Outlaw for Christmas (9781101573020) (25 page)

He pulled his hand free of her shirt, and Cat had to stop herself from snatching it back. What was he doing?

She spun, clapping a palm to either side of Alexi's head, narrowly missing the boxing of his ears—she was out of practice at the art of grabbing a man with anything other than violence—and yanked his mouth to hers.

One of Alexi's first rules: If you give an audience what they want, they don't look beneath the surface for the how or the why or the what. Therefore, Cat hoped if she gave the posse what they wanted now—a peek at what they thought would be happening later—they could quit dragging their feet and
vete!—

Go!

She also wanted them to leave with the picture of Alexi and his Mexican peasant woman foremost in their mind. They would imagine what occurred after the lowering of the curtain—or in this case the tent flap—and they would forget about Cat O'Banyon. If not forever, at least for the time it would take the three of them to disappear. However, as Alexi's lips touched hers, Cat was the one who forgot things. Or perhaps she merely remembered.

The taste of his tongue—iced whiskey, maybe wine. Its texture worn satin—smooth, familiar—both comfortable and infinitely exotic. Her hands gentled, her fingers sliding into his hair, one lock curling about the base of her thumb, then fluttering against her wrist, causing gooseflesh to race up her arms, across her chest, down her back.

His tongue withdrew, and she nipped his lip in case he was thinking of following it. Instead, he trailed kisses to her neck, her shoulder, the warmth of that clever mouth burning every last shiver away. He'd always known exactly what she needed. Alexi knew what everyone needed before they even knew it themselves.

His lips brushed the tops of her breasts; his hands skated the backs of her legs, pausing when they encountered nothing but skin. “You were short on Mexican peasant woman drawers,” she murmured into his hair.

“Do Mexican peasant women wear drawers?” he whispered, breath casting across the damp trail left by his mouth.

“You would know.”

“Perhaps.”

She smiled at the words, lips curving against the top of his head like a caress. Typical Alexi, to agree but never to answer. She thought back on the times she'd asked him questions about himself. Had he ever told her anything at all?

His tongue slipped beneath the bodice of the blouse, sliding over a nipple, and for just an instant her mind went blank.

She fought her way free. She could not afford to let her body cloud her thoughts. Better if Alexi's body clouded his. Best to keep him off balance. It was the only way to remain in control.

“They're gone,” she murmured and stepped back, crossing the tent as if she hadn't just been clasped desperately in his arms and wishing she never had to leave them.

Keep reading for a special excerpt from a beloved title by Lori Austin writing as Lori Handeland, available as an eBook for the first time

WHEN MORNING COMES

Available now from InterMix

Several moments passed before Seth Torrance realized the pounding in his head was echoed by a pounding on his bedroom door. Groaning, he turned away from the sound, only to get a faceful of blazing sunlight.

What time
was
it?

“Major?” The voice on the other side of the door was familiar. Nevertheless, four years away from home, combined with at least four glasses of whiskey, made Seth's mind a muddle.

“Sir? Your mother requests your presence at the dinner table.”

Dinner? Damn.
He'd slept through breakfast—again. His mother would not be amused. But she so rarely was.

Honoria Simons Torrance found precious little to laugh about in this world. Once, Seth had wondered why his mother never smiled. The war had changed that. Now he found precious little to smile about either.

“Major?”

The identity of the speaker came to Seth with such blinding clarity he winced, or maybe that was just the sun in his eyes.

Beckworth. The butler.

Seth had known the man for years. Why couldn't he seem to recall anything clearly from the time before he'd put on the Union blue? Perhaps because the four years he'd spent at war were so much more vivid to him than anything the present had to offer.

More horrible, true, but the shouting, the shooting, the crying, the dying still lived in his mind and in his dreams. Seth had hoped to recover at home, in a place that he knew, surrounded by those who cared about him. Instead, he'd only gotten worse.

“There's a letter for you, sir,” Beckworth continued as if Seth had answered. “From Virginia.”

Virginia? The only person he knew in Virginia was—

Seth sat up. The room spun. The cannons boomed inside his head. He wanted to lie down and stay there forever. But Beckworth had at last lit on the one thing that would get him out of bed so early in the afternoon.

Henry.
His best friend from their days at West Point. When they'd graduated twelve years ago, Seth had returned to the North, Henry to the South. By then the tensions that would lead to the war had already begun to rear their ugly heads. Seth hadn't seen or heard from Henry since. He'd often thought of him, wondered where he was, how he was.

Now the war was over and Henry had contacted him. For the first time in years, Seth looked forward to something—opening that letter.

Gritting his teeth against the pain in his head, Seth stumbled across the room and opened the door. “Hand it over.”

Beckworth's long nose twitched and his nearly nonexistent lips tightened. But he said nothing.

Seth hadn't shaved for several days; he hadn't bathed either. He'd slept in his clothes and fed his nightmares with whiskey. He must look as awful as he felt, and that wasn't easy.

When Beckworth continued to stare at him without moving, Seth snatched the missive from the gold tray perched on the butler's gloved hand. He wanted to sneer at the uselessness of it all, but he'd discovered one thing in the last four years. Sometimes honor and tradition were all that stood between being a man or a monster. Funny, but at times they were what made a man into a monster, as well.

Seth shook off the memories and glanced at the envelope. He frowned. The letter wasn't from Henry, after all, but from an attorney named Arthur Blair. Seth didn't know him. He had a feeling he didn't want to.

Ignoring Beckworth, who hovered in the hall waiting for . . . Seth wasn't sure what, he tore open the envelope. As if they had a premonition of the words contained therein, his fingers trembled as he withdrew the paper.

May 1, 1865

Dear Major Torrance:

I regret to inform you of the death of your friend Henry Elliot at Saylor's Creek.

However, I would not be writing you this letter had not his wife, Georgina, followed him to our Lord yesterday following the birth of his child.

Mr. Elliot's final wish was that you, Major, become the guardian of all that was his. His will and testament in this regard are in my keeping.

Please come posthaste to the Elliot farm outside of Winchester in Frederick County, Virginia.

Sincerely,

Arthur Blair

Attorney at Law

The trembling in Seth's fingers spread throughout his body. He collapsed into the nearest chair.

“Major? Sir? Bad news? Shall I—”

Seth slammed the door on Beckworth's questions. Blessed silence filled the room. Too bad his head still pounded with the force of Confederate artillery.

Henry was gone. Seth found the tidings hard to believe, despite the hundreds of thousands of casualties. But then his friend had always been so much more alive than anyone else.

Henry laughed louder, rode harder, shot straighter. At West Point, he'd been near the top of their class, while Seth had wallowed near the middle. Of course, when the call came to war, it hadn't mattered where they'd placed on the list. Hell, look at Custer. Autie had finished at the bottom of the pile and it hadn't hurt him any.

But to lose Henry at Saylor's Creek—a horrible battle so near the end of a horrible war . . .

Seth got to his feet, crossed the room and reached for the whiskey again. But instead of drinking, he peered out the window, ignoring the pain in his eyes and his head, intensified by the bright and shiny sun. He stared at the loud and boisterous streets of Boston; he didn't really see them.

He had been at Saylor's Creek, too. Had one of his bullets ended Henry's life? Seth would never know, so he would always wonder.

He thought back to the glory days before the war, back when everything had been simple, back when honor and duty didn't get men killed. He and Henry had been as different as two friends could be—one a Boston-bred, wealthy Yankee, the other a Virginia-born, land-rich, money-poor farmer—but they had agreed on two things: Duty raised men above the beasts and honor elevated mere men to heroes.

Did he still believe that? Seth wasn't sure. But there was something he did believe. True friends were forever. Henry had entrusted him with his most precious possessions, his child and his farm.

Seth placed the bottle back on his nightstand untasted, then called for a bath. He couldn't very well go to Virginia like this.

***

“Seth, I forbid you to leave.” Honoria Simons Torrance turned away, expecting her orders to be followed without argument. They always were. “It's time you took the helm of this family and the business.”

Seth stifled a sigh. His father had died when he was ten, and his mother had taken control of the munitions plant that had been in her family for generations. She'd done well. But now she wanted Seth to assume her position, and he didn't think that he could.

Not because he didn't know the business. He'd spent several years learning it when he'd returned home from his extended tour of Europe, which had followed his graduation from West Point. But four years spent seeing what a bullet could do to a person had cured Seth of any desire to make them. Not to mention that the first time he'd set foot in the plant upon his return, the sheer volume of the noise had left him pale and shaking. He'd excused himself as ill, and he hadn't been back since.

“You've been doing fine, Mother.”

“Of course I have, but what will people think? You come home, hide in your room, then abscond to Virginia. I can just imagine what they're saying about us.”

His mother had always cared more for what people thought than what he needed. Seth couldn't really fault her for it. She'd been raised to look lovely, pour tea, and have children—then turn them over to others. Once his father had died, she'd had a business to run, and she'd done so with the same determination she did everything else.

Now she'd determined that it was time for Seth to assume his responsibilities. She'd even chosen him the perfect wife in the form of Sophie Beck, a Boston-bred heiress he'd had occasion to meet only once. He could barely recall Sophie's face, which didn't endear him to the prospect. He ought to remember the single meeting he'd had with the woman he was expected to marry.

“It's far too dangerous in the South,” his mother continued. “Wait a few years until the army gets things straightened out. Then it'll be a fine place for a holiday.” She returned her attention to the list of wedding guests.

With the war officially over but a month and certain Confederate stragglers continuing their lost fight in far reaches of the country such as Louisiana, Alabama, Mississippi, even Texas, Seth understood his mother's concern. For a former Union officer to travel alone into what had been so recently enemy territory was ill-advised, to say the least. But then he hadn't exactly been a model of sanity since his return.

“I'll be fine, Mother. I managed to survive the war. I can manage a quick trip to Virginia.”

Even if he hadn't been managing much but a bottle lately.

“Quick?” She frowned at him over the tops of her spectacles. “How quick?”

“Only as long as it takes me to find out what I'm dealing with, then make some arrangements for the child and the farm. Shouldn't be more than a month all told.”

“You're supposed to be married in two months.”

Seth rubbed at the pain that had sprung up again behind his eyes. He had not agreed to marry Sophie, hadn't asked her, didn't know her. But typically his mother rolled right over any obstacle in her path by ignoring it. She wanted him to marry Sophie and provide grandchildren, so she merely arranged the wedding.

And Seth, who couldn't bring himself to feel much of anything these days beyond panic, had let her.

“I am
not
marrying Sophie in two months, Mother.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I'm not saying I won't get married. I'm not even saying I won't marry Sophie. But I'd like to have some say in the rest of my life. Right now, I have a duty to honor Henry's last request.”

It felt good to say no. He'd have to try it more often.

Her lips pursed. “You have a duty to your father's legacy. Your loyalty should be to this family, not to some Rebel who got himself killed.”

“I highly doubt he got himself killed. The Union army probably had a bit to do with it.”

“So you feel guilty? That's foolish.”

Seth did feel guilty. But that was beside the point. “I have a duty to Henry,” he repeated. “I'm honor bound to go. I'll be back in a month.”

By ignoring his mother and plowing ahead with what he meant to do—a trait he'd learned from the master—Seth was able to leave the very same day.

Since the railroad lines had been disrupted—a fancy word for torn apart and thrown away—throughout Virginia, Seth rode his horse toward Frederick County.

The roads were filled with soldiers headed for home in both directions. Seth was polite to those he met, but he didn't tarry to chat. As he continued south, the men he encountered were thinner, more bedraggled, less friendly. He couldn't say he blamed them, but he wasn't turning back.

Though he'd done his duty, Seth had never been able to see the Confederate army as a true enemy. The faces on the other side of the war were just like his. One day they'd been countrymen, the next they'd been killing each other. He'd found it hard to fathom. As a result, any animosity he might have carried for “them” had faded with the treaty signed at Appomatox Courthouse. Sadly, he couldn't say the same for so many others.

Seth reached Winchester near dusk, considered staying in town and riding out to the farm the next morning. However, the narrowed eyes and murmurs of “Yankee” when he passed convinced Seth to continue on his way.

But which way?

Though asking directions was near the bottom of the list of things he wanted to do, getting lost in the countryside with a passel of gun-toting Yankee haters was even lower.

Seth stopped at what looked to be a general store, though no sign was visible. A young boy and an even younger girl stared at him with more curiosity than hostility—an improvement over the rest of the onlookers.

Seth adjusted his observation on their lack of hostility when the boy sneered, “Yank,” in lieu of a greeting.

Seth decided to ignore that. What choice did he have? “Could you direct me to the Elliot farm?”

“Could,” the boy said and fell silent.

“Would you?” he pressed.

“Whatcha want with them?”

“I'm a friend of the family.”

The boy snorted. “Sure ye are.”

Seth reined in his impatience. He would have to get used to being treated like the enemy. Here, he still was.

“Regardless,” Seth continued, “I've been asked to come there. If you can't direct me, I'll find someone who can.”

The boy smirked. “Nah. I can tell you where it is.”

“But, Billy—”

The kid punched the little girl in the arm. They must be related. She swallowed what she'd been about to say.

“Go directly down this road.” Billy gestured with a grubby finger, “'bout two miles and you'll see a lane to the right. That'll take you to the house.”

“Thank you.” Seth hesitated. “Out of curiosity, how did you know I was a Yankee before I even opened my mouth?”

Billy spit into the dirt directly in front of Seth's horse. “You got shoes and a horse that ain't been et.”

Seth couldn't think of anything to say to that, so he nodded goodbye and headed out of town.

Things were worse in Virginia than he'd anticipated. Of course, being in the Union army was a far cry from being in the Confederate. As Billy had pointed out, the North had shoes and food. The men who'd worn the gray had run out of both long ago. So what did that mean for the civilians ravaged by two armies for so long?

By the time Seth reached the Elliot farm, the sun had disappeared. Stars sparked to life with a brilliance he had not seen since his nights in the field. That had been the only good thing about those times, the purity of the sky above the sacrilege below.