agreeing with that… that… swine.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Again, you yes-ma’am me? Stop being condescending.” She held her glass out. “Fill it, now.”

He gave her another splash, only a bit more than last time. “What did you tell him?”

She smiled and savored the memory for a bit before she shared. “That if I wanted to trash up my stories, I wouldn’t need any research with the likes of him.”

“Good for you.”

A sob welled, she turned her lips down, holding it back, sniffed once then met his eye. Her belly burned. “I thought he was going to propose.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Such a cad, he is. I should have slapped him.”

“No, ma’am. Why would a lady sully herself that way?”

“Are you trying to be my mother?”

“No, but she did say that a lot.”

She took another sip and closed her eyes. For years, she’d been unable to pull her mother’s image to mind. Sometimes, she caught a glimpse of her in the mirror—when she only glanced or in her peripheral vision.

Other times, in her dreams, she could see her, even talk with her, but never when she really needed her.

“Yes, she did. What a shame she didn’t take her own advice.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“But, if she had, well then…” Her words died, and her eyelids grew so heavy. The empty glass fell from her hand.

Like a feather, she floated into her bed, carried in Chester’s arms. The satin felt so cool and smooth and good against her cheek. She snuggled in and soon fell into a deep dark hole.

Pain towed her to consciousness. Her legs ached, and it seemed as though a thousand of those desert humpedback beasts had run through her mouth. She rolled out of bed.

Why was she still in her dress? She shucked the thing then stumbled to the water closet.

Slowly that morning, the coffee overcame the rum’s lingering effects. Why had she drunk so much? She hated hard liquor. Truth be known, she didn’t care much for wine either, though it helped her find sleep on those troublesome nights.

And all that horrible man’s fault! Three days of passion, indeed. Like she would ever trade her virtue for three meaningless days with him.

Chester let himself in, carrying a tray with more coffee, an assortment of little sweet cakes, and a crystal tumbler half-filled with a reddish brown liquid.

“What’s in the glass?”

He set the tray down and took the seat across from her. “Drink the concoction; the cook claims it cures what ails you.”

“You sample it?”

“Isn’t too bad, a bit spicy for my taste.”

Thick and creamy with a nice kick, the liquid burned some on the way down. She loved the tomato base, but for the life of her, could not discern anything else specifically.

For a bit after she’d drained the glass, nothing happened, but soon enough, the last of the lingering hammer hiding behind her eyes vanished.

She smiled. “Cook was correct. What was it?”

“Don’t know, he refused to give it up, said it’s a secret.”

She shrugged then chose one of the little muffins. “Chester, how soon before we dock?”

“Not long. Why, ma’am?”

“I don’t want to spend even one night in New Orleans.”

“I will make the arrangements.”

She rubbed the back of her neck; it too felt better. “Did you bring extra ink?”

“Yes, ma’am. I brought plenty of ink, paper, and enough quills for at least three more manuscripts after this one.”

“Good.” She pointed to her bedroom. “In my purse, get my winnings; I’ll not be needing them now.”

He did as told then returned to his seat. “Excellent, I was not looking forward to visiting The Swamp.”

“Well, I’ll admit I fancied to, but not now. I hate that man. And you’re right. I have no business stepping foot into the casinos.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Do you do that just to irritate me?”

“No, ma’am. I’m only trying to show you the respect you’re due.”

“Well, isn’t that a contradiction? I played the fool with yet another man, and you claim I’m due respect. That’s a good one, Chester. I’d laugh if I didn’t feel so much like crying.”

“My dear –”

“Don’t you dare die before me, or I’ll have no one. I’m doomed to pass from this world an old maid spinster; I certainly don’t want to be alone when it happens.”

“Turning Orr down wasn’t playing the fool.”

“But I wanted him to propose marriage. Even though he wasn’t the one. I knew that in my heart yet considered settling. Then he showed his true colors. I can’t believe the toady thought I would leave you here and go with him.”

He opened his mouth, but she held her hand up. “Please, don’t ma’am me one more time today.”

He smiled, stood, then backed toward the door. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”

She hated being so close to the fortune she’d once lost in The Swamp, but she’d not risk seeing that man one more time. Anyway, she’d had her fill of gambling for the while.

All she wanted was to finish the manuscript and get the book and its characters out of her mind—clear the way for her Rangers’ story. Her pulse quickened. Buckmeyer might even know where Chester’s Pa lived.

She laughed at herself. Why had she called him that?

Once aboard the river boat, she holed up in her room, and fifteen thousand, two hundred and sixteen beautiful—though somewhat messier than usual—words stacked up on the pages. By the time the steamer pulled into Jefferson, she proudly penned The End.

Excellent. She was so proud of herself, too, not even one evening spent at the Riverboat’s tables. Chester had procured a wonderful suite, and she had slung ink. The chair wasn’t as nice as the one on the Georgia, but comfortable enough.

Once she reworked the first twenty-four chapters, she could have Chester post the manuscript. It should arrive well ahead of her deadline. Why had she fretted so? She’d never missed one yet.   

Well, she did have to find a scribe; she never sent the only copy. Wouldn’t that be terrible? Having it lost somewhere between Texas and New York? She hadn’t thought there may not be any scribes in the whole of the wild west state.

Oh, if not, she could probably rewrite it, but what a distasteful task. She’d hate it.

After fifteen miserable hours of bumpy swaying on a stagecoach, she arrived in Clarksville, Texas, as ready—she was sure—as any traveler ever had been to exit the coach.

The dog raised his head, growled once, then bolted off the porch and headed north. Patrick Henry Buckmeyer hurried down the steps, counting children on his way.

Once all were sited, he looked north. A cloud of dust trailed east. He whistled, and New Blue trotted back to his side, then waited.

Soon a buggy, pulled by a matched set of grays, rounded the corner and headed up his home hill. A young man he’d seen around town drove the team, a light-skinned colored man sat next to him, holding his fancy top hat.

The children who’d been playing in the yard joined the ones on the porch.

“Want me to get my gun, Uncle?”

He glanced at the ten-year-old. “We’re fine, Charley.”

The man reined in the team. “How do, Mr. Henry! How’s things comin’ out your way?”

“We’re good. Who you got there?”

“Good morning, sir.” The man touched his hat’s brim. “Chester Meriwether. Seems I’ve found you, Colonel Buckmeyer. I’m also looking for Major Levi Baylor and Captain Wallace Rusk. Would you know their whereabouts?”

“Yes, sir, sure do. They’re expected back any day now. Matter of fact, I was hoping the dust cloud you gentlemen raised might be them.”

“May I be so presumptuous as to inquire where they’ve been, sir?”

Henry refrained from letting the smile out, blue around the mizen came to mind, but he didn’t judge men by their skin color or the way they spoke. “Three weeks ago, they headed out for the Llano. Why are you asking, Chester?”

“Would you be so kind to spare me a few minutes of your time, sir?” He faced the driver. “Would you be available to wait a while?”

Henry shrugged, and the driver nodded. Why not?

“Come sit a spell.” He threw a nod toward the back of his house and spoke to the young man. “Take your team to the barn and water and grain ‘em if you’re a mind. There’s hay in the loft.”

“Thank you, sir.” He drove the buggy around the side of the house.

Chester took the seat next to Henry and extended his hand. “Good to meet you, sir. My father wrote of seeing a Patty Buckmeyer at Jonesboro; he knew him from the Battle of New Orleans. Are you that man?”

Henry smiled; no one had called him Patty in a coon’s age. “So you must be Silas Meriwether’s son.”

“Yes, sir, and I’ve been looking for him. Might you happen to know my father’s whereabouts?”

“No, sure don’t. I ran into him a time or two after 1814, but haven’t seen or heard of him in years. Sorry.”

Disappointment etched the man’s eyes, then he seemed to shrug it off. “Was he well the last time you saw him?”

“Same old Silas, strong as an ox. He’d taken up with a Cherokee squaw if memory serves.”