Just Imagine (42 page)

  20

Despite the moonless night, the garden shone as brightly as if it were daylight. Fresh torches had been lit in the iron brackets, and kerosene lamps had been brought outside from the house. A dozen champagne bottles perched along the brick wall. Veronica noticed that only half of them were empty and gave hurried orders to the butler to replace the others. Honor might be at stake, but she wouldn't see good champagne wasted.

The Southerners groaned when they saw the matching guns Bonnett had produced. They were the Confederate version of the Colt revolver, plain and serviceable, with walnut grips and a brass frame instead of the more expensive steel frame of the Colt. But they were heavy, designed for wartime use by a man. This was no gun for a woman.

Kit, however, was accustomed to the weight and barely noticed it as she took the gun nearest to her from the box. She inserted six of the paper cartridges Will had provided into the empty chambers of the cylinder and pulled the loading lever down each time to press them into place. Then she fitted six copper percussion caps at the other end of the cylinder. Her fingers were smaller than Cain's, and she was done first.

The distance was marked off. They would stand twenty-five paces from their target. Each would fire six shots. Ladies first.

Kit stepped up to the line mat had been scratched in the gravel. Under normal circumstances, the empty champagne bottles would have held little challenge for her, but her head swam from too many glasses of champagne.

She turned sideways to the target and lifted her arm. As she sighted through the notch and bead, she made herself forget everything except what she had to do. She pulled the trigger, and the bottle exploded.

There were surprised exclamations from the men.

She moved on to the next bottle, but her success had made her careless, and she forgot to take those extra glasses of champagne into account. She fired too quickly and just missed the second target.

Cain watched from the side as she picked off the next four bottles. His anger gave way to admiration. Five out of six, and she wasn't even sober. Damn, but she was one hell of a woman. There was something primitive and wonderful in the way she stood silhouetted against the torch flames, her arm extended, the deadly revolver forming such marked contrast to her loveliness. If only she were more manageable. If only…

She lowered the revolver and turned to him, her dark brows lifting in triumph. She looked so pleased with herself that he couldn't quite suppress a smile.

"Very nice, Mrs. Cain, although I believe you left one."

"That's true, Mr. Cain," she replied with an answering smile. "Make sure you don't leave more than one."

He inclined his head and turned to the target.

A hush had fallen over the crowd as the men became uneasily aware of what Cain had known from the start. They had a serious match on their hands.

Cain lifted the revolver. It felt familiar in his hand, just like the Colt that had seen him through the war. He picked off the first bottle and then the second. One shot followed another. When he finally lowered his arm, all six bottles were gone.

Kit couldn't help herself. She grinned. He was a wonderful shot, with a good eye and a steady arm.

Something tight and proud caught in her throat as she gazed at him in his formal black-and-white evening dress, the copper lights from the torches glinting in his crisp, tawny hair. She forgot about her pregnancy, she forgot her anger, she forgot everything in a rush of feeling for this difficult and splendid man.

He turned to her, his head tilted.

"Good shooting, my darling," she said softly.

She saw the surprise on his face, but it was too late to snatch back the words. The endearment was a bedroom expression, part of a small dictionary of love words that formed the private vocabulary of their passion, words that were never to be used in any other place, at any other time, yet that was what she'd done. Now she felt naked and defenseless. To hide her emotions, she tossed her chin high and turned to the onlookers.

"Since my husband is a gentleman, I'm certain he'll give me a second chance. Would someone fetch a deck of cards and pull out the ace of spades?"

"Kit…" Cain's voice held a brusque warning note.

She turned to confront him and wipe away her moment of defenselessness. "Will you shoot against me? Yes or no?"

They might have been standing alone instead of in the midst of dozens of people. The onlookers didn't realize it, but Cain and Kit knew the purpose of the contest had shifted. The war that had raged for so long between them had found a new battleground.

"I'll shoot against you."

There was a deadly quiet as the ace of spades was fastened to the wall. "Three shots each?" Kit asked as she reloaded her gun.

He nodded grimly.

She lifted her arm and sighted the small black spade at the exact center of the playing card. She could feel her hand trembling, and she lowered the revolver until she felt steadier. Then she lifted it again, sighted the small target, and fired.

She hit the top right corner of the card. It was an excellent shot, and there were murmurs from the men as well as from the women who'd gathered to watch. Some of them even felt a secret burst of pride at seeing one of their own sex excel at such a masculine sport.

Kit cocked the hammer and adjusted her aim. This time she was too low, and she hit the brick wall just below the bottom of the card. But it was still a respectable shot, and the crowd acknowledged it.

Her head was spinning, but she forced herself to concentrate on the small black shape at the center of the card. She'd made this shot dozens of times. All she needed was concentration. Slowly she squeezed the trigger.

It was nearly a perfect shot, and it took the point off the spade. There was a trace of disquiet in the subdued congratulations of the Southern men. None of them had ever seen a woman shoot like that. Somehow it didn't seem right. Women were to be protected. But this woman could do that for herself.

Cain lifted his own weapon. Once again the crowd fell silent, so that only the sea breeze in the sweet olives disturbed the quiet of the night garden.

The gun fired. It hit the brick wall just to the left of the card.

Cain corrected his aim and fired again. This time he hit the top edge of the card.

Kit held her breath, praying that his third shot would miss, praying that it wouldn't, wishing too late that she hadn't forced this contest upon them.

Cain fired. There was a puff of smoke, and the single spade in the center of the playing card disappeared. His final shot had drilled it out.

The onlookers went wild. Even the Southerners temporarily forgot their animosity, relieved that the natural law of male superiority had held firm. They surrounded Cain to congratulate him.

"Fine shootin', Mr. Cain."

"A privilege to watch you."

"Of course, you were only firin' against a woman."

The men's congratulations grated on his ears. As they pounded him on the back, he looked over their heads at Kit, standing off by herself, the revolver nestled in the soft folds of her skirt.

One of the Northerners shoved a cigar into his hand. "That woman of yours is pretty good, but when all's said and done, I guess shootin' is still pretty much a man's game."

"You're right there," another said. "Never much doubt about a man beating a woman."

Cain felt only contempt for their casual dismissal of Kit's skill. He thrust the cigar back and glared at them.

"You fools. If she hadn't been drinking champagne, I wouldn't have had a chance against her. And neither, by God, would any of you."

Turning on his heel, he stalked out of the garden, leaving the men gaping after him in astonishment.

Kit was stunned by his defense. She thrust the revolver at Veronica, picked up her skirts, and ran after him.

He was already in their bedroom when she reached it. Her brief happiness faded as she saw him throw his clothing into a satchel that lay open on the bed.

"What are you doing?" she asked breathlessly.

He didn't bother to look up at her. "I'm going to Risen Glory."

"But why?"

"I'll send the carriage back for you the day after tomorrow," he replied, without answering her question. "I'll be gone by then."

"What do you mean? Where are you going?"

He didn't look at her as he tossed a shirt into the satchel. He spoke slowly. "I'm leaving you."

She made a muffled sound of protest.

"I'm getting out now while I can still look myself in the eye. But don't worry. I'll see a lawyer first and make sure your name is on the deed to Risen Glory. You won't ever have to be afraid your precious plantation will be taken away from you again."

Kit's heart was pounding in her chest like the wings of a trapped bird. "I don't believe you. You can't just walk away. What about the cotton mill?"

"Childs can manage it for now. Maybe I'll sell it. I've already had an offer." He grabbed a set of brushes from the top of the bureau and shoved them inside with the rest. "I'm done fighting you, Kit. You've got a clear field now."

"But I don't want you to go!" The words sprang spontaneously from her lips. They were true, and she didn't want to take them back.

He finally looked up at her, his mouth twisted in its old mockery. "That surprises me. You've been trying your best to get rid of me one way or another since you were eighteen."

"That was different. Risen Glory—"

He slammed the open palm of his hand against the bedpost, making the heavy wooden spindle vibrate. "I don't want to hear about Risen Glory! I don't ever want to hear that name again. Damn it, Kit, it's just a cotton plantation. It isn't a shrine."

"You don't understand! You've never understood. Risen Glory is all I've ever had."

"So you've told me," he said quietly. "Maybe you should try to figure out why that is."

"What do you mean?" She grabbed the bedpost for support as she closed in on him.

"I mean that you don't
give
anything. You're like my mother. You take from a man until you've bled him dry. Well, I'll be damned if I end up like my father. And that's why I'm leaving."

"I'm not anything like Rosemary! You just can't accept the fact that I won't let you dominate me."

"I never wanted to dominate you," he said softly. "I never wanted to own you, either, no matter how many times I said it. If I'd wanted a wife I could grind under my bootheel, I could have gotten married years ago. I never wanted you to walk in my dust, Kit. But, by damn, I won't walk in yours, either."

He closed the satchel and began fastening the leather straps. "When we got married—after that first night—I had this idea that maybe it could somehow be all right between us. Then it went bad right away, and I decided I'd been a fool. But when you came to me in that black nightgown, and you were so scared and so determined, I forgot all about being a fool and let you creep right back under my skin."

He released the satchel and straightened up. For a moment he gazed at her, and then he closed the small distance left between them. His eyes were full of a pain that pierced through her as if it were her own. A pain that
was
her own.