Mischief and Magnolias (11 page)

His eyes flew open as his hand snatched her wrist, the grip like an iron band around her bones, yet gentle and caressing at the same time. Shaelyn jumped, a startled squeak stuck in her throat.

“That's not going to happen, Shae.” His gruff, pain-filled voice struck her heart. A low heat flooded her belly, and her breath stuck in her throat. “Until either I get reassigned, which might happen because of this—” He gestured to his leg propped up on the ottoman. “Or until this war is over, I'm staying. You'll just have to come to terms with that.” He lowered his voice, but his gaze never left her face. His eyes glowed in the candlelight. “Now leave me alone.”

Shaelyn swallowed, took one look at his pain-ravaged face, and ran from the room, hurt beyond reason and a little angry she had removed all those tiny stitches from the legs of his undergarments.

Major Harte had made himself comfortable in her home and refused to budge. Nothing she did to drive him out—vinegar in his coffee, cold baths, molasses in his boots—none of it had the desired effect. He remained at Magnolia House, charming and pleasant as always, finding her pranks amusing, laughter smoldering in the blue-gray of his eyes. He never, not once, mentioned the incident when the pain in his leg had become too much for him. He never apologized for it either.

Frustration ate at Shaelyn. What else could she do to him? What would make the man finally realize he'd come to the wrong place and simply depart? She'd run out of ideas.

On the bright side, she no longer had to prepare his bath—he'd fallen in love with the rain bath and preferred that to soaking in the bathtub. She no longer had to mix his shaving soap into a frothy foam, nor shine his new boots either. She still had to do his laundry and clean his room, but those were tolerable tasks.

Shaelyn watched the time pass, cleaning up after men who for the most part seemed to take care of themselves, and maintaining her beloved riverboats. One day flowed into the next and the next until, before she knew it, September turned to October. Leaves changed their colors to brilliant scarlet and stunning gold, and a briskness filled the air as they floated to the ground.

She entered the kitchen on a bright fall afternoon, a basket of folded laundry in her hands. The bed linens were still warm from hanging in the sun and smelled of sweet, fresh air. She stopped short.

Her mother and Jock MacPhee stood side by side in front of a big pot on the stove, aprons tied around their waists, sleeves rolled up to their elbows. They spoke softly to each other, their conversation intimate.

A private moment Shaelyn shouldn't have seen.

She watched her mother. Brenna's eyes were bright when she faced Jock, a soft smile on her lips. She laughed, a sweet sound Shaelyn had not heard in a long time, not since her father had passed away.

Jock lifted a spoon to Brenna's lips. She sipped delicately and a dreamy expression stole across her face. “Oh, Jock, that's wonderful.”

Shaelyn's face flushed. She
had
intruded. She struggled to breathe over the sudden lump in her throat, her eyes stinging with unshed tears.

She must have made a sound, for they both turned. Jock blushed to the roots of his ginger hair and the mustache across his upper lip twitched. “Excuse me,” he stammered, removed the apron from around his waist, tossed it on the table, and made a quick, embarrassed exit.

Shaelyn did not miss the look of longing the man sent her mother before the door closed behind him.

“What were you doing, Mama?” she asked as she put the basket down.

“Jock was just showing me a new recipe for seafood gumbo,” Brenna said softly as their gazes met and held, her mother's eyes still dancing with bright lights. She tilted her head, her direct stare never leaving Shaelyn's. Her chest rose and fell as she took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “He's still the same Uncle Jock you've known all your life, Shae. He hasn't changed because of the war. He isn't your enemy. None of these men are.”

Shaelyn said nothing as she studied her mother and noticed the blush coloring the apples of her cheeks, the warm glow that seemed to infuse her. How could she explain the feeling of betrayal that settled in the pit of her stomach at seeing her mother flirt—yes, flirt—with another man, even if he was a man she'd known all her life? Jock MacPhee had been her father's best friend, had piloted the Cavanaugh steamers for as long as she could remember.

“He's always loved me, Shae.” Brenna's voice reflected her happiness. “And I…I always loved him. I just loved your father more. You know that. I'll love Sean until I take my last breath, but things have changed. Your father is no longer here and I think—no, I know—I deserve a little happiness. If I can find that with Jock, I'm going to.”

Shaelyn still couldn't find her voice, despite the pleading tone in her mother's words. What could she say? She was happy? She approved?

In truth, she didn't know what she felt, couldn't define the emotion if her life depended upon it. So many things had changed, so much had happened to throw her well-ordered routine into a spinning, muddled mess.

She swallowed against the lump taking permanent residence in her throat.

“It's all right, dear. You don't have to say anything. The expression on your face is enough.” Sadness crept into Brenna's voice and a sigh escaped her before a hint of defiance glimmered in her eyes. Her voice grew stronger, her tone no longer meek. “You don't approve. Well, that's fine. You don't have to. I'm not looking for your permission or your blessing. I'm a grown woman, able to make my own mistakes, if that's what this is. I'm willing to take that chance. What about you?”

Brenna's attitude changed as she asked the question. She stepped forward, hands on her hips, the sadness in her eyes gone as quickly as it came, the expression on her face one Shaelyn remembered from before they'd both been thrown into this…this turmoil of war. “Admit it, Sassy,” Brenna demanded, using the nickname she hadn't used in years. “You find the major attractive. If circumstances were different—”

“I find no such thing!” Shaelyn declared hotly, finally finding her voice. “Have you forgotten I am in love with James? He will come home, I'm sure of it. And he'll bring Ian home with him.”

Brenna gently caressed her hand, still grasping the handles of the wicker laundry basket, and whispered the truth neither one of them was willing to admit. “I don't think either of them will come home, Shae. I think they're both gone or we would have heard something by now. A letter from one of them at least, telling us they are all right.”

“I refuse to believe that, Mama.”

Brenna shrugged. “Believe what you will, my dear, you always do.” She turned and walked away, back to the pot on the stove. As she picked up the spoon and began to stir the simmering contents, she commented over her shoulder, “I've seen the way Major Harte looks at you.”

Shaelyn stiffened beneath the casually uttered words and did the first thing that came to her mind. She lied. “I don't know what you mean.”

But she did know. She had seen him watching her as she did her chores, his eyes glowing softly, the warmth of his gaze making her feel clumsy and awkward. The niggling fluttering in her belly hadn't lessened with time nor dimmed with familiarity. Indeed, the feeling had grown over the past few weeks. The afternoon they'd spent together, though it ended badly, still lingered in her mind as one of the most pleasant outings she'd had in a very long time. He'd been a gentleman—caring, thoughtful, and so very charming. He was still a gentleman, his kindness at times overwhelming. So many possibilities had run through her head during their lovely afternoon, but in truth, he was still an intruder in her home. One she wanted to leave. Or did she?

• • •

Shaelyn followed her mother through the swinging door to the dining room, a tureen of seafood gumbo on the serving cart she pushed.

As one, the officers rose then took their seats once more, as Jock pulled out the chair beside him for Brenna.

“We won't go all the way to New Orleans,” Remy said to the group of men around the table as he charted the journey on a map of Louisiana. “We'll stop just north of there, right here.” He marked the spot with a pencil and passed the map around. “I'll arrange to be met by another unit and we'll unload the men and the equipment. The journey will be finished over land.”

As she ladled the steaming stew into their bowls, Shaelyn listened intently. The Union Army occupied New Orleans, but getting there remained a challenge.

Trains would be the best mode of transportation, but dangerous, as the rails were destroyed time after time.

Those around the table were aware of a rebel band of Confederate soldiers who had taken it upon themselves to fight the war their own way. Led by a man known simply as the Gray Ghost, they were the ones responsible for sabotaging the rail lines.

Trains weren't their only target, though. Along with the smugglers plying the Mississippi River looking for any unsuspecting target, this rebel band also attacked Union vessels, stealing cargo, food supplies, and ammunition. The steamboats were gutted and sunk. No one seemed to know what happened to the troops aboard those riverboats. The assumption was either they lay in a watery grave or had been marched to one of the prison camps.

Trepidation filled her, and her mind raced. It would be the first time since her riverboats were confiscated that they would be put to use. “Which will you use?”

“The
Brenna Rose
.”

Brenna gasped and Shaelyn sent her a sympathetic glance. The
Brenna Rose
held fond memories for them both. The first steamer in the Cavanaugh fleet, it was where Brenna and Sean Cavanaugh had been married, in the pilothouse. They had lived on board for the first four years of their marriage, until Sean had enough money to build Magnolia House and begin his empire.

“Do you have a pilot and a navigator?” Shaelyn asked as she continued around the table and stopped before Remy. She held the ladle in her hand, hesitating, waiting for the answer. Though these men had been in her home for the past month or so, she didn't have the vaguest clue what they did.

“We all have experience, Miss,” Daniel said as he unfolded his napkin and laid it across his lap. “Except the major and Captain Davenport. Before the war, I was the pilot on the
Moonlight Lady
out of St. Louis and Captain Williams was my navigator. Falstead captained the
Holly Lauren
out of Monmouth, and Captain Carroll was navigator aboard the
Memphis Belle
.” He gestured to the men as he spoke. “Captain Becket piloted the
Delta Queen
out of New Orleans. Captain MacPhee, of course, you know. He's piloted your own steamboats. That's why we were chosen. Your steamers will be safe with us.” The captain, aware of Remy's withering stare, mumbled an apology, and quickly became engrossed in the bowl of gumbo before him.

Though she acknowledged his statement, Shaelyn remained unconvinced. The men around the table had experience, but that didn't matter—the steamers they'd all spent time aboard weren't
hers.

“We'll manage,” Remy said as he turned his gaze to her once again.

Her mouth set in a grim line, Shaelyn came to a decision. She didn't want anyone at the wheel of the
Brenna Rose
except herself. She could trust no other to make sure her beloved steamboat survived the journey. “I want to go,” she offered boldly. “I'll pilot or navigate or anything you wish, but I want to go.”

Remy's brows raised in question and a smile quirked the corner of his mouth. “Why would you do that? It's more than evident you have no love for us Yankees, so why would you help us?”

She glared at him. “Please don't mistake my intentions, Major. This has nothing to do with you.”

“Then why?” The intensity of his gaze warmed her. Heat rose to her face. Indeed, heat seemed to warm her entire body. Her heart beat faster in her chest.

“My concern is for my riverboats,” she said, although how she could speak was a mystery. “This war will be over someday. I'll need those steamboats in good condition so I may provide for my mother and myself.”

He nodded, his eyes never leaving her face. The warm tingle taking up permanent residence in her belly spread outward. If she listened, she could hear the pounding of her pulse in her ears.

“What qualifies you as opposed to them?” He gestured to the officers around the table then folded the map and laid it beside his plate.

All too aware of his eyes on her and the warmth rushing through her body, she said, “I cut my teeth on the wheel of the
Brenna Rose
, Major. I stood in front of my father while he guided our steamers, his hands over mine until I was tall enough to take the wheel myself. I've learned the feel of the water beneath the bow, and how the steamboats respond to touch.” Pride and passion made her voice stronger. “The Mississippi is a treacherous river, full of snags and sandbars, constantly changing, but I've studied the maps. I could get your troops and supplies safely to wherever you wish to go.”

“So can my men.” Remy reached out and grasped her wrist gently, his fingers hot on her delicate skin. “Why should I trust you?”

She felt as if they were the only two people in the room, even though she was aware of the many eyes turned toward them. His thumb lightly caressed the soft skin of her wrist while his eyes bored into hers. Finding words became difficult. Holding onto a coherent thought seemed impossible, and yet, she tried.

“Trusting me is your issue, but you didn't seem to have this problem when you asked me to continue maintaining my boats.” She heard the trembling in her own voice and her frustration grew, with him, and with herself. “Let me make it perfectly clear to you, Major. I will never let harm come to my boats. Or anyone who happens to be aboard them. To you, they are a means to an end, simple transportation, but to me, they are a way of life. This house was built with the money those steamboats provided, this dress was bought, these dishes, the very chairs you sit upon were purchased through the benefits of my steamers.”