“I’ll live the rest of my life wondering what it would have been like….”

Her arm swept toward the shaded, grassy lawn. “I almost wish I hadn’t stopped you,” she whispered.

“Would you stop me now?” So softly she could barely hear the words, he whispered temptation in her ear. Leaning forward, ignoring the hand she thrust against his chest, he bent to her, his breath warm against her face.

She shivered, beguiled by the thought of his hands against her skin, lured by the dark splendor of his scarred face, enticed by the image of their coming together. And then she thought of the emptiness she would face, once she’d known the joy of loving Shay, only to have him walk away. It stretched before her, and she closed her eyes against the pain.

“Could you do that? Take everything I’ve offered you—and then walk away from me?”

Praise for Carolyn Davidson’s recent works

The Midwife

“…an earthy, emotional love story, peopled with unforgettable characters.”

—Affaire de Coeur

The Tender Stranger

“Davidson wonderfully captures gentleness in the midst of heart-wrenching challenges, portraying the extraordinary possibilities that exist within ordinary marital love.”

—Publishers Weekly

The Wedding Promise

“…a tense, involving love story…a beautiful, old-fashioned romance with a charmingly sensuous touch.”

—Romantic Times Magazine

The Seduction of Shay Devereaux

Harlequin Historical #556

#555 ONE KNIGHT IN VENICE

Tori Phillips

#557 GALLANT WAIF

Anne Gracie

#558 NIGHT HAWK’S BRIDE

Jillian Hart

The Seduction of Shay Devereaux
Carolyn Davidson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Available from Harlequin Historicals and CAROLYN DAVIDSON

Gerrity’s Bride #298

Loving Katherine #325

The Forever Man #385

Runaway #416

The Wedding Promise #431

The Tender Stranger #456

The Midwife #475

*The Bachelor Tax #496

*Tanner Stakes His Claim #513

One Christmas Wish #531

*“Wish Upon A Star”

Maggie’s Beau #543

The Seduction of Shay Devereaux #556

*Edgewood, Texas

Because you read whatever I hand you,

and give me your unbiased opinion…

Because you clean up my messes when

I’m running behind schedule…

Because you cook for my family

when I invite you for dinner…

Because we share a love of books

and discuss them by the hour…

Because you call me “friend”…

This book is dedicated to you, Betty Barrs

And to the man who tells me

he loves me every single day…

I love you, too, Mr. Ed

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Prologue

The hand reached for him. Cold, skeletal fingers wrapped around his wrist with unbelievable strength. Shrinking from the grasp, Shay groaned aloud, and the sound of his own voice wakened him. He sat upright on the narrow bed, his eyes searching the darkness, his breathing harsh and rapid.

A dream…another nightmare. The second this week. And yet, more than a dream, for the memories evoked by that groping hand were all too valid. All too painfully real.

Rolling from his bed, he stalked to the open window, looking out upon the thick greenery hedging his hideaway. Moss hung from oak trees, silver in the moonlight, and the grass held glistening drops of moisture, where dew lay heavy on each blade. It must be nearly dawn, he decided, resting one hand on the wide window frame.

He watched as an owl spread wide wings, swooping soundlessly across the span of sky between barn and trees. Dangling prey hung from sharp talons, and Shay felt a strange affinity for the hapless creature. His low chuckle was without amusement, holding instead dark shreds of bitter remembrance. He knew only too well the feeling of being captured, of the torment endured as soul and body were torn asunder, until all that remained was a shell of manhood, its essence swept up in hours and days of misery. He closed his eyes and saw another glimpse of that place called Elmira.

Another name for Hell.

Men with little to live for had been freed at the end of the conflict. He counted himself among that number. Some, with wives and children awaiting their return, had been buried beneath the northern soil. One of them, Carl Pennington, had been his friend, his commanding officer. During the time they served together, they’d discovered their families lived less than a hundred miles apart. Taken prisoners during the same battle, Shay had survived. Carl had not lived to be released.

He’d given Shay his last bits of food, aware that his own life was fast ebbing, yet grimly determined that Shay should survive. And survive he had, kept alive by another man’s sacrifice.

“Promise me, Gaeton.” Death molded Carl’s features, yet he’d struggled to breathe. The same fever had killed many, perhaps hundreds, in this camp. But Carl’s strength lay in his love for the wife and child he’d left behind.

“Promise me, Gaeton.” Again he’d demanded the pledge, and Shay’s heart plunged within him as he recalled the answer he’d given.

“Gaeton Devereaux died the day he walked into this prison,” he’d muttered. “I’m not sure there’s enough of him left to make a promise.”

“Take care of them.” Carl had gasped the words with his last breath, and Shay’s hand had closed the staring eyes. Shay looked out upon the darkness, reliving once more that hellish day. Remembering the promise he’d refused to make. It had haunted him for four years. As had the man who’d trusted him.

“Damn you, Carl.” The curse breathed softly upon the humid air and Shay bent his head in surrender.

For four years he’d sought peace, making his way from one town to another, one ranch to the next, regretting the words he’d swallowed, the promise he’d refused to give. He’d managed to win more hands of poker than any man had a right to claim, and found his ease with less than a handful of women. And all the wandering had brought him back to where he’d begun. Louisiana…where his family lived and worked the home place. Louisana…where Carl Pennington’s wife and child lived from hand to mouth, or so he’d heard only yesterday.

Here where Shay’s name had been Gaeton Devereaux.

The curse he’d spoken was beyond recall. Ahead of him waited the task he would undertake, the promise he would finally speak aloud, and honor.

“Rest in peace, Carl,” he whispered. “I promise you. I’ll do what I can.”

Chapter One

March, 1869

Four years. She’d given herself four years, measuring the days since the letter had come, telling her of Carl’s death. At first, when his horse had carried him away, she’d been hopeful. Sure he would return, the battle won. Soon, he’d come back to her and the long days and nights would be in the past.

Her laughter was bitter as she recalled her youthful optimism. For close to six years now, she’d struggled. Struggled against impossible odds, enough to scatter every lovely dream to the four winds. At first, in those early days, she’d been optimistic, vowing to put her shoulder to the wheel, as her father used to say, and make a success of the plantation. And then the awful letter had come, and that day she’d stiffened her spine and vowed to give herself four more years to make a profit and gain a foothold on that elusive thing called success.

No more. She’d run out of time. Jenny Pennington lifted a hand to her brow, her gaze seeking the horizon. The field before her was the brilliant green of early hay, ready for reaping. Three men worked in tandem, swinging scythes in a rhythm that seemed to depend on the song they sang, a mournful tune that tugged at her emotions.

She turned away, her strides long as she headed for the wagon, anxious to flee from the harmony, that minor key that spoke of betrayal and sorrow. Her skirt caught on the wagon wheel and she muttered a word beneath her breath as she tugged it free.

“That’s one of those words you told me not to say, Mama.” From behind the wagon seat, the voice of her son admonished her.

“You’ll get soap on your tongue if you try it,” she warned him. “I won’t have you using vile language, Marshall Pennington.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured agreeably.

Jenny picked up the reins and glanced over her shoulder. He was tall for a boy just a few months past his fifth birthday, and his grin met her gaze. “I won’t say it again, either,” she told the boy. The leathers cracked over the broad backs of her team and the wagon jolted into motion.

Behind her the sound faded, muffled by the trees surrounding her, carried by the breeze toward the east. “Are we gonna eat dinner pretty soon?” Marshall asked. On his knees now, he leaned against the back of the wagon seat, one hand clutching her shoulder.

“As soon as we get back to the house,” she told him. “Isabelle will have it ready for us.” And for that she could be grateful. Three men and one woman remained of the workers that had kept the Pennington Plantation in order.

No wonder the crops shrank every year, the house sat empty, but for the four rooms they used. The entire top floor was vacant, the furniture long since sold at auction, and for a pittance at that. Bare spots on the wallpaper bore silent witness to pieces of art she’d sacrificed for seed and wages. Using what little of value she had available, she’d bartered and bargained, until this spring, when her favorite portrait had purchased cotton seed for planting, and food staples enough to last through the summer.

She’d cried that night, sobbed into her pillow, stifling the sound so that Isabelle would not hear. For too long, she’d struggled. For too many days she’d worked in the fields. For too many nights she’d held Carl’s pillow against her barren body, yearning for the warmth of his embrace.

And for what? Her long years of work and sacrifice had earned her but a respite from the inevitable end. For whatever it was worth, Pennington Plantation would be sold. Once the crops were harvested this year, once the cotton was weighed and sold, the plantation house and the acres surrounding it would be put up for auction to the highest bidder.

I’m sorry, Carl. She’d whispered those words more times than she could count. And now, for the last time, she repeated them aloud. “I’m sorry, Carl.”

“Are you talkin’ to my papa?” Marshall asked in her ear.

A smile teased at Jenny’s lips. “You’ll think your mama is daft, sweetheart. And yes, I was talkin’ to your papa.”

“What are you sorry for, Mama?” The boy climbed over the wagon seat, teetering precariously atop the backboard until he gained his balance and plopped beside his mother.

“You wouldn’t understand,” she told him. “Matter of fact, I don’t understand it myself.” And wasn’t that the truth. It seemed that hard work should somehow be rewarded in this life, but thus far, she hadn’t found the end of her particular rainbow. Maybe her reward was to be in the rearing of this small boy, the best part of her inheritance.

The house loomed before them, windows gleaming in the sunlight. Isabelle was a great believer in cleanliness. Windows and floors got a weekly going-over, and one expense Jenny was not allowed to scrimp on was the purchase of vinegar for window washing and the preserving of pickles, and thick bars of soap for laundry and cleaning. Strange that her household should be run by the dictates of a former slave, Jenny thought. Former slave and best friend, she amended silently. Almost her only friend, actually. A woman alone was not welcomed in polite company, and a widow living hand-to-mouth was not often included on what few guest lists existed these days.

Marshall jumped from the wagon as she drew it to a halt near the house. “I’ll carry in the basket, Mama,” he said, running to the rear of the wagon bed.

Jenny climbed down quickly, lest Marshall should tug at the basket and send it flying to the ground. Always eager to help, he tended to rush headlong into things, and she was hard put sometimes to harness his energy. Today was no exception, and he danced impatiently as she rounded the back of the wagon.

“Hurry, Mama. Isabelle promised me a treat when we got back from takin’ dinner out to the men.” He reached for the handle and Jenny delivered it up to him, watching as he carried it to the house. “I’m here, Isabelle,” he called out. “Open the door for me.”

Jenny turned away, leading the mules to the barn, leaving Marshall in capable hands. She blinked in the shadows as the team halted just inside the wide doorway, and then she set to work unbuckling the harness. Sliding halters in place, she led the pair through the barn to the corral where she spent long minutes wiping them down. They gleamed in the sunlight, and she bent to examine their hooves, plucking a stray bit of stone from where it had lodged in one shoe.

“I don’t need you to go lame on me, Pretty Boy,” she murmured, rubbing at the bigger mule’s flank. He turned his head and nudged her shoulder. “I don’t have anything for you, sweetheart,” she told him, stepping to his head. “The carrots are about gone, and Isabelle wants what’s left for cooking.”

From behind her a horse nickered, announcing its arrival, and her team answered in unison. Jenny turned quickly, leaning back against the jack, looking up in surprise. Company was rare, and since the end of the war, what few men meandered by were not always kindly. She’d learned to carry a gun with her, or at least have one close at hand, but right now the nearest thing to a weapon was in the tack room.

A man sat astride a black horse, bending his head to move beneath the open doorway. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, a large pistol was holstered against his thigh. To the left side of his saddle, just touching his hip, a scabbard held a long gun, probably a rifle, she thought. And yet he was relaxed in the saddle, both hands visible, fingers curved against the pommel of his saddle.

“Jenny Pennington?” he asked. His gaze was penetrating, his eyes shaded by the brim of his hat, and his voice deep, almost rasping. No trace of a drawl softened his words, and no smile curved those wide lips.

“Yes,” she answered curtly. “I’m Mrs. Pennington.” And if he wanted to take her mules, or the lone horse that grazed in the pasture, or rummage through the house for whatever booty he might find, she would forever curse her lack of caution today.

“Was your husband named Carl?” At her nod, he glanced behind him, through the barn, toward the house. As if he were determined to be in the right place, he mentioned the facts that made up the boundaries of her life. “And is the boy yours?”

She nodded. “What do you want with me?” Her voice came out sharper than she’d intended. The mention of Carl’s name did that to her, put her on the defensive and brought resentment to the surface. As much as she’d loved him, and loved him still, she reminded herself. The fact that he’d gone to war and left her to cope with impossible odds was enough to make her angry whenever she thought about it. And lately, she’d thought about it a lot.

He slid from the horse’s back in an easy motion that did little to reassure her, dropping the reins to the ground. His horse stood, immobile but for an ear that flicked, and then was still. Before her, the man was sleek and agile, garbed in dark clothing. He looked…threatening. It was the only word she could think of to describe him.

There was about him an almost tangible sense of menace, a glimpse of danger in the depths of dark eyes visible beneath a wide-brimmed hat. It shadowed his face, but could not conceal the scar that slashed one cheek from jawbone to temple. White against deeply tanned skin, it proclaimed a message of danger, of battles fought, and apparently won, since the man wearing it was alive. And, she’d warrant, there were those who’d died at his hand.

His gaze raked her, measuring and weighing, and she stiffened, squaring her shoulders. “What do you want?” she repeated. “There’s not much left here if you’re looking for a handout.”

She thought one corner of his mouth lifted, a faint sign of amusement, and then he shook his head. “Carl sent me.”

A rush of heat rose to envelop her, and she drew in a trembling breath. “What are you talking about? Carl is dead. He died in the north, in a prison camp.”

Her visitor nodded. “I know. I was with him.”

“You knew him? You were there when he died?” The words sounded fragile, as if they might disappear on a breath of wind, and she gasped for air, filling her lungs.

He stepped closer and strong fingers gripped her elbow, steering her into the barn. She tottered, her legs barely holding her erect. A heavy piece of tree stump sat upright against the wall, providing a seat, and Jenny sank onto its surface, grateful that her trembling limbs needn’t carry her farther.

He crouched in front of her, one long finger nudging at his hat brim. Silent, unmoving, he watched her, and she drew in deep breaths, thankful for this short respite before Carl’s name would once more be spoken between them. A chill took her unaware, and her arms wrapped protectively around her waist as she bowed her head.

Closing her eyes, she blotted out his image, the black shirt, the gleaming dark hair, and the ragged scar. “Who are you?” The whisper was faint, but he responded with a single word.

“Shay.”

“Is that your last name?” she asked, looking up from beneath her lashes, aware suddenly that tears blurred her vision. She folded her hands atop her knees and straightened her shoulders, attempting to gain some small measure of control.

He shook his head. “No, but it doesn’t matter for now.”

“Tell me about him,” she said, embarrassed that her voice trembled.

“All right,” Shay began, his words a sigh, his voice bleak. “He had the fever, ma’am. A lot of men died from it. I only got sick with it, and lived to tell it. I was lucky.” And at those words he laughed, a rusty sound that held no humor. “I guess lucky isn’t the word for it.”

His fingers touched the back of her hand, barely moving against her skin. “You were married to a good man, Mrs. Pennington. When he died, his last thoughts were of you and your child.”

“My child? He never knew I’d had a boy? I wrote,” she said. “I sent letters after Marshall was born,” Her lips compressed and she struggled for control. “I never heard back from him.”

“We didn’t get much mail from home. He didn’t know if it was a boy or girl.”

Jenny looked up, aware now that tears fell without ceasing, yet unable to halt their flow. His fingers enveloped hers and she leaned toward the warmth, as though the hand that had touched Carl might yet carry some faint trace of the man she’d loved. Her indrawn breath caught a scent of leather and wood smoke from his clothing, an aroma of soap that lingered on his skin. A male essence that spoke to a part of her she’d thought long since dead.

“I’m sorry,” Jenny breathed, tugging her fingers from his grip. “I don’t usually fall apart this way. In fact,” she murmured, her breath trembling, “I thought I was all done with the mourning and the carrying-on.”

A shadow fell in the front entrance of the barn, and she looked up, catching a glimpse of a figure in the doorway. A shotgun held firmly before her, Isabelle watched in silence. Jenny shook her head, waving a hand reassuringly. “It’s all right,” she said, aware that the other woman feared for her well-being.

In one swift movement Shay rose and spun to face the threat, his hand falling to the butt of his revolver. One knee bent, he surveyed the dark-skinned woman, unmoving as Isabelle’s sharp gaze took stock. “You want to turn that barrel in another direction, ma’am?” he asked quietly.

Isabelle hesitated, then at another nod from Jenny, she turned the long gun, cradling it in her arms. “I didn’t know what was goin’ on out here, Jenny. Marshall come runnin’ in and said a man was in the barn with you.” She walked a few steps closer. “You been cryin’?”

Jenny shook her head. “No, not really.” Carefully she stood, willing her legs not to buckle. “Mr. Shay has come here with a message from…my husband.”

Isabelle snorted unbelievingly. “Mr. Carl’s been dead a long time, Jenny. If this fella’s got word for you, what took him so long to bring it?”

“I don’t know.” Jenny took a step, steadying herself, one hand touching the wall beside her. “We hadn’t even gotten to the message part.”

She turned to Shay. “Do you want to put your horse up and stay for a bite to eat? We’re about to have our noon meal. I’m sure Isabelle has enough for you to join us.”

He nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Jenny walked past him. “We’ll talk in the house.” Her mind spinning, she followed Isabelle from the barn, trudging across the yard, aware of the curiosity that hung between them.

Isabelle opened the door and Jenny walked past her into the kitchen. “What you s’pose he wants with you?” Isabelle asked, reaching high to place the gun over the door. Two pegs held it in place and Isabelle, satisfied that it was secure, stepped back. “I never seen a man so hard lookin’, Miss Jenny. There’s no give to him, not one little bit, is there?” She slanted a look from dark eyes, and Jenny caught a glimpse of fear within their soft depths.

“I’m not afraid of him,” she said quietly. She found another plate and placed it on the table, then reached for silverware from the drawer. “I think he’s ridden a long way to get here, probably had other things to see to before he set out to find me.”

“I’d think carryin’ a message from a dead man to his wife would rate pretty high up on the scale,” Isabelle said darkly. “You think he’s tellin’ the truth?”

The sound of boots on the porch caught Jenny’s ear and she shook her head at Isabelle. “Later,” she whispered, stepping to the kitchen cupboard to draw forth cups for coffee.

A pot sat on the back of the stove, and Isabelle lifted it, a folded dish towel protecting her hand from the hot handle. “Let’s see how strong this is, first off,” she said, pouring the dark liquid slowly.

“A little cream will do wonders,” Jenny told her.

“There’s a whole pitcherful already rose to the top from this morning’s milking,” Isabelle said. “I’ll pour it off and set some aside for your coffee. Thought I’d make rice pudding for supper. We got eggs aplenty.”

Jenny turned to the door, where Shay waited admission. “Come in, Mr.—”

“Just Shay,” he reminded her, opening the screen door and stepping into the kitchen. One hand lifted his hat, then held it, as he glanced around the room.

“You can hang it on a hook next to the pantry, if you like,” Jenny said. She watched as he crossed the room, met his gaze as he turned back to face her. “Coffee?” she asked, motioning to the table where two cups stood, steam rising.

He nodded, pulling out a chair. “Y’all help yourselves to fresh bread,” Isabelle said, her dark eyes intent on the visitor. From beneath a dish towel, she produced a plate, placing it between Jenny and their visitor. A small bowl containing butter was beside it, and a knife lay across the edge of the dish.

Jenny nodded at Shay. “Go ahead.”

He glanced at the sink in the corner. “You mind if I wash up?” At Jenny’s nod of agreement, he rose, then stepped to the drain board where a bucket of water rested, pouring a small amount into the wash pan. Isabelle provided a bowl of soft soap and a towel, and in moments, Shay was back at the table. “Thanks,” he murmured, picking up the knife and spreading butter across a slice of bread.

“Isabelle baked this morning,” Jenny told him, pouring cream in her coffee, then adding a heaping teaspoon of sugar. A bowl of stew appeared in the middle of the table and Jenny reached for the serving ladle. Shay nodded as she cast him an inquiring glance, and she served a generous portion on his plate.

The steam rose and he inhaled it, then spoke his satisfaction. “This is much appreciated, ma’m. I haven’t had a hot meal in a couple of days.” Picking up his fork, he stabbed a bite of potato and began eating. His gaze scanned the room, settling on Isabelle, who watched from near the stove. “You’ve already eaten?” he asked.

“When I fed Marshall.” Her answer was curt, but he seemed uncaring, returning to his food, picking up his cup to drink. After a few moments, his first hunger apparently appeased, he leaned back in his chair. “You’re alone here?” he asked.

Isabelle glanced up at the shotgun over the door and Jenny shook her head, then brushed her mouth with a linen napkin. “No, there’s Isabelle’s husband and their two sons. They’re working in the hayfield. And you’ve seen my son.”

He nodded, chewing long and hard on the crust of bread he’d chosen, then bent to his dinner once more.

“Do you think my boy looks like Carl?” she asked after a moment. “His folks are gone, over three years now, but his mama said Marshall was the image of his daddy.”

“Hard to say,” Shay temporized.

“Carl had the same brown eyes. But then you know that. Having seen him more recently than I. Mine are blue.” She paused for a moment, but the words would not be halted, falling from her lips as if she must somehow reinforce Carl’s memory through the small child he’d left behind. “Marshall’s hair is streaked from the sunshine now, I know. But you should see it in the winter. It darkens up, without a trace of red in it like—” Jenny hesitated, aware of rambling on. She lifted her cup and sipped at the bitter stuff. Her heart was stuttering in her chest, and she felt her throat close as she asked the question she’d held within her heart for the past half hour.

“How did he die?” Her hands fluttered, then settled in her lap. “Did he suffer long? Was there a doctor in the camp?” She looked up at him and winced at the forbidding look he wore. “Please, Mr. Shay.”

The woman was trembling, her mouth twitching at the corner, her chin wobbling. Damn, she was about to cry again, and he didn’t know if he could stand it. Enough that he’d put this visit in limbo for so long, now he had to dredge up all the memories and break her heart all over again.

“There were a couple of doctors in camp, but we tried not to let the Union army know who they were. They’d have been taken out and put to work in the army hospital for the northern troops.” He shrugged, curling long fingers around his cup. “There wasn’t any medicine anyway, ma’am. We all just did the best we could.”

“You said you were with him?” she asked, biting at her lip. “He spoke of us?”

“Yes, ma’am. I told you he sent his love, to both you and the child.” That hadn’t been exactly how it happened, but instinct told him she would be soothed by the words. Her eyes filled with tears and they overflowed, dampening the bodice of her dress as they fell. His gaze rested there.

“Mr. Shay?” Her hand lay on the table now, reaching for him, yet even as he watched, her fingers curled into a fist. “Did he say anything else?”

He shook his head. Take care of them. The words that haunted his dreams had brought him here, on a roundabout route, to be sure. But here he was, and here he’d stay until he was sure she was safe, had enough to eat, and that the boy was taken care of, had some sort of future in the offing.

“Have you got any crops in, ma’am?” he asked. “Is there any livestock in the pastures?”

“The kitchen garden’s planted, of course, and it’s almost time to plant corn, maybe next week or the week after. After the hay gets put up. We’ve a cow in the barn, and a good flock of chickens. There’s three hens setting on nests. We’ll have chicks soon, and fryers in a couple of months.”

“Horses?” he asked.

“A team of mules. They’re in the corral, waiting for me to take them back to the hay field later on. And a mare to pull the buggy.”

“Nothing to ride?”

“No, the Yanks took most of the horseflesh hereabouts with them when they passed through. We were lucky to keep what we did. Noah and the boys hid the animals in the woods. We penned up the chickens in the root cellar and put a washtub over the door when the army came through. I thought they were going to burn the place, but—” She hesitated and glanced at Isabelle, whose mouth shut reprovingly.

“They left us alone, and went on without torching the house and barn.” Beneath the freckles dotting her cheeks, Jenny’s face was pale and her gaze focused steadily on the tabletop between them.

His instincts told him she’d left much unsaid. Her hired help, or whatever relationship the woman had to Jenny, was keeping secrets, as was the girl across the table from him. She wasn’t much more than a girl, yet she’d borne up beneath the load she’d been called to carry, and borne up well. Her dress was ill-fitting, tight across the bodice, as if it had fit a younger, more slender female. Well-worn, and washed until the faint pattern of flowers had submitted their color to soap and water, it looked on the verge of being fit for the ragbag.

Yet, she wore it well, and he had a fleeting glimpse of what it must have looked like, years ago when both dress and woman had been untouched by the desolation of the war.

Jenny looked up at him, her dignity once more in place, only damp spots on her dress remaining of the tears she’d shed for the memory of her husband. “Will you stay the night?” she asked politely.

“I can sleep in the barn.” He glanced out the window to where the shabby outbuildings were drenched in sunshine. “I have a bedroll, ma’am. Is there hay left in the loft?”

“No, but there will be in a couple of days, once it dries in the field. The men are out there cutting it now.”

“Can I give them a hand? I’ve done my share of swinging a scythe in my day.”

“And where was that?” she asked, her eyes lighting with interest.

“I was born and raised here in the south, ma’am.” And that would be enough for now, he decided, rising and reaching for his hat. “I’ll just ride my horse out to where the men are, and put in a few hours’ work. Maybe I’ll do enough to earn my supper.”

“Wait,” Jenny said quickly. “I’ll take you out in the wagon. Noah won’t know who you are.”

“I’ll tell him,” Shay said politely. “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine.”

And it was. Coming upon the three men, their heads covered with straw hats, their arms swinging in unison to the mournful notes they sang, he’d sat astride his stallion for long minutes. One of the younger men had noticed him first, glancing up, and then halting midswing. The older man, Noah probably, turned to face him, taking his hat off and nodding slowly.

“Sir?” The tone was polite, yet wary, and Shay slid from his horse. A hundred feet or so separated them, and his steps were unhurried as he watched the three men.

“I’m here to help,” he said. “Carl Pennington sent me.”

A visible shiver went through the shortest of the three men, and he turned quickly to the eldest of the group. “Pa?”

Noah stepped forward. “You knew Mr. Carl? In the army?”

Shay nodded. “I was with him when he died.”

Noah looked him over well, his shoulders straightening, his head erect. “Took you long enough to get here, I’d say, mister.”

Shay nodded his agreement. There was no arguing that point. “I’m here now.”

“You wanta use the scythe or start rakin’?” Noah asked.

Shay held out his hand. “I’ll give you a break. You can rake, if that’s all right.”

Hand outstretched, he waited as the older man scrutinized him, and then, with a nod at his two helpers, walked the few steps it took to face Shay.

“These here are my boys, Caleb and Joseph. Miss Isabelle’s my woman.” He held out the scythe and Shay took it from the callused hand.

“I’ll just tie my horse,” he said. A glade of trees edged the hayfield on three sides, telling wordlessly how the field had been wrenched from the woods surrounding it. Shay led his horse into the shade and slid the bridle from his mouth and over his head, then reached into his saddlebag for a halter. He put it in place, adding a long lead line before he loosened the saddle cinch.

“You can work at keepin’ the grass mowed,” he murmured to his stallion, leaving the animal knee-deep in lush greenery. The scythe fit his hand as if he’d only yesterday laid it down, and in moments he was adjusting his swing to the momentum of the other men. The sun beat down through his dark shirt and sweat beaded his brow, burning his eyes as it dripped from his forehead. Tying his kerchief around his brow relieved that situation, and he moved forward, enjoying the flex of muscles unused to the physical labor of harvest.

For a while the singing stopped, and then Noah took it up again, timing his rake to the rhythm he set, his sons following suit. The scythe sliced hay smoothly, and Shay silently thanked whoever had spent long moments with a stone, sharpening its blade. The men surrounding him worked as a team, apparently accepting his presence.

Shay thought of those he’d known, worked with, played poker with, then ridden away from during the past years. All the while heading back to where he’d lived as a boy. The ranch in Kansas had been the latest stopping place. Until circumstances had sent him on his way, and he was once more traveling. Finally with purpose.

It was time, he’d decided. Time to face the past, time to find the woman and child Carl Pennington had spoken of. Maybe time to finally heed Carl’s plea. He’d never agreed to his friend’s request, but those dying words had haunted him for too long.

Now, whatever he could do to help Carl’s wife, whether it be by the sweat of his brow, or the gold in his pocket, he’d do his best. The thought of Jenny, copper hair shimmering in the sunlight, brown eyes soft against his scarred face, was enough to make him eager for suppertime to arrive. And that thought caught him up short.

He was here to help Carl’s widow, not take advantage of her. It would be easy to look on her as an available woman. Honesty nudged him to admit he already had. She might be available, but not to a man like Shay. He’d soiled his hands beyond redemption, and touching Jenny Pennington…His body hardened at the thought, and he swung the scythe with a jerk, spoiling the rhythm he’d set. It hit the ground and vibrated in his hand, and he halted, lifting his face to the sun, closing his eyes against the radiance.

She was there, burned into his memory, waving locks of hair tempting his fingers, gentle eyes melting his defenses. And scattered across the fabric of her dress, luring his gaze to the curves defining her breasts, were tears she’d shed for Carl Pennington.

Chapter Two

Giving the man run of her house was not wise. Even as Jenny heard his boots on the curving staircase, she knew she’d probably made a mistake. True, his chosen room was on the second floor, and her own was the old library near the front door. Also true was the fact he’d offered to sleep in the barn.

To which she’d demurred. It was not proper to send a gentleman to sleep in the hayloft when perfectly good rooms were standing empty in the house. Even if those rooms were stripped bare of furnishings and cold during the short months of winter. He wouldn’t be here that long anyway, she comforted herself.

Standing at the foot of the curved staircase, she cocked her head to listen as his footsteps moved on down the uncarpeted hallway upstairs, and stopped. Not the master suite, she decided, with a sitting room attached. She backed up a bit, peering past the balcony, seeking a glimpse of his tall figure. The only rooms that far down the corridor were the smaller bedchambers, designed for children, yet it seemed he’d chosen one of them for his own.

“Miss Jenny? What’re you doing?” Isabelle’s soft voice from behind her had Jenny rounding about quickly, her cheeks flaming.

“Just looking after our guest,” she muttered.

“Looking at him, is more like it,” Isabelle said, her own gaze following the path Jenny’s had taken. “And ain’t he a fine one to watch.”

“He’s chosen to stay in one of the smaller rooms, I believe. I can’t think that he’ll be comfortable with just a bedroll, but he insisted.”

“There’s a couple of mattresses in the attic, if you want Noah to bring one down for him,” Isabelle offered. “He’d might as well be as comfortable as we can make him.”

Jenny nodded, walking toward the back of the house. The kitchen was warm, the stove throwing off an abundance of heat, and she opened the back door, allowing air to flow through the room. “For someone who didn’t take to him…” Her words slowed, and then she turned to face her friend. “I thought you didn’t like him,” she said quietly.

“Haven’t decided about that yet,” Isabelle told her. “But I decreed right off the bat he was a prime specimen.”

“He looks a bit the worse for wear, I think,” Jenny said, her words mumbled into the apron she pulled over her head. “And he probably won’t be here long enough for me to change my mind.”

Isabelle nodded wisely. “We’ll see.” She handed Jenny plates and silverware, then turned back to the stove. “Noah says the man’s a hard worker.”

Finished with setting the table, Jenny walked to the back door. Her hands lifted to her forehead, brushing back tendrils of hair that defied her best efforts at tidiness. “He’ll soon tire of working long hours and getting nothing in return.”

“Beg your pardon, ma’am. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I think you’ve got it all wrong.” From behind her, Shay’s deep tones denied her theory, and she spun to face him, one hand rising to cover her mouth.

“I didn’t hear you, sir. You startled me.” It seemed the man called Shay could move silently when the mood struck him.

He was quiet for a moment, watching her from beneath lowered brows. “Maybe I should have knocked. But then, the door wasn’t shut,” he said finally. “As to what I overheard, I beg to differ with you.” His hands folded into fists, then rose to rest against his hips. “I’m here to fulfill an obligation to a friend. Receiving a reward doesn’t enter into it.”

“It’s a good thing,” Jenny returned starkly. “A floor to sleep on and three meals a day will be the limit of your pay.” Her words sounded harsh to her ears and she bit at her lip, ashamed of herself.

“Miss Jenny, don’t forget the mattress,” Isabelle reminded helpfully.

Jenny cast her a grateful look, softening her tone. “I’ll have Noah help you bring a mattress out of the attic for your room,” she said. “Isabelle reminded me that we put a couple of them up there.”

Shay nodded, relaxing his stance, one hand sliding into his pocket, the other flexing open against his thigh. “I’ll take care of it later on. For now, I’ll just need a container for water, so I can wash in the morning, ma’am.”

Buckets were in short supply, the two in best condition being used for milking the cow. Jenny thought of the rough wooden ones in the barn and dismissed the idea. There was no choice, she decided. A guest must receive preference.

“I’ll give you the pitcher from my room,” she told him. “There’s a basin with it.”

“I won’t take yours,” he said sharply. “Surely you have a kettle I can use.”

She shook her head. “Most everything is gone, sold piece by piece. We only have enough to cook in, nothing extra.”

His eyes narrowed, taking in her dress, the scuffed toes of her shoes and the worn apron she’d slipped into only moments past. “You haven’t spent much on yourself, have you?”

A flush climbed her cheeks and she felt her jaw tauten as he took inventory of her clothing. “I’m not complaining. We’re getting along.”

“For how long?” he asked bluntly. “You need something besides a field of corn and a couple of cuttings of hay to get you through the year. Where’s your cash crop?”

“They’re still buying cotton,” she told him proudly. “And ours has always been some of the best in the parish. We’ll be planting ten acres pretty soon.”

“Not enough of it to support you,” he said, and the truth of his judgment pierced her to the quick.

“There’s no sense in planting more than we can harvest,” she told him. “And with only the five of us to pick…”

“There’ll be four men this year, and the boy can help out,” he told her, amending her words.

Jenny’s lips compressed, holding back words better unspoken, given her tendency to allow her temper full rein. Marshall was a baby, not fit yet for field work. And the son of a gentleman, to boot.

“He’s not too young to carry sacks out to us and help dump them in the wagon,” Shay told her, his words gentle, as if he sensed her thoughts. “He shouldn’t stand by and watch his mother work. He’ll learn to do his share, and probably feel better for it.”

“You haven’t the right,” she said, her words stiff with anger.

“Carl gave me the right. He asked me to come here, and part of my duty to him is to teach his son how to deal with whatever life sends his way.”

There was no rebuttal to that argument, Jenny decided, for if Shay told the truth, Carl had indeed bestowed upon him that duty. And Shay gave every indication of being a gentleman, no matter his appearance. His speech, his bearing, even the tilt of his head and the calm arrogance of his manner, gave testimony to his claim. Whoever his family, they had reared him well.

“I can’t turn down your help. I can’t afford to be proud,” she said quietly. “If Carl sent you, I’ll give you leave to do as he asked.”

Shay bowed his head, a movement she sensed signified his acknowledgment of her words. She’d accepted his help. Now to learn compliance. For six years she’d been in charge, controlled the work done on Pennington Plantation. A sense of relief washed over her as she looked at the man who’d offered—perhaps insisted—on taking that control from her.

For the life of him Shay didn’t understand how she’d talked him out of sleeping in the hayloft. Yet, here he was, in the house this morning. He stirred, then rolled over, thankful for the mattress he’d hauled from the attic by candlelight last night. It surely beat sleeping on the hard floor, and was a far cry from the burned-out house he’d slept in the past couple of days.

He rolled to his feet and listened to a rooster in the chicken yard. “At least one of us has something to crow about,” he muttered beneath his breath, pouring water from the flowered pitcher Jenny had pressed into his hands. He’d carried it, and the matching bowl up the stairs, unwillingly to be sure, but unable to deny her the right to do as she pleased in her own home. One way or another, he’d see to it that a bucket became available for his use today, and return the china to her bedroom, where it belonged.

In the meantime, he could enjoy the image floating through his mind, that of Jenny’s hand pouring water for her use. Of Jenny’s skin being cleansed by some floral scented soap. He lifted a towel to his face, inhaling the fresh aroma of sunshine clinging to its fibers. Maybe he’d settle for that, he decided. She didn’t need some fancy milled bar to make her smell good. Whatever she used to wash with reminded him of meadow grass and spring flowers.

His mouth tightened as he sensed the direction of his thoughts. Water splashed over his hair as he doused himself in the china basin, and he closed his eyes against the blue flowers that reminded him of violets and forget-me-nots. It was time to fill his belly with food and get out to the barn. The men would be waiting and he wouldn’t be deemed a laggard by anyone. Especially not three men whose cooperation he needed if he was to make any sort of a success of this venture.

They were waiting anyway, he discovered, stepping out onto the back porch. Isabelle had fed them earlier, before setting the table for Jenny and the boy. Whether he was to have eaten with the men or with Jenny, he didn’t know. But, she’d offered him coffee and a full plate once he’d made his way down the stairs and into the kitchen. They weren’t using the dining room these days, having turned it into a bedroom for the boy, and Jenny seemed to have taken over the smaller parlor as her own.

The furnishings in the big parlor were sparse, but comfortable, he’d noted yesterday. She’d obviously sold off most of her belongings. Probably to buy food and seed and whatever else they needed for survival.

Noah greeted him with a wave and led the way to the barn, where the mules were already harnessed and waiting. “My boys’ll rake up the hay and turn it so’s it’ll dry,” he told Shay. “You and me’ll finish the cuttin’.” Placing two scythes on the wagon, he reached for rakes, then looked over at Shay. “Unless Miss Jenny wants it done different.”

Shay shook his head. “Makes sense to me. We can’t put it up till it’s dry, and it can’t get dry till it’s cut. Let’s get at it.” He hopped on the back of the wagon, lifting one foot to the bed, and propping his arm across his knee. Noah’s sons were crossing the yard as the wagon rolled from the big, double, barn doors and they eased their way onto the lumbering vehicle, one on either side of Shay.

His greeting was met by identical nods, and he grinned. Aside from the blisters he’d managed to gain yesterday from the unfamiliar motion of the scythe, he was pretty much on a par with the three men, able to work a full day in the sun. The blisters would doubtless be a different matter by day’s end, he decided. Jenny might have some salve handy. He’d probably be ready for it.

What she had was a pair of gloves, old and worn, but welcome. Offering them to him at noon, she allowed a small smile to curve her lips. “I thought you might need these. I didn’t know how long it’d been since you’ve done any haying.”

“Not since last fall,” he told her, slipping the gloves in place. They rubbed against a couple of raw places on his palms and he adjusted them carefully. “This will help.”

“You’ve got blisters,” she surmised, reaching to touch his wrist. “Let me see.”

“No.” He stepped back from her, uneasy with the men watching. “I’ll let you take a look after we get done for the day.” Her nod was reluctant, but the smile appeared again.

It was still in place when he entered the house just before supper time. Isabelle stood before the cookstove and Jenny turned to greet him from the pantry door. “I’m glad you’re a few minutes early,” she said brightly. “I’ll just have time to take a look at your hands before we eat.”

Snatching up a box from the shelf behind her, she motioned at the table, and he obeyed her silent instructions, easing his weary body onto a chair. She sat close by, their knees almost touching as she reached for him.

Her skin was cool against his, her fingers slender, yet strong as she turned his hand over, then slid the glove from place. Her brow furrowed as she inspected the seeping blisters, surrounded by a reddened area, and she made a small noise with her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “You should have told me about them this morning,” she said reprovingly. “I’d have brought the salve and bandages out to the field. It wouldn’t be nearly this bad if we’d tended to it right away.”

His nape twitched as she bent to look closely at his hand, a stray lock of her hair resting against his wrist. One slender finger brushed lint from his palm and heat rose within him. Clenching his teeth, he closed his eyes against the demands of his body, aware of the evidence of his desire. An anguished groan rose in his throat and he swallowed it, anxious that she not hear the faint murmur escaping his lips.

“Did I hurt you?” Jenny’s voice was troubled, and she blew softly against his hand. “There’s lint stuck to your blisters from the gloves I gave you.”

Her breath was fresh, her skin dewed with perspiration, and the scent of woman rose to his nostrils. He’d endured much at the hands of the prison guards, had watched as flesh peeled from his feet in layers, been kicked and abused without cause. All of that faded into oblivion as he sank into the sweet torture of Jenny’s gentle touch.

A soft cloth wiped carefully, cleansing his palm, then washing his hand both back and front. She dried the skin and then her fingers applied salve to the damaged flesh with feathered strokes. She murmured words beneath her breath, some of them scolding, more of them grateful, as she recounted the hours he’d spent in the hayfield. At last, the soft cloth was pressed tenderly against his oozing blisters and a wide strip of bandaging was wrapped around his hand.

He inhaled deeply, then opened his eyes. Her smile was teasing, her lips parted and, wonder of wonders, the woman was totally oblivious to his problem.

“You’re almost as bad as Marshall,” she said smugly. “I think all male creatures must be alike. They can cope with a broken nose easier than a blister.”

He gained his breath. “And how would you know about broken noses, Miss Jenny?” he asked. Then watched as she stripped his other glove off with care.

“Carl had a shovel fall from the barn wall once. It caught him right across the bridge of his nose, and he bled like a stuck pig.” Her hands repeated the cleaning process and he focused his thoughts on Carl’s bleeding nose.

“What did you do for him?” The salve covered his palm now and his gaze swept her profile, noting the freckles across her nose, the sweep of eyelashes against her cheek.

“It was a cold winter that year, and I made an ice pack from the horse trough.” Her hands stilled as she thought of that time, and a sad smile touched her full lips. “He wouldn’t let me pamper him.” Her eyes were bright as she blinked twice, then looked up at him.

I’d let you pamper me any day of the week. The woman was about as tempting as any female he’d ever met. No. More so, Shay decided as she rolled the remainder of her bandage, then pinned it carefully so that it would be tidy in the small box she held. Twists of paper, their contents marked with neatly printed labels filled one side. A cloth bag held an aromatic scent he could not place, though it seemed familiar. Probably herbs of one kind or another, he decided. A large tin of carbolic salve, a bottle of thick, creamy liquid and smaller bottles of camphorated oil and witch hazel made up the neat contents of her medical supplies.

“My mother used to have witch hazel,” he said. “She used it for all our bruises and cuts.” His mouth tightened, aware of Jenny’s interest, her eyes lighting at his words. Her hands paused, holding the roll of bandage suspended.

“Where did you live?”

It was a simple question, one he should have answered readily, and yet some need for anonymity clutched at his throat and he shook his head. “It’s not important.”

Her eyes dimmed, the light vanquished by his terse reply, and she bent to her task, swiftly tidying the box, then rising to replace it in the pantry. He watched, aware of the hurt he’d inflicted, and his jaw tightened. It was just as well. He was becoming too attracted to her. Attracted. What a pale word to describe the desire that even now continued to find expression beneath the covering of the oilcloth that draped across his lap.

“We’ll be eating in just a few minutes,” Jenny said brightly. “You’d might as well sit there. Isabelle is ready to dish up, I think.”

Murmuring agreeably, he glanced up to find Isabelle’s eyes fixed on his face. Her hands busy with the kettle she held, she glanced away, but not before he’d gotten the message her gimlet gaze sent flying in his direction. She was only too aware of his reaction to Jenny Pennington. And if looks could kill, Shay would be stretched out on the floor, waiting for burial.

Isabelle saw too much, Shay decided. Her next move would no doubt be to warn her friend against him. For all that she was a woman full grown, there was an air of innocence about Jenny that inspired a protective instinct in those surrounding her. Even the men in the field had watched him closely today when she’d offered the gloves for his use. Hell, he was halfway to being her champion already and he’d only known her for a couple of days. He’d protect her gladly, against any and all comers.

He’d work for her, plow his hard cash into her farm, and help her survive through another growing season. He’d stick it out until he was sure she was on her feet, safe and secure. And then what? Leave and not look back?

Not very damn likely. He’d probably be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life. Might as well add Jenny to the list of those he’d left behind. He had a notion she’d be haunting his dreams anyway. And then he realized something that caught him up short.

He hadn’t dreamed of the prison camp in Elmira, or of Carl’s death for the past two nights.

He’d worked, and worked hard, Jenny thought. There was no faulting the man’s ambition. And she’d gotten used to his presence here over the past weeks.

The barn was filled with the scent of hay, bits of it floating to the floor as two men worked in the loft above. Jenny covered the pail of milk she’d just coaxed from the cow and rose from the three-legged stool. Shay said there was enough hay in the loft to feed for the better part of the year. Part of the second cutting, come August, would be sold to neighbors who needed more than they raised for themselves.

For the first time in months, she felt rich. Rich with the knowledge that her animals had good pasture to feed on, that there was an abundance of hay in the loft, and there was a field of corn ready to hoe. Shay was talking about a second crop. A late planting would take them through the winter, he said, and she’d agreed, after noting Noah’s slight nod. In the meantime, the chickens were turned out to forage for themselves every morning. The pullets and young roosters were growing rapidly, and there were more hens wanting to nest, one of them determined to settle herself in the bushes near the house.

The sound of hammering caught her attention and she put the milking stool aside in haste. The man was up to something again, and it was barely past breakfast time. Sure as the world, he’d found another project to lay his hand to, and she hastened from the barn, following the noise of his labor. The remains of two old trellises lay on the back porch, Shay kneeling amid the fan-shaped designs, adding a strip of new wood. He caught sight of her and rose, watching as she walked toward him.

It made her quiver inside when he did that. Not that his perusal was intimidating or in any way worrisome. It was just that his gaze made her aware of herself. Aware of the way she walked, the way her hand dipped into her apron pocket, the way her hips swayed in rhythm with her steps. And he didn’t miss a shred of it. His lips moved just a little, the bottom one twitching a bit, and his eyes darkened, if that were possible.

She hadn’t been so studied, not ever in her life, as she had lately. Carl had paid attention to her, mostly in the bedroom, sometimes when he was feeling randy. But Shay was a different sort, more intense, more observant, and that intensity was focused on her, more often than not. As if each movement she made was unique, each word she spoke worth hearing.

It could be heady stuff, she decided, climbing the two steps to the back veranda, where he watched and waited. His hand reached for the milk pail and she gave it to him, unthinking. “I’ll take it in to Isabelle,” he said. “Wait here a minute. I want you to tell me where to put this trellis. There are roses blooming all over the ground on the east side of the house. They’d be better off with something to climb on.”

Jenny nodded. His request was reasonable, no matter what Isabelle thought. A whispered warning early this morning had brought quick color to Jenny’s cheeks. “You watch out for that man, Miss Jenny. He’s a dark one, with thoughts about you he shouldn’t be thinkin’.” Isabelle’s eyes were sparkling with indignation as she spoke. “He’s lookin’ at you like you’re an available woman.”

I am. Jenny closed her eyes as she remembered the words. Available for marriage, anyway, though I doubt that’s what Shay is thinking of. The screen door slammed as he returned, and he lifted one finger as a signal.

“Just another couple of nails and this will be ready. Have a seat, ma’am.” His words encouraged her to linger, and she perched on the edge of the veranda, arms wrapped around her knees as she watched him. Long fingers held the nail, and the hammer hit it twice, driving it firmly into the wood beneath. Another nail was pounded home and Shay set aside the hammer, lifting the trellis with him as he stood.

“I knew the roses were being neglected, but the wind kept blowing them down, and I didn’t know how to fix…” Her voice trailed off as Shay carried the trellis past her, a nod of his head urging her to follow. She stood quickly, brushing her skirts down. A movement at the door caught her eye and she waved at Isabelle, flashing a smile as she trotted behind her new handyman.

Thorny branches, profuse with roses, lay beneath the library window. “I’ll bet you can smell them at night,” Shay said, leaning the trellis against the house. The sun was climbing rapidly into the morning sky and its warmth brought forth the scent of the flowers, rising from the ground to surround them with its aroma.

“Yes,” she agreed, hands shoved into her apron pockets, watching as he lifted the heavy branches aside, making room for himself to stand. Curtains caught the breeze and billowed into the room as she watched, and past his bent form she caught sight of her bed. Covering the mattress was a pieced quilt, one her grandmother had made years ago, now the only memento she had of the elderly woman who lay in the churchyard. Her nightgown was tossed carelessly against the counterpane and Jenny wished fervently that it had been folded and put away in her chest of drawers.

Carl had told her more than once that she was always in too much of a hurry, anxious to move on to the next moment. Isabelle had called from the kitchen this morning as Jenny dressed and she’d hastened from her room, leaving an unmade bed and general disorder behind. Now it was exposed for anyone to see. For Shay to see.

“Here, hold this,” he said over his shoulder, nodding with his head toward the place where he wanted her hands to rest. She did as he asked, standing beside him, stretching to grip the wooden frame. He knelt, one knee on the ground, the other bent, and dug with a small spade he’d carried along. The hole was narrow and deep enough to hold the bottom of the trellis, the earth piled up around it as he plied the spade.

“Let’s drop it in,” he told her, grasping the frame, allowing her to balance it above his hands. And then he lifted his head, looking inside her room, his hands unmoving as the curtains billowed, revealing the unmade bed and the white gown she’d left behind. He glanced up at her once more, his expression harsh. “Ready?”

She nodded, lowering the trellis, then held it steady as he packed dirt in the hole. He stood, brushing off his hands, stomping the loose earth to hold the latticework firmly in place. “I think I’ll nail it in two places to the siding on the house,” he told her. “That way the wind won’t take it again.”

She stepped back. “I thought you wanted me to tell you where to put it.”

“You want it somewhere else?” His eyes glanced at her over his shoulder and her smile faltered. His mouth twitched. “I decided for you, ma’am. By the time I mend the other trellis and set it on the other side of the window, there won’t be enough room for anyone to climb inside without getting stuck by the thorns. Thought it might be wise.”

“Who’d want to climb in my window?” she asked incredulously. “There’s only Noah and the boys and Marshall, and they can go right in the back door. Isabelle would never make it over the sill.”

He was silent, that faint movement of his mouth turning into a slow grin. “And I’m upstairs. Reckon we don’t need to worry about keeping you safe and sound, do we?”

“I’ve never worried for a minute,” she said stoutly. “There’s no one hereabouts to fear.”

“Then why do you suppose Isabelle’s been sleeping in front of your door? She was there again this morning when I got up early.” He bent to pick up the hammer and spade and straightened to face her. His smile twisted the scar, lifting one side of his mouth, and her eyes were drawn there. With an oath that took her by surprise, he turned away.

“No. Don’t do that,” she whispered. “Don’t turn from me. Please.”

It was the addition of that small word that halted his retreat. She’d said please, and not for a moment could he deny her the courtesy of facing her again. “I know my face is beyond ugly, ma’am. I don’t blame you for looking.” His words became softer as he attempted to placate her with a touch of humor. “I’ve had babies cry, and women scream for mercy, just looking in my direction.”

Jenny’s eyes left his and moved again to that puckered scar. As if she had reached to touch it, he felt a welcome warmth the length of its twisted ridge, and his own hand rose to tug at his hat brim, effectively hiding it from her sight.

“How did you get it?” she asked quietly. “It looks painful, but I suppose it’s not, really.”

“It’s been a long time,” he said. “You might say I stuck my nose in where it wasn’t welcome.” That he’d fought for a man’s life in the prison camp in Elmira, fought and won, was something she didn’t need to know. The Yankee guard had been buried quickly, and their captors had been too busy dealing with the water that overflowed the camp to make a fuss. They’d been in a deluge, wading in ankle-deep water in their simple shelter for three days. He’d shivered with cold and listened to men weep unashamedly.

“Was it in prison?” she asked, her eyes bleak as she probed for the answer.

“No,” he lied. “In a saloon, before the war.” He’d lied before, for lesser reasons, but this one stuck like wet feathers against the roof of his mouth. He’d lie again if he needed to protect her, he realized. And then he chuckled, a low humorless sound, to make certain she believed his tale.

“I’ll finish up the other trellis now,” he told her. “Guess my time could have been better spent on the cornfield, but my mama always liked her roses. I hated to see yours layin’ in the dirt. I’ll catch up with Noah and the boys a little later.”

“Thank you for doing the repairs,” she told him, walking beside him as they turned the corner to the back of the house. “My mama always said we all need beauty in our lives. I’ve missed seeing the roses climb the way they used to. Isabelle can find me a rag to tear up into strips, and I’ll tie the branches up off the ground later.”

She glanced up at him. “If you don’t get the hoeing done today, leave the part go that’s closest to the house. I’ll go out after supper and work at it a while, when the air’s cooler.”

His nod was abrupt. “You’re the one in charge, ma’am.” He bent to lift the tall framework he’d mended, carrying it from the porch. “You going to help me with this?”

Jenny shook her head. “You can handle it, I’m sure. I think I need to give Isabelle a hand in the house. Yesterday’s cream is ready to churn.” The door closed behind her and he retraced his steps to the library windows. She’d been embarrassed to have him see her gown on the bed. He’d sensed her squirming beside him, and deliberately taken long moments to gaze into the shadowed interior. It hadn’t taken much imagination to visualize her inside that pale gown.

The hole was dug in moments and he dropped the trellis in place, holding it with one hand as he used his boot to shove the dirt in, firming it quickly. Stepping back, he eyed his work. She’d have the roses trained in no time. And every time she crawled into bed and inhaled the rich fragrance…

He turned away. Noah was heading for the field, a hoe across his shoulder. And if Shay knew what was good for him, he’d spend his energy on digging weeds instead of making monkeyshines with the boss.

Chapter Three

Dusk shadowed the graceful stalks of corn, yet still Jenny plied her hoe. To rest against its handle would only invite more of Shay’s scrutiny, and she’d borne about all of that she could handle for one evening. His eyes rested on her between each movement of his hoe, ever observing, as if she might fade from sight if he didn’t keep close track. Yet it did not detract from the rhythm he’d set, pushing himself to complete the task he’d taken on. It seemed the man would never say die, never cease his energetic removal of weeds from around each hill of corn. And who could argue with that?

Certainly not the woman who’d accepted his offer to work beside her in the cool of the evening. And then the mosquitos descended. To thwart the advance of the pesky critters she’d simply rolled her sleeves to her wrists, then buttoned them. Her bonnet kept them from her hair, and she waved away the few insects that buzzed near her face.

She cast sidelong glances in Shay’s direction. The man could work. There was no getting around that fact. His hands and arms moved in a rhythm she could never hope to emulate. His own hat kept the bloodthirsty insects from his head, and he’d turned up his collar, somewhat protecting his neck from their bites. Shirtsleeves tightly fastened, he worked diligently. As if the crop of corn would be his to sell at harvest time, he chopped weeds with a vengeance.

Jenny moved between the rows at a slow but steady pace, noting that Shay uprooted the green predators in the row to her right before she could reach them, easing her workload by almost half. Leaving only the weeds to her left to the mercy of her hoe, he moved smoothly beside her, doubling her accomplishment, with no apparent effort on his part.

She paused, standing erect, her hand moving to the small of her back, and Shay glanced at her, his harsh features visible in the twilight. “Had enough for tonight?” he asked.

His words were low, drawled in a voice that made her think of cool sheets and moonlight streaming through her bedroom window. And where that thought had come from, she wasn’t sure. She only knew that she hadn’t traveled such paths since the day Carl rode his big buckskin stallion down the road, then turned to wave goodbye with a jaunty hand. That this dark, enigmatic stranger could elicit such pondering from her female mind was a fact she wasn’t ready to cope with.

“Yes, I suppose so,” she murmured, aware fully now of the aching muscles in her back, just below her waist. Hoeing corn had never been her favorite chore, yet she’d done it for the past four years or so without complaint. Mostly in the evening when Marshall was under Isabelle’s care, bathing and readying for bed. Though the task was tedious, she enjoyed the stillness, when her only companion was a mockingbird in the hedgerow. When her thoughts could have free rein, and memories of past days and nights ran rampant through her mind.

None of those solitary evenings held a candle to this one, she decided, turning her hoe over to Shay’s capable hands, watching as his broad palm encompassed both handles easily. Before them, rows of corn seemed to stretch endlessly into the field. At the horizon a pale moon appeared, rising in increments into the sky.

“You don’t have to do this,” she said, allowing her gaze to rest on the shadowed outline of his face. “You work hard all day long. I really don’t mind coming out here alone in the evening.”

“Do you think I’d let you work by yourself?” he asked. “Don’t you do enough all day, let alone chopping weeds till dark?” He reached for her, gripping her hand firmly in his, and she followed his lead, a row of fragile, foot-high cornstalks between them as they walked. “Watch where you step,” he told her. “I’ll pick up the piles of weeds tomorrow.”

“I can do that,” she protested. “I’ll bring a basket out in the morning.” His hand was warm, his fingers enfolding hers with an easy clasp. She allowed the intimacy, relishing the brush of his callused hand against her own. In silence they reached the end of the rows and she turned to look back over her shoulder.

“Admiring your work?” he asked dryly.

“No,” she answered, smothering a laugh. “Just being thankful for good weather, I guess. The corn’s doing well.”

He halted, drawing her across the few inches that separated them, where the tilled ground meshed with grass and tall weeds. “Listen, Miss Jenny,” he whispered, cocking his head to one side. “You can almost hear it growing.”

It was a whimsical notion and she smiled readily. “I’ve thought the same thing before,” she told him, “when the heat of the day is gone and the night is quiet. My papa used to say that corn was the perfect crop for a man to plant.”

Shay turned his head and she saw a flash of teeth as his lips parted in a smile. “I’ve never heard that theory before,” he said. “I would have thought cotton would be on the top of his list.”

Jenny lifted her shoulders in a small shrug. “Cotton is a moneymaker. But you have to have hands to harvest it. A poor man can only plant ten or fifteen acres. A man and his family can only tend to so much, if they’re going to tend it well.”

“Carl wasn’t a poor man. He must have had plenty of field hands out there.” His head nodded toward the far fields, where the land lay fallow.

“That was a long time ago,” Jenny said quietly. “Things change. I’ve never forgotten the things my father told me though, when I was growing up. He didn’t own a place like this. We weren’t poor, but…”

“You were raised to be a lady,” Shay said.

“Yes, I was. But I learned early on that life is uncertain, and tomorrow brings surprises.”

“And so you’ve managed to take hold here and keep things going.”

“I’ve done my best. For Carl’s sake, and for Marshall. Yet, even now I think of all the things my father taught me, and they’ve proven to be true. He said that if we do the hard work, God will provide the rain and sun. Corn’s the best crop we can raise to keep us from goin’ hungry.” She spread her hands in a gesture that encompassed the field. “You can’t eat cotton. With corn we use the youngest, tenderest ears for our supper table, then when it’s ready to shuck out, we feed it to our stock. The best ears we grind for cornmeal. We use the stalks for silage and plow the rest under to feed the land.”

“You’re quite eloquent, ma’am,” he said soberly. “I suppose I hadn’t thought of it that way before. I suspect your papa was an educated man.”

She laughed, the sound husky in her ears. “He had some education, but mostly he read the Bible and a whole shelf full of books he brought with him from New Orleans.” She tilted her head, the better to see beneath his hat brim, suspecting that his smile lingered at her expense. “He used common sense, to tell the truth. I remember he told my mama that with a cow and a few chickens and a few acres of corn, a family could make out.”

“I suspect your father was rather more wealthy than that though, wasn’t he?”

Jenny nodded. “Yes, he had money. Not as much as Carl. I married ‘up,’ as the saying goes. Carl had the means to buy slaves, and these fields were white with cotton by summer’s end.”

“And after the war, when the slaves were freed and released?” Shay asked quietly. “What happened then?”

“A good number walked away. I gave some of them land to work, and a few stayed on here.”

“Isabelle and Noah?” His hand released hers and he turned her toward the barn, long fingers pressed against her spine, just above her waist.

She closed her eyes, then blinked away the rush of moisture that blurred her vision. That the warmth of a man’s hand should touch some deep part of her was more than she could understand. And yet it had. Her spirit wept for the simple joy he brought her.

She relished the innocent pressure of his hand against her back, his fingers holding hers captive during the walk through the field. And now the weight of that same hand on her shoulder. Inhaling his essence, the musky scent he bore, she reveled for a moment in his protective shadow.

It was unexplainable, this tension that held her breath in abeyance. It was unbelievable, this sweetness that warmed her heart as he bent to speak her name.

“Jenny?” His tone reminded her of the question he’d asked, and the answer she’d failed to give.

“Yes, Noah and Isabelle stayed on, with their sons. They belong here, and this place belongs to them, almost as much as it does to me and my son.” She held her breath a moment and then spoke the words that might draw a line between them. “They’re my family, Shay.”

His fingers squeezed hers gently and he murmured a sound of acquiescence. The barn door before them was open and even as they stood on the threshold, a light flickered, then took hold at the far end of the building. “Noah,” Shay said quietly. “He must be finishing up for the night.”

A lantern was held high, its circle of light a beacon as they walked toward the man who was moving between the mules, and then into the stall where the mare stood, one foot lifted, her head drooping. His dark face glowed as he looked up and his smile was open and welcoming.

“I thought you was gonna sit out there all night watchin’ the corn grow,” he said with a soft chuckle. “Y’all better be gettin’ your sleep. Tomorrow’s the day we plant cotton, Mr. Shay.”

Jenny glanced at Shay, his face illuminated by the lantern glow. “Have you planted cotton before?”

He reached to hang the hoes against the barn wall, where nails protruded to hold tools in place. “I’ve watched,” he admitted. “Never got down and did the deed myself.”

“First time for everything,” Noah said smoothly, running his hand over the mare’s flank. “I suspect any man who can swing a scythe the way you do can poke holes in the dirt and plant some cotton seed in them.”

“This is the easy part,” Jenny warned. “Even Marshall can plant the stuff.”

“I’ll be here to help pick it,” Shay told her, even as his gaze met that of the man who watched him closely. “Once I take on a job, I don’t give up halfway through.”

“You want your stud brought inside?” Noah asked. “He’s a mighty nice horse.”

“You have problems with raiders?” Shay asked.

Noah shook his head. “No, but I think that big stallion might be a heap of temptation. My boys sleep in the tack room. They’d hear should someone come around.”

“I’ll get him,” Shay said, turning toward the back of the barn. He opened the door that led to the corral and whistled, a low, soft sound that barely left his lips before the stallion was nudging his chest. He gripped the halter, then rubbed the stallion’s long nose. Shay murmured words that appeared to please the animal, causing him to toss his head and swish his tail.

“How’d he get over the corral fence?” Jenny asked, peering past the horse to see if the gate had been left open.

“Jumped it,” Shay said simply. “He’s got power he’s never used in those haunches.” His tone was prideful, his eyes gleaming with pleasure as he led his horse into the nearest stall. “I’ll give him some hay if you don’t mind. He didn’t graze much today.”

Without pause, he poked a pitchfork into a stack of hay they’d left available near the barn door, then carried it into the stall. It filled the manger and his stallion bent his graceful head to eat. Shay backed from the stall, his hand lingering against the horse’s side. Soft words soothed the animal and he whuffled, a smothered sound that made Jenny laugh aloud. Shay looked up.

“I suppose you think he doesn’t understand what I’m saying to him.” His mouth twitched and she was reminded of his reluctance to smile. Perhaps this was the best she’d ever have from him, this movement of his lips that signified his humor. It would be enough, she decided.

“Oh, I’m sure he does,” she said agreeably, smiling broadly. “I think I’m just surprised that you spoil him. You don’t strike me as the sort to pamper…” Her voice trailed off as his mouth became a thin line, lips compressed.

“You might be surprised, Miss Jenny,” he murmured. And then with a final brush of his hand over his stallion’s flank, he moved from the stall. “Come on, I’ll walk you to the house,” he offered.

“I’ll send Isabelle out,” Jenny told Noah and the man nodded.

“Night, Mr. Shay.” He lifted the lantern to light their way from the barn.

Shay nodded and grasped Jenny’s elbow, bending low to whisper against her bonnet. “I’ll warrant she won’t leave the house, Miss Jenny. She’ll roll up in a quilt right outside your door, if I’ve got her figured right.” His tone was amused and Jenny pulled from his grasp, irritated by his presumption.

“I’ve spoken to her about that. She knows I have nothing to fear from you, and I told her to sleep in her own bed from now on.”

Shay’s breath was warm against her neck as he whispered again. “She doesn’t trust me, you know.”

Jenny stalked ahead, irritation rising within her, that he should so mock himself. “I think Isabelle’s a little overprotective, that’s all. She’s looked after me for years, and it’s hard for her to stand back and let me fend for myself.”

She climbed the single step to the back porch and glanced back to where he stood, one foot on the riser, the other still on the ground. “And you, Miss Jenny? Do you trust me?”

Did she? Could she cope with his masculine presence in her home? In the room almost directly over her own?

Did she trust him? Probably, she decided. Maybe even more than she trusted her own tangled emotions.

Her jaw firmed as she pondered his query, and with a shrug she turned away. Then she opened the screen door and entered the kitchen. Isabelle sat at the table, only a candle on the buffet casting a circle of light. “You can go on home to Noah,” Jenny said, walking to the sink to wash her hands beneath the pump.

“I don’t like leavin’ you alone in the house,” Isabelle said stubbornly. “I know you said you’d be just fine, but that man looks at you like he’s been without water for six months and you’ve got the only water bucket for miles around.”

Jenny laughed softly at Isabelle’s words. “You have a big imagination, my friend. Shay is here to help Carl’s wife and Carl’s child. He’ll stay long enough to be sure we’re in good shape for the winter, and then he’ll be gone, like a breeze blowing through the place.” And I’ll be left alone…again.

The cotton was planted, a task lasting almost two weeks, sandwiched in among the everyday chores. Between cooking and carrying meals to the field, Jenny found herself left out of the process, and wondered if that was Shay’s intent. The sun was hot, early May bringing summer heat, and she toted quart jars of water several times a day to the laboring men. They left the jars in the shade, beneath tall trees at the edge of the fields, and it was near there that she waited at high noon, with thick slabs of buttered bread and slices of leftover ham from the night before.

The smokehouse was almost empty, last year’s butchered hog having been rationed over the months when game was not plentiful. Noah and his sons brought down a deer several times through the colder weather and she’d managed to catch decent-size catfish in the river beyond the last of their tilled fields.

Cleaning fish was a simple matter these days, and she cringed when she remembered the reaction of her weak stomach the first time she’d peeled the tough skin from an ugly catfish. Jenny Pennington had done a heap of growing up over the past years, she decided. Swinging the bucket she’d carried from the house, she waited until the working men reached the end of the row they’d just planted, and then waved her free hand. The tallest of the four looked up, his gaze penetrating even from this distance.

Shay pushed back his hat and used his kerchief to wipe his forehead. She’d walked across the pasture, then down the hedgerow to the far end of the field where they toiled in the sun. His eyes had swerved in her direction between each hole he pushed into the soil. Her hair caught the sunlight, shimmering and drawing his gaze like a magnet. Even from a distance, he knew the exact shade of her eyes, knew the shape of her mouth, the tender slope of her bosom.

He cleared his throat as she deliberately caught his eye and waved, pleased at the small smile she made no effort to conceal. “Noah?” The man looked up and motioned toward Jenny, his sons following his lead. Their steps were eager as all four of them turned in her direction. Jenny settled her pail on the ground, spreading the small tablecloth she’d brought from the house. “Come and eat,” she invited them, placing the platter she’d prepared in the center.

“Isabelle made cake.” She lifted, lifting the lid from a tin box with a flourish. Inside, squares of golden pound cake awaited, a thin glaze coating each piece. “She said it was especially for you, Noah,” she told him as he stood beside the food she’d arranged. “Sit down, won’t you? I’ll go and get your water.”

Shay watched her walk away, to where they’d left the last of the water. Two jars remained of the four she’d brought earlier, and she carried them back, one in the fold of each arm. Her skirts brushed the grass and swayed with each step she took. Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows and the summer sun had left its signature behind, toasting her skin to a golden brown. He imagined the pale flesh above the rolled sleeves, and below the V of honeyed flesh at her throat. She was fair, if he was any judge, with that copper-colored hair. Where the sun had touched her face, she wore freckles, just a smattering across her nose and cheeks, and more of the same blended with the tan on her forearms.

Blue eyes found his and a rosy flush painted her cheeks. He’d warrant that the skin beneath her bodice held the same hue, and that thought released a rush of energy within him that stood no chance of being expelled. Not today, or tonight, or anytime soon.

She was a woman ripe for the taking, and he’d give his eye teeth and then some if he had any chance of snatching her for himself. Instead he could only watch, and try his level best to contain the desire she inspired.

She bent to the men, handing them the jars of water, and Noah gave the first to Shay. “Drink what you want,” he said politely. “I’ll share with you.”

And not until I’ve had my fill, Shay thought, with a rueful nod of his head. Too many restrictions remained, even in the world where no man was a slave to another. Noah would not presume to take first place, and his easy acknowledgment of that fact of life as he knew it, made Shay cringe. He drank, long and deeply of the cool water, then handed it to the other man.

“Here you go,” he said, “I’m fine.” And then turned to his food.

“Are you sure, Mr. Shay? Take all you want,” Noah offered, obviously unwilling that he should offend by drinking more than his share.

“There’s plenty more, Noah,” Jenny said quickly. “I have another jar in the basket.” Obviously used to the traditions that would take long to die out after the years of rigid separation, she had come prepared, and Shay lifted his brow as she glanced at him.

The extra jar of water was nestled against the trunk of the tree and she settled herself in the grass beside it, watching the men devour the food she’d brought. Then as they stretched out on the grass, hats over their eyes, she piled the scant remains in her basket. Shay watched from beneath his hat brim, and his gaze traced the lines of her slender form, noting the shabby dress with a twinge of anger.

She deserved more, and yet, should he attempt to replace her worn clothing with new, she would be offended. Of that fact, he was certain. Jenny was used to making do; she was a magician at creating clothing for her child from Carl’s castoffs, left in the attic. He’d found her sewing by candlelight one evening and scolded her for not using a lantern.

“It wastes kerosene,” she’d told him, bending to stitch carefully at the small pair of trousers she was creating.

It wasn’t his place to argue with her and so he’d pleased himself by moving the candle closer. Its light had shone in the tendrils of hair that fell against her jaw, glistened in the depths of her eyes as she glanced up at him, and he’d clenched his broad hands into fists lest he reach to brush the wayward lock from the fine line of her cheek.

Now she stood and lifted the basket, waving a hand at the four men, three of whom were dozing, obviously having learned at an early age to take cat naps where they could. Shay, on the other hand, found it difficult to close his eyes without the presence of walls around him, or at least a rocky ledge at his back. He watched through his lashes as her gaze lingered on him, noted the touch of her tongue against her upper lip and suppressed a shiver that threatened to translate into full-blown desire.

She turned away, and he sat up abruptly, jamming his hat atop his head. Less than two months here and he spent half his time teetering on the verge of snatching at her like a randy cowhand. He stood, gaining his feet in a fluid movement that caught Noah’s attention. Scooping his hat from his face, Noah rose and Shay motioned at him with one hand.

“Rest awhile,” he murmured. “You’ve been working hard all morning. Your boys can use a break, too. I just want to walk the length of the field and back. It looks a little swampy at the other end.”

Noah’s eyes flickered toward Jenny’s retreating form and he allowed a grin to curl the corner of his mouth. “Miss Jenny surely is a nice lady,” he said quietly. “My woman thinks you’re taken with the girl, Mr. Shay.”

“She’s out of my class, Noah.” And yet he could not resist another look in her direction. She’d halted by the pasture fence to talk to the mare, and her dress was hiked up, exposing slim ankles. How he knew they were slim from this distance was a mystery, yet Shay would have gambled his bank account on the fact. “She deserves a gentleman, someone worthy of her.” If his words sounded harsh Noah paid no mind, but chuckled beneath his breath.

“She deserves more than that, Mr. Shay. But what she needs is a man to bring her to life, somebody who’ll put a spark in her eye and roses in her cheeks.” As if he’d said more than he intended, Noah lowered himself to the ground once more and shifted his hat over his eyes, his body visibly relaxing like a sleepy hound dog in the sun.

Jenny fanned herself with a hand-painted, pleated-paper specimen she’d found in the attic. “Do you think the corn is tall enough to cultivate?” she asked idly.

“Yeah, I’d say so,” Shay answered. “Up past my knees already.”

They sat on the porch, watching as Noah’s boys carried dishes back to the house. Isabelle fed them nightly in the cabin she shared with her husband, and then the young men, whom Noah still considered his boys, brought the pots and dishes back to the house for washing. It was a complicated procedure, one Jenny had decried as a waste of time and energy, but Isabelle would not be dissuaded. And so the nightly procession continued, with Isabelle washing up after both tables were cleared.

Jenny ate, as usual, in the kitchen, with Marshall serving as a buffer between Shay and herself, his childish questions amusing Shay, and providing Jenny with time to enjoy her meals. She’d long since decided that a five-year-old child was the most inquisitive creature on earth, but Shay seemed to enjoy the boy. Their evening walk was a favorite time for Marshall, and today was no exception.

They’d marched down the lane between overhanging oaks, and Jenny had watched them go, her thoughts in turmoil as she saw Marshall offer his hand to the man who slowed his steps to a child’s pace. Shay looked down at the outstretched fingers for a moment, his hesitation brief, then took the small hand in his own, strolling slowly as though his entire world was circumscribed by the realm of her child’s universe.

What would happen to Marshall when his idol left? she wondered. For sure as the sun rose in the morning and set in the western sky every night, that day would come. Maybe not for a few months, but sooner or later, wanderlust would grip the dark, scarred man who had invaded their lives, and he would leave as he had come. The vision of that tall stallion galloping down her lane, with Shay in the saddle, was enough to bring tears to her eyes.

And that was ridiculous. He was here to help. He’d said he would lend a hand, get them on their feet. He’d talked about picking cotton, harvesting corn and cutting the second crop of hay sometime in August or September. Beyond that, he’d made no promises.

Beyond that, she saw only the bleak days of winter, chilly mornings, a Christmas without funds to buy gifts, save for a few handmade items she and Isabelle would put together. And yet, she could expect nothing more from the man than what he had promised he would give. Carl sent me here…there’ll be four men in the field.

Her chin lifted and she gritted her teeth against the tears that overflowed her lashes, rolling down her cheeks and dampening her bodice. “He’s not gone yet,” she scolded herself quietly. “Land sakes, the man’s only been here two months, and you’re blubbering already about him leaving.” She laughed, a rusty sound with no humor, and from the kitchen behind her Isabelle made a scoffing sound.

Jenny swung her head to find her friend at the door, visible through the screen. “You might’s well dry those eyes,” Isabelle said, her low voice grating out the words. “He’s a man, with a man’s ways, and he’ll try to get past your bedroom door if you let him, Jen. He’ll leave you with another young’un ’neath your apron if you don’t take care.”

“No.” It was softly spoken, but held the steel of her mother’s upbringing in the single syllable. “I’ll not take a man in my bed without a marriage certificate hanging over the headboard, Isabelle. My mama taught me better than that.”

“And that one—” Isabelle waved her hand in the direction of the two male creatures who meandered down the long lane “—that one’ll sweet-talk you with promises and make you forget everything you ever learned about men. Mark my words, Jen, you’re no match for a man like that.”

Jenny turned away, pierced to the heart by the truth of Isabelle’s predictions. “Maybe not,” she admitted. “But wouldn’t it be grand, even for a little while, to know that sort of loving?” She laughed aloud. “Listen to me, Isabelle. I’m spinning dreams out of shadows.”

“Watch your step,” Isabelle said glumly. “You can’t say I didn’t warn you, missy.”

The two figures, one tall and straight, the other small and somehow vulnerable, even from this distance, turned and headed back to the house. Then they halted, and Shay bent low, picking up the boy and lifting him high, only to settle him on his wide shoulders. One arm raised in a broad wave and Marshall called out in a clear piping voice, “See me, Mama? I’m taller than anybody!”

The walk back was taken at a faster clip, with Shay trotting the last several yards, depositing Marshall on the porch with a flourish. “There you go, Marsh,” he said, lifting his hand to smooth back his hair. Marshall had ruffled it, running his fingers through the dark length as he held tightly to his makeshift steed. Now, Shay’s long fingers combed it into place, and Jenny watched each movement of his hand.

Marshall snuggled next to her on the edge of the porch and looked up with a grin that squinted his eyes and brought out the dimples in his cheeks. “Did you see me, Mama? Did you see me riding on Mr. Shay’s shoulders?”

She nodded, wiping at a speck of dirt on his cheek, then allowed her hand to cup his nape. “I saw you, sweetheart. You were the tallest man on the place.” She looked up at Shay and was lost in his gaze. “Thank you,” she murmured. “Marshall has missed having a man around the place. He trots after Noah, but I’m afraid he gets in the way much of the time.”

“He won’t be in my way, Miss Jenny,” Shay told her quietly. “Never.”

She smiled and felt an unmistakable tremble in her lower lip. Lowering her head, she buried the telltale sign of emotion against Marshall’s hair.

“Jenny?” Shay spoke her name, a questioning lilt in the syllables. And then he touched her, one hand reaching to press carefully on her shoulder. “I won’t hurt you, Jenny.”

She felt Marshall’s head swivel, heard his indrawn breath, and closed her eyes as he spoke words that dropped from his lips like hot coals. “Don’t you ever hurt my mama. That big man did, a long time ago, and he made my mama cry.”

Jenny swallowed a gasp and lifted Marshall to his feet. “No one is going to hurt your mama, Marshall,” she said firmly. “Now run in the house and let Isabelle get you ready for bed.” Marshall’s soft lips pressed a damp kiss against her cheek and he hugged her neck tightly.

“I love you, Mama.” It was meant as a whisper, but his reedy tones vibrated in the silence, and she was hard put not to shed tears of thanksgiving for the tender heart of her child.

“I love you, too,” she answered, turning him in the direction of the door. “I’ll be up to hear your prayers in a few minutes.”

And then she turned back to Shay.

Chapter Four

Shay’s eyes were narrow slits, his mouth a thin line. He gestured toward the door behind Jenny, his hand slicing the air. “What man was Marshall talking about? Who was he?”

Jenny’s heart sank. There were things she’d managed to tuck into a place marked as the past, things she chased from her mind when they poked their ugly heads into view. The subject Marshall had brought to Shay’s attention with such childish innocence was one she’d determined to forget. And now it faced her head-on, brought to life again by a memory she’d thought long gone from her child’s mind.

“It was a long time ago,” she said, her voice trembling, her throat clogging with hateful tears. “I didn’t know Marshall still remembered it. In fact, I’d thought him too young to understand.”

“How old was he?” Shay asked, squatting before her, sweeping his hat from his head. Reaching forward, he placed it on the porch, next to where she sat. Her eyes followed his movements, focusing on the hand that hovered over his hat brim. And then she blinked as it moved, settling on her shoulder. His fingers squeezed lightly, and he repeated his query. “Jenny? How old was he?”

“A baby, not quite two. It was just before his second birthday.” She allowed her gaze to lift from his hat, but could not meet the burning question in his eyes.

“It must have made a vivid impression,” he allowed, softening his words, as if he would thereby coax her to his will. “What did he see, Jenny?”

Her eyes squeezed tightly shut, the vivid image of a blue-uniformed man appearing as if the sight were indelibly painted in her mind. And so it was, she realized. All of her trying could not erase the vision of terror she’d faced on that day. “It was after the war, long after I’d heard that Carl was dead. The army was still around, making its final raids, the soldiers heading back north.” The image in her mind became more intense, the whiskered man’s smile more coaxing, his rasping voice speaking words she’d never thought to hear.

You don’t want your place burned now, do you?

“No! No!” She cried the reply aloud and her eyes flew open. Shay was before her, an emotion she could not fathom blazing in his eyes. Her fingers pressed against her lips, too late to silence the words she’d blurted aloud.

“What did he do to you?” His lips barely moved as the words were uttered, the rasping sound giving voice to his anger. “Tell me, Jenny.”

Come on inside, honey. His teeth had been stained, his hands dirty, and the uniform stank of dried sweat and long days spent on horseback. Her stomach churned, as if those odors remained with her still, and she felt sour bile rise to her throat, gagging her with violent spasms.

“Damn!” Shay’s curse was soft, but fervent, as he tugged her to her feet, lifting her into his arms. He carried her easily, as though she were featherlight, and her hand reached to clasp his neck, holding tight to the anchor he’d become. Pausing at the pump, he braced one foot on the watering trough. He lifted the handle, then pressed it down, allowing the water to gush forth. His hand snatched the kerchief from his throat and he held it beneath the flow, somehow balancing her weight on his knee.

“Put me down,” she whispered. “I’m too heavy.”

His glance was quelling and she bit her lip, motionless in his grip. The kerchief was squeezed in his wide palm and he shook it out, droplets shimmering in the setting sun. Folding it in upon itself, he wiped her face with the damp cloth, and she felt the nausea subside.

“Is she all right?” It was Isabelle behind them, and Jenny murmured words of reassurance.

“Get us a cup for water,” Shay said curtly, and Isabelle responded with a breathless agreement. In moments she was back, and again water ran from the pitcher pump, this time filling a china mug from the kitchen. Shay held it to Jenny’s lips and she drank, swallowing great gulps, until he tilted it away from her.

“Slow down, sweetheart,” he whispered. “You’ll be sick if you drink it too fast.”

“I’m sick anyway,” she muttered, her embarrassment rising as she took stock of her position. “Let me down now.”

“In a bit,” he told her. “Take the cup, Isabelle,” he said firmly, and then, both arms encircling Jenny again, he lifted her high against his chest and walked to the barn. She glanced over his shoulder to see Isabelle near the watering trough, cup in hand, a look of fear bringing her soft features into bold detail.

“Where are we going?” His stride was long, his breathing deep, and Jenny felt apprehension nudging her. The man was beyond anger, way past the point of reasonable behavior, and she was being toted like a…Her mind was blank. His arms held her with care, firmly but without undue force. His face was drawn in lines of concern, but an underlying fury drove him beyond his normal conduct.

Shay was a man to be reckoned with, and she was about to face him, head-to-head. And in the barn, it seemed. He entered the wide doorway and halted, his head turning from one side to the other, as though he sought a place to conduct this conversation.

“This’ll do,” he said shortly, dropping her to her feet at the bottom of the ladder that led to the hay loft. “Climb,” he told her.

She looked at him over her shoulder. “Climb? You want me to climb into the loft?”

He nodded. “I thought I was pretty clear on that.”

The warmth of his body penetrated her clothing and she felt a flush warm her cheeks. “Can’t we talk right here? Or back on the porch?”

“Climb.” The single word left her no leeway, no room for argument, and she wondered at her own compliance as she obeyed his command. Jenny Pennington was not a pushover. She’d run a plantation, managed to keep her head above water and been a prideful woman for the past several years. Now she found herself bending to the will of a man who had literally scooped her up, mopped her face with a sopping wet kerchief, then ordered her to climb a ladder into the hayloft.

Her feet found the square rungs in rapid procession, and her wobbling legs propelled her over the edge into a deep pile of fresh hay. He was close behind, rising to his feet and glaring down at her as if she were a recalcitrant child.

“Everything all right up there?” Noah was below, peering upward and Shay growled a reply. “Yes, sir. I can see you got things under control, Mr. Shay.” Noah’s words faded as he left the barn, and Shay turned back to Jenny. His mouth twisted in an exasperated grimace, and he dropped down beside her.

“Damn, you sure know how to get me riled.”

“Because I felt sick?” she asked. “Or because I didn’t tell you my sad story?”

“Neither,” he told her. “No, both, maybe. You were green around the gills, and I was afraid you’d faint dead away on me. And then I knew I’d have to fight to make you tell me what I need to know, and the porch wasn’t the place for that kind of a battle.”

She looked around the loft, only the open window allowing enough light for her to see him clearly. “And this is?”

“It’ll do.” He leaned beside her on one elbow. “Now, tell me what Marshall was talking about. He said a big man had hurt you.”

The confusion of Shay’s trip to the barn and the climbing to the loft had chased the images from her mind, and for that she was grateful. Perhaps, with Shay here, and surrounded by the safety of this private place, she could remember that day without falling prey to the heart-clenching horror she’d lived through.

And there was to be no retreat. Shay’s grim features made that clear. Her mouth worked as she searched for the words, and her speech was halting.

“Yes, he saw a big man,” she began, her gaze turning inward as she remembered Marshall’s wide, terror-stricken eyes. “He watched a brute in a blue uniform take me inside the house, while he and Isabelle were kept in the yard. And later he saw me crying.” She clenched her hands tightly, oblivious to the long fingers that untangled her own, and matched their palms in a warm embrace.

“What did he do to you?” His voice was low, rasping and she looked up to see darkness where so lately amusement and kindness had danced in the depths of his eyes.

Her words were careful, precise. “I don’t think you want to know.”

His dark head nodded slowly. “You may be right. But I need to know. I need to hear it from you.” He bent closer. “And maybe you need to tell me. Maybe speaking the words aloud will chase the memory from your mind.”

The trembling began in her limbs, or perhaps it had never ceased, she thought, remembering the climb up the ladder. Shivers chased the length of her spine and gooseflesh turned her arms cold. She opened her mouth and felt the urge to scream, to let loose the shame, to shout her anger aloud. As if Shay were the culprit, she turned her fury in his direction.

“He made me strip and lay on the floor, right in the parlor. And then he used me like I suppose a man uses a whore…until I bled. He laughed at my tears, and told me I was lucky, that he’d saved up for weeks till he found a woman pretty enough to—” Her mouth could not speak the word, the ultimately filthy phrase he’d used to describe his act.

“And I was the lucky one he’d chosen.” The bitterness she could no longer contain put a vile connotation on the word, and she bowed her head as grief manifested itself. The sobs were heart-rending, the tears profuse, and her wail of sorrow was muffled against his shirt. Shay lifted her on his lap, sitting upright against a post, and held her as he would a child, his arms offering comfort, his whispered words soothing her anguish.

She buried her face in the center of his chest, her fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt, and drew her knees up. Shay’s warmth surrounded her, his face resting against her hair, his hands moving against her back, then rubbing her arm. He lifted his hand to her head, his fingers combing through the loosened locks of hair, and he buried his fist in the length of silken tresses.

“Jenny.” That such soft, whispering comfort could come from the depths of a man like Shay was beyond her comprehension, and yet his whisper of her name conveyed an emotion too deep for words to express. Her name vibrated from the firm cushion of his chest, sounding against her ear as if it would enfold her in its syllables. He rocked her in his arms, swallowing her anger in his sorrow, smothering her fury with a blanket of tenderness. And mourning with her for the loss of her dignity, the trampling of her pride and the violation of her innocence.

Not that she’d been virginal, but that before that day she’d been treated with respect and love. Until the day she gave herself in trade for the safety of her family. Until she’d been called upon to purchase the plantation in a way she’d never imagined would be required of her.

The night grew cool, and the owl that made its nest in the rafters of the loft flew on wide wings to the window opening. Its mournful sound echoed as it took flight into the night air, and Jenny gathered herself, lifting her head, reaching for the handkerchief she kept in her apron pocket.

She’d cried copious tears, Shay’s shirt soaking them up, and no doubt dampening his chest. He’d found her another kerchief in his pocket, and that, too, had been the recipient of more moisture than she’d thought possible. But blowing her nose was a private business, better done with her own white handkerchief. Sitting upright now on his thighs, she did so, aware of Shay’s soft chuckle.

“Feel better?” he asked dryly.

“Does the word cleansed have any meaning right now?” she asked quietly, folding her hands in her lap and looking into his eyes.

His nod was barely visible and she sighed. “I’ve never talked about it before, not even to Isabelle. She knew, of course. And so did Noah, and the boys, I’m sure, but no one ever mentioned it. I suppose they understood that I wanted to forget that day.” She touched his face, her fingers tracing the line of his scar.

“I don’t suppose we ever really forget though, do we? When we’re scarred beyond repair, I mean.” She felt his jaw harden beneath her hand and she cupped his chin. “Do you blame me, Shay? Did I do the right thing? Or should I have watched while they burned my home and left the lot of us standing while they rode off?”

He was quiet, the muscles of his jaw clenching, and she felt his anger radiate from the depths of his being. Yet when he spoke, his words were soft, reasonable and soothing to her soul. “You did what you had to, Jenny. What we all do when the time comes to make a choice. Whether it causes pain or shame or sorrow, sometimes we’re called on to make a sacrifice that scars the soul. And then we have to live with it.”

“What happened soiled me,” she murmured. “Made me not fit for a decent man. I doubt I’ll ever feel…”

His hand covered her mouth, a rough, immediate response to her words that took her breath. “Don’t speak such blasphemy,” he growled. “You’re a fine woman, a good woman. His actions didn’t place a curse on you. But trust me sweetheart—the man will burn in hell for what he did that day. And if it were possible, I’d send him there myself.”

She uttered a sound of disbelief. “I wouldn’t want you to, Shay. Murder is never the right answer.”

He was quiet, barely breathing, and then he spoke. “Sometimes it’s the only answer.”

She was chilled by his reply, frightened by the bleak tone of his voice. And then he lifted her from his lap, stood and walked to the window. He was a shadow against the starlight, a tall, gaunt reminder that there are hidden depths in every man that don’t bear revealing, and Jenny hugged her knees to her chest, mourning the loss of his embrace.

She hadn’t looked him in the eye, had blushed beneath his scrutiny at the breakfast table. Shay’s hands gripped the handles of the cultivator and held it against the earth. Ahead of him, the mule leaned forward in her traces, and the combined force of his weight and her strength dug the three curved prongs into the ground, turning the hard dirt to tillable soil. His muscles bulged as he held the big implement steady, veering neither right nor left, staying between the rows of corn.

Behind him, Joseph followed, rake in hand, hilling the stalks, leaving the furrows deeper than the ridged rows. It was a hard job, and an hour at a time was enough to make a man rue the need for it. Noah stood at the far end of the row, waiting his turn behind the mule, and Shay was willing to give it up to him.

“I don’t know how you managed it by yourself before your sons were big enough to help with this,” he muttered, drawing his gloves off and tucking them into his back pocket.

“We all do what we have to,” Noah told him, his grin wide and white. “Can’t say it’s my favorite way to spend a morning.” He nodded at the broad haunches of the mule. “Not much to look at, the way I see it.” Shay caught his meaning. It brought a laugh from his depths and he rejoiced at the moment of amusement. There hadn’t been much to smile about thus far today.

Jenny had left the loft, silently and without his notice, as he stood at the window last night. Her slender form had caught his eye, her feet flying as she ran to the house, and he’d turned away from his dark thoughts, disgusted that he’d allowed her to flee, unheeded. The mattress had been hard and unyielding beneath his body throughout the long night, as he thought of the words she had spoken, the tears she’d shed against his chest. And most of all he remembered the feel of her curves, the warmth of her slender form as she clung to him, curled against his eager flesh, secure in his arms.

Breakfast had been brief, Jenny leaving the table to work with a bread pan full of risen dough at the buffet. She’d refused to look up when he bid her good day, only mumbled a reply. Marshall, oblivious to his mother’s mood, had followed Shay to the barn, and then to the cornfield.

Now he sat beneath tall bushes in the hedgerow, in charge of the water jars and carefully tending his collection of tin soldiers. On his stomach, smack dab in the center of a quilt Shay had spread for him, he kicked his feet in the air, laughing to himself as his miniature army marched across the corduroy patches. His golden hair was dark with perspiration at the temples, and sweat glistened on his nose as he looked up at Shay’s approach.

“Mr. Shay,” he called out. “Come see my soldiers.” Rising to his knees, he motioned to the area beside him. “You wanta sit with me for a while?” His smile was bright and he reached to find a jar of water. “It’s still pretty cool. Mama said to cover it with part of the quilt, and I thought it would make it warmer, but she said it would help keep it cool.” His brow furrowed as his small hands enclosed the jar, offering it to Shay. “That doesn’t make sense to me.”

Shay unscrewed the lid and tilted the jar to his mouth, swallowing the sweet spring water, making no attempt to halt the cooling drops that seeped down his chin. They stained his shirt, dark blots penetrating the fabric, and he looked down, reminded of the hot tears Jenny had shed on this selfsame shirt last night.

“Your mama knows more than we do, I think,” he told the boy. “Women have a knack of picking up on things. Now, we men,” he said wisely, exaggerating the words for Marshall’s benefit, “we just have to do the best we can, and pay attention to what we’re told.”

“You, too, Mr. Shay? Do you have to listen to my mama?” Marshall cocked his head to one side and frowned at the idea.

“Yeah,” Shay said. “I listen to whatever your mama tells me, son.” It seemed the boy had forgotten the moments from the evening before, his qualms buried beneath the ready smile and generous spirit he exhibited.

“I sure like you,” Marshall offered offhandedly. “I bet my mama does, too.”

Shay slanted him a grin, uncaring that his scar drew up, twisting his mouth. “You think so?” He thought a minute. “Maybe so, Marsh. Maybe so.” Noah was at the end of the row, Joseph close behind. Another two swipes through the cornfield and he’d be switching places again. Just about time for a nap, he figured.

His sharp gaze scanned the fields surrounding them, searched the hedgerow briefly, and then settled again on the boy. “You be sure to wake me if anyone comes along, Marsh. I’m gonna close my eyes for a few minutes.”

Marshall looked up, already absorbed in his soldiers, and nodded distractedly. “I’ll keep an eye out, Mr. Shay.” He bent to pick up a figure, adjusted the angle of its weapon, and sent Shay another look. “Even if my mama comes, should I wake you up?”

Shay watched him from beneath his hat brim, and chuckled, a low sound that seemed to please the boy. “Especially if your mama comes by, son. You be sure and wake me.”

“Ess-pesh-ly,” Marshall repeated, emphasizing the sounds, enjoying the flavor of the word. “Ess-pesh-ly.”

“Our Caleb’s got him a woman,” Isabelle said, her air nonchalant, her words prideful.

Jenny looked up from her sewing, holding the needle in midair. “Someone from close by? Do I know her?” If Caleb had found a bride, it would mean allotting him land of his own to till and work. And one less hand to tend the fields here, she thought.

“Remember Sarah and Eli? The pair of them got married soon as they could, after—” Isabelle halted, weighing her words. “I still don’t feel good about how some of our people left here, Jen. Like they didn’t have it pretty good with you and Mr. Carl.”

“They weren’t free, Isabelle. I can’t blame them for leaving. I might have done the same.” She looked out the window to where the corn was almost as high as the pasture fencing. “Working your own land is different than sweating over someone else’s crop.”

“Well, if they’d hung around, you’d have give ’em a piece to work for theirselves,” Isabelle told her. “Now they’re doing shares with Doc Gibson, over south of here. And not likin’ it much.”

“Get back to Caleb’s woman,” Jenny said impatiently. “Is she kin to Sarah and Eli?”

“Their daughter. More girl than woman, I guess. Almost seventeen years old. She’s been showin’ up here every few days, makin’ eyes at my boy like he’s the cock of the walk.” Isabelle’s smile was tender as she ceased the rise and fall of the dasher. Churning was tedious work and talking made it palatable, but Isabelle tended to break her regular rhythm when she got caught up in storytelling.

“Caleb’s a handsome man,” Jenny agreed readily. “Tall and strong, and probably more than ready for a place of his own.”

Isabelle slanted a glance across the kitchen, to where Jenny sat near the window. Taking advantage of sunlight was a double delight, she figured. It made the task of sewing more enjoyable to gaze from the window between times. Catching a glimpse of Marshall now and then as he followed Shay’s tall figure around the place gave her a feeling of contentment that rested easy on her mind.

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