Rescuing Mr. Gracey (14 page)

Neighbors began to notice the financial decline of the respected family.
Ridiculous,
they shouted. “Yar acres are not fit for sheep,” they’d said while shaking disapproving heads.

But last night’s torrential rain had delivered the final blow. The arrival of the midnight storm turned previously prepared soil into riverbeds teeming with rocks. Joseph’s five acres was little more than a muddy mess.

Mary shivered, pulling her gaze from her father, who stood a short distance from her, looking old and defeated. The dream was dead, but no one had the courage to say it aloud. She wanted to howl and scream and run far, far from regrets and her mother’s terror and her own lost dreams. She longed to find a dark and secret place and curl into a tight ball, ignoring the needs of the pitiful land and desperate country.

Instead, blinking furiously, she tilted her chin and forbade her tears to fall.
Don’t think of it now, Mary Smyth.
Raising the slivered spade, she slammed the broken tool into earth. Pain jarred her shoulders and knifed her hand when the spade collided with a rock hidden beneath the mud. A numbing tingle from the impact shot up her arms and down her back.

Frustration built toward a tantrum. Looking up at the blaze of the sun, Mary fought the urge to shake her fist.
Lord, can ya send us any more crosses this day?
Grimacing, she shoved fallen, sweaty hair back into her stained cap and bent over to claw at the muddy earth. “Ya think yar gonna defeat me, do ya?” she muttered to the enemy, the sloppy rock.

A shadow covered her bent form. She paused, at first thinking it a cloud.

“Top of the morning.”

She cringed. Sticky, hot, filthy with mud, Mary straightened. Though a straw hat covered his facial features, Mr. Jordan towered over her. The sun beamed behind him as if he were a glorious angel so that all she could clearly see was the light muslin shirt that contrasted with his dark neck and chest.

Shading her eyes with her hand, she noted he was leaning against a mule, his feet crossed at the ankle, his hand slung across the animal’s neck. Her gaze was drawn down to his long fingers that stroked the animal’s coat with hypnotic slowness.

Pulling her attention back, Mary dropped her hand and straightened her chin. She could almost feel the pop of each dreaded freckle upon her sun-burned nose as indignant heat fired her face. She didn’t want him to see her like this. Overwhelmed, vulnerable, defeated.

Beneath the shadow of his hat, she saw his lips curve into an amused smile. When she realized she was the source of his entertainment, her temper flared. Why did he never take her seriously? Straightening stooped shoulders, she batted at her hair with muddy hands.

“I thought we decided ya’d not be comin’.” Her Irish brogue betrayed her.

“Did we?” Like chocolate, his voice melted over her and curled her toes. “I don’t recall that, Miss Smyth.”

HH Her breath panted in the too warm air. “Aye…aye, we did. I’m sure of it.”

She wasn’t sure of it at all, of course, but she was quite certain she didn’t want him here, now, witnessing her bad mood.

His lips moved into a slow, dangerous curl that fluttered her stomach. “I’m here to have a chat.”

Stop. Mary. Ya must stop.
“I’ve no time for a chat, sir,” she snapped. Placing her hands on her hips, she gave him what she hoped was an intimidating scowl. “I’ve work t’ do, in case ya haven’t noticed.”

He pushed the brim of his hat up with one long finger and released a magnetic blue gaze that locked on her eyes, then lowered and caressed her mouth.

Breathless, she stomped her foot. Already loosened hair now cascaded over her nose, tickling it and making her sneeze. “
Aaahchoo, choo, choo.
”
She batted the hair again and tapped her bare foot.

Tossing his head backward, he laughed heartily, then lowered his voice to a whisper. “Good thing I did not intend to chat with you, Miss Smyth.”

Mouth agape, she watched with stunned disbelief as he tipped his hat and swaggered toward her father, mule and plow in tow behind him. The odd stranger greeted her father and then began a conversation too low to overhear. Occasionally, he would point to something—a plow, the mule, the field—and then he pulled out a short, odd-looking tool that had a forklike prong on one end and a shovel-like shape on the other.

Conversation continued as Mr. Jordan demonstrated the tool by whacking the earth with the pronged side. Amazingly, through the thick mud, he managed to capture a rock and whip it to the pile of rocks that lined their property. Next, releasing a burlap sack from the back of the mule, Mr. Jordan scattered a pungent-smelling additive onto the earth. Vigorously, he forked the ground with the prong-like tool.

The lithe movement, the efficiency of his actions had her entranced. Unlike her father, he clearly knew what he was doing.

She told herself to look away, to concentrate on her own section, but her rebellious eyes would not obey. Oh, to be a bird upon the tree next to the two of them. However, when Mr. Jordan pointed at her, she gasped and whipped about.
What does he want with me?
Trembling, she kept her head down, pretending disinterest.

She admitted an ill-temper today, all caused by her lack of sleep last night.

Battling with herself, she had tossed about the straw mat, trying to make sense of Mr. Jordan’s attention toward her. Of course, every girl dreamed of such a man—handsome, funny, romantic…

But men like Mr. Jordan just
did not
court impoverished laundresses. He was beyond her social status, above her education. Besides, he was dangerous—he could crush her family’s life, such as it was, or worse, topple her weak hopes for a future with Sean without even giving the destruction a second thought.

As she peeked at the pair of men once more, the most disturbing question loomed bigger than ever.
Why?
Why would a man with a mule and fertilizer seek out a Catholic tenant farmer who clearly did not know how to farm his worthless field?

An idea, so ugly, too horrifying struck her. Mary inhaled as she whispered the answer.
A spy!

Her heart clenched. Of course!
Mr. Jordan spies for the Protestant landowners who want revenge for last year’s victory
.

Rigid as the rock beneath her, she clenched her muddy hand into a fist. Scattered questions now seemed answered by one logical and clever picture of betrayal.

His assignment was to enchant the skinny, impoverished daughter of a Catholic rebel—waltzing under the moonlight, gallantly escorting her on deliveries, feeding her cider, comforting her with hugs and umbrellas, even sacrificing his own warmth—all to gain a reasonable trust from the father.

What a fool ya are, Mary Smyth.
She closed her eyes, the hot light of understanding burning too brightly. How he must have laughed at the ease of his assignment. And now, this morning, the threat had entered into her father’s life.

She bit her lip.
You knew it all along. A man like him could not be interested in you…

Mary watched her father laugh, his face glowing with hope, his defenses obviously lowered.

Oh, what a charmer ya are, Mr. Jordan.
Persuading Da with tools and chemicals—all calculated to win over a desperate man—her poor father did not have a chance.
What slimy treachery. Poor Da’s going to allow Mr. Jordan to prop up his collapsed dream.

Mary gripped the slivery wood of the spade, ignoring the bite in her palm as she imagined slapping Mr. Jordan’s clove-scented face all the way back to Castlewellan.

Anger brewed into a blaze as she glared at the stranger.
I’ll no’ let Mister Blue Eyes play his little game.
Thinking he could wiggle his way into me very life
—
good-looking or no
—
just so he may use me da for spyin’.

She narrowed her eyes, watching the two men clasp hands in agreement just before they started toward her.

She panicked. Whatever the agreement, their plan involved her.

“Mary, darlin’,” her father said as he approached. “Mr. Jordan here has a grand scheme.” Her father’s smile, too wide, too optimistic, scraped her insides.

Lowering her brows into a fierce frown, she tried to give her father silent warning about her new discovery.

Joseph’s smile dropped, confusion racing across his face. “His education has allowed for extensive knowledge about the proper way to get great yields of flax. You and I have not been going about it quite proper.”

Fisting her hands, she placed them upon her hips. Glaring at Mr. Jordan, she then shook her head at her father.

Joseph hesitated, rubbing his chin before pointing toward the mule across the field. “Mr. Jordan’s going to help prepare the land with his steel plow—fresh from the Americas—and a new fertilizer used by all the best farms called ‘superphosphate.’”

She gritted her teeth into a sort of snarl and gave her most severe frown.

Joseph’s words tumbled out more rapidly. “Mr. Jordan believes we need to sift the seed since we are unsure of the quality. ’Tis good news, Mary darlin’. I’m sending you home to sift with
Máthair
and the two young ’uns.”

Huffing, she rolled her eyes. Her father refused to take her warning seriously.

“Meanwhile, Mr. Jordan and I will get rid of the terrible rocks before fertilizing. We’ll be planted by week’s end. Is that not grand?”

“And may I ask, Da, how does Mr. Jordan profit from this glorious plan?” Mary snapped.

Joseph’s brow furrowed, and his tone sharpened. “He’s a partner in the venture and will make assurances that the harvest yields the greatest price. He’ll take a small percentage of that.”

Disappointed that her father—highly educated and intelligent, a leader in the community—could be so stupid, Mary folded her arms. “And ya trust him, Da? A lad ye’ve only just met?” Waving an agitated hand toward Mr. Jordan, she continued. “And are ya sayin’ we have enough income to be sharin’ with a man who clearly does no’ need it?”

“Mary!” Joseph’s voice commanded obedience. He shifted his weight, clearly dismayed by the surprising anger and words. “Mind your manners.” She heard the pleading in his voice.

Mr. Jordan, seemingly unaffected by her insults, pulled a handkerchief from his shirt pocket—
her handkerchief
—and wiped a glop of mud from her forehead and nose.

Aghast, she felt her eyes widen, her face blush. Her jaw fell slack, all rebukes clogged like a logjam in a river.

Mr. Jordan winked, then smiled. “If you’ve no objection, we may begin our work after the noon hour.” Unbelievably, he tucked
her
handkerchief into his pocket, then continued issuing orders. “In the meanwhile, I’ll carry these bags to your house and instruct the ladies on the preferred way of sifting out inferior seed.”

“Aye, I’m excited to take on the rocks with that fine tool,” Joseph said with a short chuckle of relief before extending his hand. “’Twill be a fine allegiance, Mr. Jordan.”

“Alec, please, sir.”

“Joseph to ya.”

Mary, all but ignored, tossed her cracked spade to the ground and stomped across the field. “Of all the outrageous arrogance,” she mumbled.
“Bossing everyone around. Taking over the planting…pocketing the family profit all the while spying on Da.”

Her arms swung wildly as she muttered to herself. “Wiping my face like I’m nothin’ but a dirty infant…with me very own kerchief.” She pumped a fist as she imagined whacking the handsome man’s smile right off his face. “I refuse to be takin’ instruction from the likes of Mr. Alexander Jordan.”

After marching into the house, she grabbed a clean dress and her soap along with the remaining laundry. “I’m going to the lake,” she said to her stunned mother just before she slammed through the cottage door.

She dumped the laundry into the cart, then jerked the vehicle from the side of the house. Once more shoving fallen hair from her face, she flew toward the forest shortcut. Absolutely and completely, any further contact with the double-crossing, untrustworthy, underhanded spy would be halted
. No more trembling, nervous, tummy-tumbling feelings either, Mary Smyth.

She glanced back. No sign of the man.

By the time Alec had instructed her mother on proper sifting techniques—and likely spread his wisdom on how to tend children and cook a meal as well—he would not have time to bother her at the lake.

Besides, now that he had her father’s trust, he no longer needed to pretend an interest in her.

And that was perfectly fine.

She pressed her lips tight.
Really, really fine.

Let him use those long, smooth hands to pull rocks. Let those broad shoulders and strong legs strain and cramp from driving a mule through her father’s untilled land.

A mischievous smile crossed her lips. Why not? She did try to warn him about the hard work.

Her mood improved as she imagined an exhausted, dirt-covered Mr. Jordan. Aye, let him use his expensive fertilizer to nourish the field. And then, tonight, after Mr. Jordan had allowed her father to use his fine tools and mule, she would explain about how she knew him to be an impostor.

Then a plan would be made.

They might even decide to let Mr. Jordan finish his work on the field. Perhaps even feed him false information. And then, when all was planted, scoot him off to his aristocratic fools.