CHAPTER 11

DARCY HURRIED to finish her morning’s routine. Breakfast over, dishes done, floor swept, front window washed . . . only because Mammaw said she couldn’t see out. Darcy bit her tongue as she searched for the vinegar and some newsprint. There wasn’t a thing wrong with that window. Just because Mammaw used to wash her windows once a week didn’t mean Darcy had time for the same. Sometimes her grandmother could try the patience of a saint.

Darcy’s face flamed. A saint wouldn’t be sneaking around, and a saint definitely wouldn’t have entertained the thoughts she’d had all week. But I’m not really sneaking, Darcy consoled herself. I have to go to town anyway to get Mrs. Upchurch’s order to the post office. It’s not by my design that Henry’s office is just down the street.

She wrapped a bit of newspaper around her index finger and wiped a streak from a pane. Standing back, she admired her handiwork. “Clean as a whistle,” she said, untying the apron strings from behind her neck.

“Ain’t you going to do the outside?” Mammaw asked from her wheeled chair. “Seems to me a window ain’t really clean if ye only do the one side.”

“Remy will be here any second, and I need to get to the post office early this morning.”

Mammaw sighed. “All right then, honey. I don’t want to hold you back.”

Darcy hung her apron on the peg behind the door, picked up the jar of vinegar water, and started toward the pantry to put it back on the shelf.

“That window glass puts me in mind of a half-baked pie,” she heard Mammaw’s quiet lament.

Darcy jerked her apron from the peg and opened the door. “Maybe I’ll just finish this window before I go,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Well, if it ain’t too much trouble,” Mammaw answered.

Just as she was twisting the zinc lid back onto the glass jar of window wash, she heard Remy’s crutch hit the porch floor.

“Morning,” Remy said in her strange, rusty voice.

“Am I glad to see you,” Darcy replied, then dropped her voice. “Mammaw’s in a mood.”

Remy was not one to waste words. “Warranted, I reckon.”

Thank Remy to cut to the crux of the matter. After hobbling all the way here with the aid of a crutch, she put Darcy in her place.

Darcy held the door and Remy hitched inside. Mammaw had nodded off. Her double chin rested on her chest, which rose and fell with faint snores. Remy took a seat in a nearby chair.

Darcy tied a fancy bonnet under her chin and fetched the box that held Mrs. Upchurch’s order. “Good-bye,” she mouthed. “Thank you.”

Remy dismissed her with a nod.

The moment she stepped away from the cabin, Darcy’s spirit lightened. As much as she loved her grandmother, and though she thanked God every day for her, sometimes Darcy was nearly smothered with her constant need. How would she care for Mammaw if she and Henry chanced to marry? Darcy’s mind took fanciful flight as she hitched Chessie to the light buggy. He would live here, of course. She saw him tenderly feeding Mammaw her Cream of Wheat while Darcy stitched another of her creations. When he was finished, Darcy would hand him his just-whisked suit coat as he left for the office.

Darcy’s lips tingled at the thought of his good-bye kiss. She could see herself waving Henry off before she turned back to Mammaw, who hid a tender smile behind her hand, a smile that recognized Darcy’s good fortune.

Startled out of her reverie, Darcy pulled hard on the reins when a wagon loaded with pigs approached from around a hairpin curve in the road. The buggy wheel slipped dangerously close to the narrow shoulder, the only thing between Darcy and a deadly plunge into a deep ravine. At a sharp flick of the reins, Chessie picked up speed. Gravel flew. Pigs squealed. A flock of doves lifted from the branches of a pine tree. The other driver shook his fist.

“Sorry,” Darcy called above the clamor of the doves.

“I need to stop daydreaming and pay attention to the road,” she said to Chessie. “A body could get killed out here.”

But it wasn’t just wishful thinking, Darcy knew as she righted her bonnet. It was a dream about to be fulfilled.

Henry had daydreams of his own, and they all had to do with reclaiming his heritage. His office door was propped open to the warm spring day while he did some bookkeeping. His fine script in navy blue ink filled page after page in leather-bound ledgers. At the present he was entering accounts received, his favorite task. Henry trusted numbers, especially numbers that stood for dollars. Each column on each page took up the same amount of space, nothing overlapped, and not a letter or a number was less than perfectly printed.

Henry paused to refill his pen from the bottle of ink in the inkwell. He’d have a larger income if he’d stayed in Chicago. He’d clerked in a law office to pay his way through school. They’d offered him a good position with a good salary when he graduated, but Henry had old scores to settle and they couldn’t be settled in Chicago.

Henry grew up poor as dirt and just as disrespected. His father —long gone now —had been a layabout, his mother so broken down by childbearing she hardly knew Henry existed. He remembered as a boy tagging behind her as she begged for credit at Coomb’s Dry Goods. He remembered his family being turned out of one tenant house after another when Henry’s father wouldn’t keep the place up, wouldn’t work on a bet if the odds were in his favor. The last place they’d lived in had cracks in the walls big enough to pitch a cat through.

But things were different now. When he walked down the street, folks practically bowed and scraped. “Morning, Mr. Thomas,” he’d hear. Or “Fine morning, Henry. I need to see you about a little something.” Henry was privy to the business of nearly everybody in the county, and scores of them owed him money. Sometimes he called in his obligations; sometimes he didn’t. There was power in having folks in his debt —power and control.

Taking a clean sheet of paper from a stack, Henry angled it in the middle of his desk and began to draw. From long-entertained memory he sketched the footprint of what had once been his grandfather Thomas’s farm. Carefully he blotted the ink, then further outlined a rough draft of the external border of the various Whitts’ property: Fairy Mae’s, Dimmert’s, and through Dance, Ace Shelton’s. He knew what he searched for, of course, knew the answer before pen and ink revealed it in truth: his grandfather’s lost legacy. What should have been Henry’s birthright, acre upon acre of buried coal and richly timbered land nearly touched the black-inked borders of what now belonged to the Whitts.

Over a period of time, ten acres here and twenty there, Herbert Whitt had by hook or by crook obtained most every smidgen of property once owned by Henry’s grandfather. By all accounts, Fairy Mae’s husband had been a shrewd businessman and a first-rate card shark. Obviously Henry’s grandfather had been neither. But Henry remembered his grandpa’s kindness and the stick candy he kept in his pocket especially for his namesake. He always had cinnamon, Henry’s favorite. “You’re the smartest of the bunch,” he’d tell Henry.

Henry’s pen rested too long in one place, and now an ink stain besmirched his drawing, spreading across the paper like the acid of anger stained Henry’s heart.

Opening the middle drawer of the desk, Henry withdrew a key and went to the standing display case in front of the horsehair settee. He slipped the key in the lock and opened the case with one quick turn of his wrist. Next to money, the objects there were Henry’s treasures and a reminder of his great-grandmother’s Cherokee heritage. He fingered a sharp-tipped arrowhead. The workmanship always gave him pause. He’d seen his great-grandmother only one time, but he remembered with the clarity of youth her beauty and her dignity. He laid the arrowhead in place.

Unconsciously he ran his fingers through his thick, coal black hair, then traced the outline of his fine, long nose. Though not vain, Henry was aware of his good looks. While in Chicago, at every dance and debutante ball Henry could swing an invitation to, the young ladies had flocked to his side —even the daughter of the president of the law firm he clerked for. But Henry didn’t attend parties to meet women; he went to learn manners and social decorum.

“All wasted here,” he said aloud. Taking a ceremonial tomahawk from the display, he gripped the handle, slung it over his shoulder, and brought it forward, slicing the air but with no release. The silky eagle feathers attached to the handle with a leather thong fluttered with the motion. It had been a while since he’d practiced with the hatchet. Maybe he’d take it with him whenever he had the opportunity to stake Ace Shelton’s land. He could hardly wait to see that place. It was sure to be as rich as the other Whitt properties. One pleasant thought led to another and then to the fair Darcy.

As if he’d orchestrated her appearance, Darcy peered through the door. “Henry, are you to home?”

Henry’s pulse quickened. Quickly he replaced the tomahawk, turning the key once more. Darcy stood in the doorway backlit by sunshine. In a few strides Henry was across the room, extending his hand to her. “Come in. Please come in.”

“Well,” she said, “I don’t know if that would be proper. Maybe you’d best step out here.”

“There wouldn’t be a thing wrong with you coming in. Folks will think you’re here on business.”

“Are you sure? I wouldn’t want any gossip to get back to Mammaw.”

With one hand he captured her elbow and pulled her across the threshold. Her scent reminded him of Ivory soap, so clean, so pure —just being in her presence made him feel special. Could that be love? Henry didn’t know what love was supposed to feel like. The only person who ever cared for him was his grandfather, and that was years ago. Henry’s desire to kiss her innocent lips was so strong he nearly grabbed her right there. Instead he moved back to let her in, sliding the doorstop away with his foot. “What brings you to town, Darcy Mae?”

With a little dip of her knees, Darcy placed a large box wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string on the display case. “I had to mail this package. Your office is on the way —um, just across from the post office.” She stumbled over her words. “I guess you already know that.”

Her cheeks looked like bright red apples. Henry had to hold himself back from taking a bite. “I’m glad you thought to stop by. I really enjoyed having lunch with you.”

With small movements she twisted her shoulders from side to side and ducked her head like a girl in a schoolyard. “Really?”

“Really. Come here.” He guided her to the back room, where he kept an Army cot, clothes, office supplies, and a big black safe.

“Henry? I don’t think . . . I shouldn’t . . .”

He silenced her with darting kisses, first her ripe apple cheeks, then her sweet, sweet lips.

“Oh my,” she said. “Henry.”

He pulled her as close as close could be. “What is it about you, little Darcy?”

She stood on tiptoe and returned his quick kisses with the softness of a butterfly’s wings. It seemed as if Henry had been hungering for this all his life.

He reined himself in. “There,” he said with a light but lingering kiss upon her willing lips. “We’d best stop.”

“Yes,” she replied, not moving from the circle of his arms, “we’d best.”

The bell over the office door dinged. He pulled away and straightened his tie. Cracking the supply room door, he edged around it. He’d get rid of the visitors while Darcy waited unseen.

Of all people, Ace and Cara stood waiting. He nearly swallowed his Adam’s apple.

“Your sign said to come on in. Sorry to interrupt.” Ace cocked his head and strained his neck, looking around Henry.

Dimmert’s wife turned her head. “Ace,” she murmured, “we can come back later.”

“No need for that. I was just counting supplies.” Henry cleared his throat. What in thunder was Ace looking at? Chancing a glance behind, he could feel the color drain from his face. A froth of skirt and petticoat was caught in the door. Inch by slow inch the skirt tail was being tugged from its trap. Stop! he thought to say, though he didn’t open his mouth, for with one more jerk the door popped open. There stood Darcy with her bonnet askew, her eyes round as wagon wheels.

“What?” Ace exploded.

“Ace,” Darcy choked.

“Oh, dear,” Cara chimed in.

“I can explain.” Henry’s calm, detached lawyer’s persona took over. “Miss Whitt was taking my measurements for a new suit coat.”

“Behind closed doors?” Ace said, his eyes narrowed, one fist thumping the other palm.

“That door swung too when you opened this one.” Henry pointed at the office door. “It always does that.” He squared his shoulders and stared back at Ace. “Sorry to put you in a bad light, Miss Whitt.”

“Goodness,” Darcy said, righting her bonnet and picking up her package. “I’d best get this mailed.”

“Perhaps another time for the measurement, then,” Henry said without breaking his eye lock with Ace.

Ace backed toward the open door, keeping Henry in sight as if he were a rabid dog. “I’ll measure you, Henry Thomas. I’ll measure you good if this happens again. Darcy! Cara. Let’s get out of here.”

As the door slammed closed behind Ace, Henry had to admit he was shaken. Shaken and embarrassed —feelings of weakness he was not used to entertaining. Those emotions took him right back to his wretched childhood. He’d allowed the fetching Darcy Whitt to penetrate his carefully constructed armor. That made him as big a fool as any other man.

He paced the room, rounding his shoulders and letting them drop until embarrassment turned to anger, an emotion Henry could deal with.