She inched up on one elbow, wishing she could see better. The directions the woman on the ferry had given her had been wrong, and it had been dark before she’d found the house. She’d huddled in some trees across the way for a while, but nothing had happened, so she’d come around to the back and climbed the wall that surrounded the house in order to see better. When she’d spotted the open stable window, she’d decided to slip inside to investigate. Unfortunately, the familiar scents of horses and fresh straw had proved too much for her, and she’d fallen asleep in the back of an empty stall.
“You plannin’ to take Saratoga out tomorrow?” This was a different voice, the familiar, liquid tones reminiscent of the speech of former plantation slaves.
“I might. Why?”
“Don’t like the way that fetlock’s healin’. Better give her a few more days.”
“Fine. I’ll take a look at her tomorrow. Good night, Magnus.”
“Night, Major.”
Major? Kit’s heart pounded. The man with the deep voice was Baron Cain! She crept to the stable window and peered over the sill just in time to see him disappear inside the lighted house. Too late. She’d missed her chance to get a glimpse of his face. A whole day wasted.
For a moment she felt a traitorous tightening in her throat. She couldn’t have made a bigger mess of things if she’d tried. It was long after midnight, she was in a strange Yankee city, and she’d nearly got herself found out the first day. She swallowed hard and tried to restore her spirits by forcing her battered hat more firmly down on her head. It was no good crying over milk that was already spilled. For now, she had to get out of here and find a place to spend the rest of the night. Tomorrow she’d take up her surveillance from a safer distance.
She fetched her bundle, crept to the doors, and listened. Cain had gone into the house, but where was the man called Magnus? Cautiously she pushed the door open and peered outside.
Light from the curtained windows filtered over the open ground between the stable and the carriage house. She slipped out and listened, but the yard was silent and deserted. She knew the iron gate in the high brick wall was locked, so she’d have to get out the same way she’d come in, over the top.
The open stretch of yard she’d have to run across made her uneasy. Once more she glanced toward the house. Then she took a deep breath and ran.
The moment she was free of the stable, she knew something was wrong. The night air, no longer masked by the smell of horses, carried the faint, unmistakable scent of cigar smoke.
Her blood raced. She dug in her heels and threw herself at the wall, but the vine she grabbed to help her over came away in her hand. She clawed frantically for another one, dropped her bundle, and pulled herself up the wall. Just as she reached the top, something jerked hard on the seat of her trousers. She flailed at the empty air and then slammed, belly-first, to the ground. A boot settled into the small of her back.
“Well, well, what do we have here?” the boot’s owner drawled overhead.
The fall had knocked the wind out of her, but she still recognized that deep voice. The man who was holding her down was her sworn enemy, Major Baron Nathaniel Cain.
Her rage shimmered in a red haze. She dug her hands into the dirt and struggled to get up, but he didn’t budge.
“Git your damn foot off me, you dirty son of a bitch!”
“I don’t think I’m quite ready to do that,” he said with a calmness that enraged her.
“Let me up! You let me up right now!”
“You’re awfully feisty for a thief.”
“Thief!” Outraged, she slammed her fists into the dirt. “I never stole anything in my life. You show me a man who says I have, and I’ll show you a damn liar.”
“Then what were you doing in my stable?”
That stopped her. She searched her brain for an excuse he might believe. “I—I came here lookin’ . . . lookin’ . . . for a job workin’ in your stable. Nobody was around, so I went inside to wait for somebody to show up. Musta fallen asleep.”
His foot didn’t budge.
“W-when I woke up, it was dark. Then I heard voices, and I got scared somebody would see me and think I was tryin’ to hurt the horses.”
“It seems to me that somebody looking for work should have had enough sense to knock on the back door.”
It seemed that way to Kit, too.
“I’m shy,” she said.
He chuckled and slowly the weight lifted from her back. “I’m going to let you up now. You’ll regret it if you try to run, boy.”
“I’m not a—” She caught herself just in time. “I’m not about to run,” she amended, scrambling to her feet. “Haven’t done anything wrong.”
“I guess that remains to be seen, doesn’t it?”
Just then the moon came out from behind a cloud, and he was no longer a looming, menacing shadow but a flesh-and-blood man. She sucked in her breath.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and lean-hipped. Although she didn’t usually pay attention to such things, he was also the handsomest man she’d ever seen. The ends of his necktie dangled from the open collar of his white dress shirt, which was held together with small onyx studs. He wore black trousers and stood easily, a hand lightly balanced on his hip, his cigar still clenched between his teeth.
“What do you have in there?” He jerked his head toward the base of the wall where her bundle lay.
“Nothin’ of yours!”
“Show me.”
Kit wanted to defy him, but he didn’t look like he’d take well to that, so she pulled the bundle from the weeds and opened it. “A change of clothes, a copy of Mr. Emerson’s Essays, and my daddy’s six-shot Pettingill’s revolver.” She didn’t mention the train ticket back to Charleston tucked inside the book. “Nothin’ of yours in here.”
“What’s a boy like you doing with Emerson’s Essays?”
“I’m a disciple.”
There was a slight twitching at the corner of his lips. “You have any money?”
She bent over to rewrap her bundle. “ ’Course I’ve got money. You think I’d be so puerile as to come to a strange city without it?”
“How much?”
“Ten dollars,” she said defiantly.
“You can’t live for long in New York City on that.”
He’d be even more critical if he knew she really had only three dollars and twenty-eight cents. “I told you I was lookin’ for a job.”
“So you did.”
If only he weren’t quite so big. She hated herself for taking a step backward. “I’d better be goin’ now.”
“You know trespassing is against the law. Maybe I’ll turn you over to the police.”
Kit didn’t like being backed into a corner, and she stuck up her chin. “Hit don’t make no nevermind to me what you do. I ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Where are you from, boy?”
“Michigan.”
At first she didn’t understand his burst of laughter, and then she realized her mistake. “I guess you found me out. I’m really from Alabama, but with the war just over, I’m not anxious to advertise that.”
“Then you’d better keep your mouth shut.” He chuckled. “Aren’t you a little young to be carrying a gun?”
“Don’t see why. I know how to use it.”
“I’ll just bet you do.” He studied her more closely. “Why did you leave home?”
“No jobs anymore.”
“What about your parents?”
Kit repeated the story she’d told the street vendor. When she was done, he took his time thinking it over. She had to force herself not to squirm.
“My stable boy quit last week. How’d you like to work for me?”
“For you?” she murmured weakly.
“That’s right. You’d take your orders from my head man, Magnus Owen. He doesn’t have your lily-white skin, so if that’s going to offend your Southern pride, you’d better tell me now, and
we won’t waste any more time.” When she didn’t reply, he continued. “You can sleep over the stable and eat in the kitchen. Salary is three dollars a week.”
She kicked at the dirt with the toe of her scuffed boot. Her mind raced. If she’d learned anything today, she’d learned that Baron Cain wouldn’t be easy to kill, especially now that he’d seen her face. Working in his stable would keep her close to him, but it would also make her job twice as dangerous.
Since when had danger ever bothered her?
She tucked her thumbs into the waist of her trousers. “Two bits more, Yankee, and you got yourself a stable boy.”
Her room above the stable smelled agreeably of horses, leather, and dust. It was comfortably furnished with a soft bed, an oak rocker, and a faded rag rug, as well as a washstand that she ignored. Most important, it possessed a window that looked out over the back of the house so she could keep watch.
She waited until Cain had disappeared inside before she kicked off her boots and climbed into bed. Despite her nap in the stable, she was tired. Even so, she didn’t fall asleep right away. Instead, she found herself wondering how her life might have turned out if her daddy hadn’t made that trip to Charleston when she was eight years old and taken it into his head to get married again.
From the moment Garrett Weston had met Rosemary, he’d been moonstruck, even though she was older than he and her blond beauty had hard edges any fool could have spotted. Rosemary didn’t make a secret of the fact that she couldn’t stand children, and the day Garrett brought her home to Risen Glory, she’d pleaded the need for a newlywed’s privacy and sent eight-year-old Kit to spend the night in a cabin near the slave quarters. Kit had never been allowed back.
If she forgot that she no longer had the run of the house, Rosemary reminded her with a stinging slap or a boxed ear, so Kit confined herself to the kitchen. Even the sporadic lessons she received from a neighborhood tutor were conducted in the cabin.
Garrett Weston had never been an attentive father, and he barely seemed to notice that his only child was receiving less care than the children of his slaves. He was too obsessed with his beautiful, sensual wife.
The neighbors were scandalized. That child is running wild! Bad enough if she was a boy, but even a fool like Garrett Weston should know enough not to let a girl run around like that.
Rosemary Weston had no interest in local society, and she ignored their pointed hints that Kit needed a governess or, at the very least, acceptable clothing. Eventually, the neighborhood women sought out Kit themselves with their daughters’ cast-off dresses and lectures on proper female behavior. Kit ignored the lectures and traded the dresses for britches and boys’ shirts. By the time she was ten, she could shoot, cuss, ride a horse bareback, and had even smoked a cigar.
At night when loneliness overwhelmed her, she reminded herself that her new life had advantages for a girl who’d been born with an adventurous heart. She could climb the peach trees in the orchard any time she wanted and swing from ropes in the barn. The men of the community taught her how to ride and fish. She’d sneak into the library before her stepmother emerged from her bedroom in the morning and forage for books with no worries of censorship. And if she scraped her knee or caught a splinter in her foot, she could always run to Sophronia in the kitchen.
The war changed everything. The first shots had been fired at Fort Sumter a month before her fourteenth birthday. Not long after that, Garrett Weston had turned over the management of the plantation to Rosemary and joined the Confederate army. Since Kit’s stepmother never rose before eleven and hated the outdoors, Risen Glory began to fall into disrepair. Kit tried desperately to take her father’s place, but the war had put an end to the market for Southern cotton, and she was too young to hold it all together.
The slaves ran off. Garrett Weston was killed at Shiloh. Bitterly, Kit received the news that he’d left the plantation to his wife. Kit had received a trust fund from her grandmother a few years earlier, but that meant nothing to her.
Not long after, Yankee soldiers marched through Rutherford, burning everything in their path. Rosemary’s attraction to a handsome young lieutenant from Ohio and her subsequent invitation for him to join her in her bedroom spared the house at Risen Glory, although not the outbuildings. Shortly after Lee’s surrender at Appomattox. Rosemary died in an influenza epidemic.
Kit had lost everything. Her father, her childhood, her way of life. Only the land was left. Only Risen Glory. And as she curled into the thin mattress above the stable owned by Baron Cain, she knew that was all that counted. No matter what she had to do, she’d get it back.
She fell asleep imagining how it would be when Risen Glory was finally hers.
The stable held four horses, a matched pair for the carriage and two hunters. Some of Kit’s tension eased the next morning as a large bay with a long, elegant neck nuzzled her shoulder. Everything would be all right. She’d keep her eyes open and bide her time. Baron Cain was dangerous, but she had the advantage. She knew her enemy.
“His name is Apollo.”
“What?” She spun around to see a young man with rich chocolate skin and large, expressive eyes standing on the other side of the half door that separated the stalls from the center aisle of the stable. He was in his early-to-mid-twenties and tall, with slim shoulders and a slight, supple build. A black-and-white mongrel waited patiently near his heels.
“That bay. His name is Apollo. He’s the major’s favorite mount.”
“You don’t say.” Kit opened the door and stepped out of the stall.
The mongrel sniffed her while the young man looked her over critically. “I’m Magnus Owen. Major said he hired you last night after he caught you sneakin’ out of the stable.”
“I wasn’t sneakin’. Well, not exactly. That major of yours has a naturally suspicious nature, is all.” She looked down at the mongrel. “That your dog?”
“Yep. I call him Merlin.”
“Looks like a no-account dog to me.”
Magnus’s smooth, high forehead puckered indignantly. “Now, why do you want to say somethin’ like that, boy? You don’t even know my dog!”
“I spent yesterday afternoon asleep in that stall over there. If Merlin was any kinda dog, he’d of been mighty annoyed about that.” Kit reached down and absentmindedly scratched behind his ears.
“Merlin wasn’t here yesterday afternoon,” Magnus said. “He was with me.”
“Oh. Well, I guess I’m just inherently prejudiced. The Yankees killed my dog, Fergis. Best dog I ever knew. I mourn him to this day.”
Magnus’s expression softened a little. “What’s your name?”
She paused for a moment, then decided it would be easier to use her own first name. Behind Magnus’s head she spotted a can of Finney’s Harness Oil and Leather Preserver. “Name’s Kit. Kit Finney.”
“A mighty funny name for a boy.”
“My folks were admirers of Kit Carson, the Injun fighter.”
Magnus seemed to accept her explanation and was soon outlining her duties. Afterward, they went into the kitchen for breakfast, and he introduced her to the housekeeper.
Edith Simmons was a stout woman with thinning salt-and-pepper hair and strong opinions. She’d been cook and housekeeper for the former owner and had agreed to stay on only when she’d discovered that Baron Cain was unmarried and there’d be no wife to tell her how to do her job. Edith believed in thrift, good food, and personal hygiene. She and Kit were natural-born enemies.
“That boy is too dirty to eat with civilized people!”
“I won’t argue with you there,” Magnus replied.
Kit was too hungry to argue for very long, so she stomped into the pantry and splashed some water on her face and hands, but she refused to touch the soap. It smelled girlish, and Kit had been fighting everything feminine for as long as she could remember.
As she devoured the sumptuous breakfast, she studied Magnus Owen. From the way Mrs. Simmons deferred to him, it was o
bvious that he was an important figure in the household, unusual for a black man under any circumstances, but especially for one who was so young. Something tugged at Kit’s memory, but it wasn’t until they’d finished eating that she realized what it was. Magnus Owen reminded her of Sophronia, the cook at Risen Glory and the only person in the world Kit loved. Both Magnus and Sophronia acted as if they knew everything.
A pang of homesickness struck her, but she pushed it away. She’d be at Risen Glory soon enough, bringing the plantation back to life.
That afternoon when she finished her work, she sat in the shade near the front door of the stable, her arm draped across Merlin, who’d fallen asleep with his nose resting on her thigh. The dog didn’t stir as Magnus approached.
“This animal’s worthless,” she whispered. “If you was an ax murderer, I’d be dead by now.”
Magnus chuckled and lowered himself beside her. “I got to admit, Merlin isn’t much of a watchdog. But he’s young still. He was only a pup when the major found him rootin’ around in the alley behind the house.”
Kit had seen Cain only once that day, when he’d curtly ordered her to saddle Apollo. He’d been too full of himself to take a few minutes to pass the time of day. Not that she wanted to talk to the likes of him. It was just the principle of the thing.
The Yankee newspapers called him the Hero of Missionary Ridge. She knew he’d fought at Vicksburg and Shiloh. Maybe he was even the man who’d killed her daddy. It didn’t seem right that he was alive when so many brave Confederate soldiers were dead. And it was even more unjust that every breath he drew threatened the only thing she had left in the world.
“How long’ve you known the major?” she asked cautiously.
Magnus plucked a blade of grass and began to chew on it. “Since Chattanooga. He almost lost his life savin’ mine. We been together ever since.”
An awful suspicion began to grow inside Kit. “You weren’t fightin’ for the Yankees, were you, Magnus?”
“ ’Course I was fightin’ for the Yankees!”
She didn’t know why she should be so disappointed, except that she liked Magnus. “You told me you were from Georgia. Why didn’t you fight for your home state?”