Kary, Elizabeth (53 page)

Hayes
craned his neck to see around the edge of the shack. On the side porch of the
elegant Greek Revival home, two women stood. One was a black woman bent with
age. On her arm was a market basket, as if she were going off to do some
shopping, though it was rumored that the shelves of Vicksburg's stores were
bare. The other woman was small and dark-haired, and as they conversed, Hayes
recognized the gestures and stance that marked this one as the woman he was
seeking.

"It's
her," Hayes confirmed, his heart suddenly pounding in his ears. His
reaction to Monica's presence was involuntary and totally unexpected.

As
they watched the old woman make her way toward the street, the two men slipped
across the yard and around the edge of the porch. "Those double doors lead
into the study," Hayes murmured. "I think I'll try them first."

"Are
you sure this is what you want to do?" Travis whispered, catching
Banister's arm.

For
a second Hayes hesitated, trying to comprehend his compelling need to see
Monica and his child to safety. Still his motives were unclear. Weren't there
simply some things a man must do for honor that he would not do for love?

"I'll
never be at peace with myself if I don't get Monica and our son out of
here," he whispered to the man beside him. "Does that make sense to
you?"

Travis
nodded, though his mouth was turned downward in a frown. "I'll be waiting
here, if you need me."

Hayes
sprang noiselessly onto the veranda and tried the latch on the first set of
doors. To his relief, they swung slowly open, and he stepped from the porch
into an opulently decorated study. Instinctively his gaze swept the room for
signs of danger and came to rest on the diminutive figure behind the mahogany
desk. It was the woman who had betrayed him.

For
a full minute neither Hayes nor his former mistress stirred, as each stared
intently at the other. The years had not been kind to Monica Morgan Bennett,
Hayes decided. The fullness of her mouth had gone from piquant to petulant; her
lush, tempting body from ripe to rotund. He was struck that he no longer found
her in any way appealing, and it seemed that the flaws he had discovered in her
character were plainly visible on her face.

What
Monica's reaction was to him he could not guess. Her features were not altered
by what she was feeling, but her golden eyes darkened until they glowed. As he
approached, she came slowly to her feet. "Hayes Banister," she said
softly. "Is it really you? Why have you come here now?"

Hayes
stopped a foot or two short of the massive mahogany desk, watching the woman
behind it. "Yes, Monica, it's me. I came to find out why in God's name
you're still here in Vicksburg when there's shelling going on every day. Is
that any way to care for either yourself or a child?"

Monica's
eyes grew darker still. "I came back to Vicksburg because of him!"
Monica spat, indicating the picture of her husband that hung above the mantel.
It had obviously been painted long before Hayes had met the man, long before
Jacob Bennett had taken Monica for a wife. It was a fine portrait, showing
Bennett's once abundant, raven-dark hair; the finely drawn features on his
long-jawed face; his slight but proud carriage.

"And
I'm still here in Vicksburg because of you," she finished.

"Because
of me?" Hayes's voice was incredulous.

They
stood in silence for a moment before Monica explained. "Jacob died of
pneumonia in late February. Charles and I returned from the accommodations we
had secured at a friend's plantation on the Big Black River to see to the
burial and hear the reading of the will. But there was a problem with the
bequests that I had never anticipated."

"A
problem?"

"Yes,
my old friend," she said with a sneer, "a problem you had caused.
Since Jacob accepted Charles as his son when he was born, I was sure he had
made him his heir. But apparently Jacob knew about our meetings at the cabin,
knew that I was expecting a child long before our affair was over. He was too
proud a man to let the world know he had been a cuckold, but he was also too
proud to leave his wealth to a child he did not think was his.

"Jacob
left us without a penny to bless us, not a cent for Charles, not a cent for me!
After all the years I spent with Jacob, catering to an old man's whims, I
received nothing, not even this house. I gave that ungrateful bastard the best
years of my life, my youth, my beauty. And because he was sure Charles was your
son, not his, Jacob left us destitute."

A
flicker of sympathy ran through Hayes's veins. He was sorry that Monica and the
boy had been left without means because of him, so sorry that he would likely
offer them a stipend once they were out of danger. But first he must find out
the answer to the question that had haunted him since the day of their last
meeting.

"Is
the boy mine, then?" he asked softly. An odd assortment of emotions seemed
lodged in Hayes's chest at what would doubtless be a final confirmation of the
long-suspected truth.

"No!
No!" Monica shrieked, angry and distraught. "That's the final irony.
Charles is Jacob's son."

"Monica,
listen. If Charles is my son, I will see that you have whatever money you
need—" Hayes offered, stepping closer.

"Charles
is not your son!" Monica shouted and, interpreting his approach as a
threat, snatched an ancient dueling pistol from the top drawer of the desk.
"Don't you come a step closer," she threatened, leveling the pistol
at Hayes's chest. "I swore once that if you ever interfered with my plans
for the future, if you ever cast any doubt on the paternity of my son, I would
see you dead!"

"Monica,
be sensible," he began softly, brushing aside the threat. "Within
weeks or even days the city of Vicksburg is going to be under siege, cut off
from food and water, under fire night and day. I came here to take you and the
boy to safety before Grant's troops close in. Put the gun aside and let me help
you. Once the Confederacy is defeated, you can contest the terms of your
husband's will or come to me for help. For now there's nothing you can do, and
it's dangerous for you to remain in the city."

Monica
raked back the hammer of the pistol as if to underline her threat. "I
don't want help from you, Hayes Banister. I want to see you dead for
undermining everything I planned!"

Monica
didn't mean what she was saying, Hayes reasoned quickly. She was irrational
from the death of her husband, from the disappointments in the will, from the
proximity of the enemy. She had found a focus for her frustration in his sudden
reappearance and was giving vent to her helplessness and her overwrought
emotions.

"I
can take you back to that plantation on the Big Black," he offered softly,
edging forward. "Or I can put you on a train to your parents in Georgia,
if that's what you prefer."

Monica
seemed not to have heard his words, seemed unable to comprehend the logic
behind what he was saying. "It's your fault that Jacob disinherited my son
and me," she shouted. "It's your fault Charles and I haven't a cent
to live on, your fault Jacob thought Charles was not his son. It was only the
promise of the Bennett fortune that made these past years bearable."

"The
money's hardly important when it comes to life and death. Please, Monica, let
me help you. Let me take you out of Vicksburg." Hayes's tone was calm and
soothing, low and persuasive. In a moment he would be close enough to reach
across the desk and wrench the gun from her hands.

"I'll
decide what's important! You have no right—"

"Mother?
Is something the matter? I heard shouting."

At
the sound of a child's voice, both Hayes and Monica froze: he with one hand
extended toward the gun, she with an expression of grim determination on her
full-blown features. Both their heads swiveled to take in the slight boy in the
doorway.

In
that instant Hayes saw the child with excruciating clarity: the thick, black
hair and finely drawn features; the short, slender build, and inky dark eyes.
There was nothing of either the Banisters or Deans in him, and in a flash of
bitter insight, Hayes knew Monica had told the truth that afternoon almost ten
years before, had told the truth again today. This child, Monica's child, the
child who had haunted his thoughts for nearly a decade, was not his son.

The
realization was both relief and stunning disappointment, and Hayes struggled to
grasp the ramifications of this discovery. Was he free to put those years
behind him? Could he live his life without the constant shadow of his past?
Then his mind was flooded with thoughts of Leigh, of things he would be able to
tell her, of parts of himself he would finally be able to share.

But
first he had to get Monica and the boy safely out of Vicksburg. It was what he
had come here for, and even if the boy in the doorway was not his son, he could
do that much for them, at least. Intent on finishing this task, Hayes reached
out to grab the pistol. Once she was disarmed, Hayes reasoned, Monica would
crumble. As soon as he had shown her she could not oppose him, Monica would go
docilely wherever he took them.

But
the years had changed Monica too, and the small, dark-haired woman stood her
ground. "No! No!" she screeched as Hayes's fingers closed around the
barrel. "Let go, Hayes! Let go! I'll shoot; I swear I will."

There
was a brief, desperate struggle as will warred with strength, as selfish hatred
warred with disappointment. Then, a resounding retort filled the study, and
Hayes felt the ball drive deep in his chest before the world dissolved in
blackness.

"Miss
Leigh! Miss Leigh, come quick!" The sharp command from somewhere on the
deck below roused Leigh from the book she had been reading and brought her
rushing to the rail outside her cabin.

On
the water two decks down she could see a skiff bobbing by the side of the
riverboat with two deckhands bent above some burden they were preparing to
wrestle on board the
Barbara Dean.
There was an urgency about the men
and the group that had gathered along the balustrade, and she surmised that
there was someone on the skiff in need of her care. As she watched, one of the
men in the boat raised his head, and Leigh recognized the deathly grim countenance
as belonging to Nathan Travis.

Simultaneously,
Leigh connected Hayes with Nathan's expression, and as Travis turned to look up
at her, she caught sight of her husband's inert body sprawled in the bottom of
the skiff. As she took in his ashen face, his lifeless form, and the mixture of
blood and gunpowder that had tinted the breast of his shirt deep crimson, a
spangle of cold passed along her limbs. Valiantly she fought off the wave of
darkness that followed, clinging to the rail and gasping for breath as the sun
and sky wheeled around her.

Then,
after what might have been either an instant or an eternity, Nathan was beside
her, pulling her close, offering a mooring for her careening senses. Leigh
clung tight to his shoulders, hoping for comfort, silently begging for
encouragement. But instead he spoke the truth, words that sent new dread
coursing through her. "He's bad, Leigh, real bad," Travis murmured in
her ear, "but he's not dead yet."

"How...?
How....?" She could not seem to form the question.

"What
does it matter? I stopped the bleeding as best I could, but the ball has to
come out, and you're the only one who knows how—"

Through
the buzz of confusion in her head, Leigh caught the drift of what Travis wanted
her to do. "I can't, Nathan. I can't!" There were tears on her
cheeks, and the words were wrenched out of her on strangled sobs.

Above
her Nathan's face hardened. "Damn it, Leigh! Don't go to pieces on me.
Hayes needs you. You're the only one who can pull him through. I've told the
men to bring him up here to the cabin—"

"No,
no, not to the cabin," Leigh insisted. Even in the depths of shock, the
force of her medical training began to exert itself. "Have the men take
Hayes to the salon and lay him out on one of the tables where there's plenty of
light and good ventilation. I will need to be able to move around him
freely."

She
was unsteady on her feet as Nathan went to do her bidding, but the crucial need
for calm brought unexpected strength. With an effort Leigh slowed her breathing
and tried to organize her errant thoughts. For Hayes she must be strong, she
told herself. To insure the future they had planned, she must see her husband
through this crisis. His life depended on her skill.

Stopping
only long enough to get her medical kit from the cabin, Leigh went down to the
salon. The crewmen had done exactly as she instructed and stood gathered around
the table where the wounded man lay. They turned as she approached, their faces
masks of concern for Hayes with blind faith in her skill shining in their eyes.
Then her attention came to rest on her husband, lying just beyond the
protective wall of bodies.

There
seemed to be blood everywhere, soaking Hayes's clothes and the makeshift
bandage wrapped around his chest, staining the wooden table and the floor.
Gently she touched the pulse in his throat, feeling the thready beat of life
beneath her fingers. His flesh was cold and clammy, she noted, and his
breathing was shallow and labored. While one part of her brain took in and
carefully assessed the medical information, another was horrified by his
stillness and the grayish pallor of his skin.