Tristan swung the axe again, hoping his emotions would flow out of his hands and splinter with the crack of the wood. How had he let himself become this tangle of useless frustrations? Sweat slipped down the nape of his neck and soured the fine shirt he had no business wearing. He lifted the blade over his head and sent it down with all the force of his anger, the snap of the log sending tremors up his arms.
First it had been worrying about Miss Martin’s well-being with the inevitable loss of her home, then it had been memories of Millie, and then that infuriating codfish aristocrat with his condescension. The axe hit again, and more of his fury went out with the next log. Why had he gotten so mad in the first place? Mr. Weir held the same opinion that many men, north and south of the divide, held. If he were honest, at the start of the war he’d been just as bent on keeping slaves as the rest of them. He’d joined the army to defend his lands from invasion, but he truly believed the government had no right to tell them what they could and could not do on their own land. That had included owning people.
But all of that had changed a year ago. Everything had changed a year ago. He tossed the split log aside and reached for another from the stack. What had happened with Millie and Pat had brought long-buried childhood convictions to light. Thoughts he had tried to bury and ignore.
As a boy, he never could understand how skin made one man better than the other, he’d just been glad he’d been born the right color. His life had been one of comforts and privilege, and theirs had been one of toil and restraint. But anyone who questioned the system received firm reprimand, so he’d learned to bury those concerns as he grew into a man.
Movement drew his attention and he caught sight of Mrs. Martin hurrying down the rear steps. Tristan paused with the axe over his head and let it come to a rest on his shoulder.
“Mr. Weir is finished with his visit already?”
Mrs. Martin paused and eyed him. “No. He is sitting with Opal.”
Tristan took a step forward, his eyes darting to the closed door on the back of the house. “Alone?”
Mrs. Martin bristled and lifted her nose to look down it, but he held a height advantage over her, and she still had to raise her eyes. “Yes, but they are not entirely without a chaperone. The parlor door is open, and I am home.” She flapped a bony hand at him. “It has not been so long that I have forgotten proper etiquette, Mr. Stuart.”
The muscles in his jaw worked, and he hefted the axe once more. What business was it of his who these women entertained? He positioned another log on the splitting stump.
“How much longer do you intend to stay?”
He glanced up at her, unable to read the meaning behind her words. “Are you ready for me to go? I do not wish to be a burden.”
“No, your help has been most welcome. You may stay on, so long as you split the wood and do the manly chores we have long been without someone to tend.”
He nodded, but she still stared at him. He waited.
“But I am afraid we will be moving soon, and when that time comes, I suspect you will not wish to stay on and work for Mr. Weir.”
Tristan snorted. “No, I won’t be doing that.”
She fiddled with her dress. “What will you be doing, then?”
“Don’t know yet.”
Mrs. Martin turned back toward the kitchen. “Well, when you go, be sure to take that mongrel with you.”
“Shadow?”
She paused and lifted her eyebrows. “So you’ve named it?”
“Seemed better than calling him dog.”
She chuckled, and Tristan found it more robust than he’d expected. “Yes, well, you shall take good care of him, and I shall be glad to be rid of him being constantly underfoot.”
Tristan twirled the axe. “Odd how he would just hang around, what with no one feeding him or anything.”
Her eyes widened like a child who had just been caught stealing candy. Then she narrowed her gaze. “Well, I couldn’t very well leave a pitiful creature to die on my porch, now could I?”
A smile tugged his lips. “I am sure Shadow will forever be grateful for your charity, ma’am.”
She mumbled something and hurried on to the kitchen, only to emerge a few moments later with a small package. Without a word, she untied the string, fetched a delicate confection from inside and held it out to him.
He took it without hesitation, the scents of sweetness already tickling his nose. “Thank you.”
“Yes, well, best you keep up your strength. I need you to fix the hinge on the mule’s stall before you put him in for the night.”
Tristan watched her disappear inside, and then sat to savor the treat.
Opal rubbed a loose thread between her fingers, trying to find a topic of conversation that might refocus Mr. Weir’s steady gaze. What could she say that would please Mama? Did she think Opal could butter him up in hopes of him offering a higher price?
“You are quite lovely. Appealing in a simple sort of way.”
Opal looked up. He seemed to mean it as a compliment. “Did you know that my father commissioned a French craftsmen from New Orleans to carve the moldings?”
He blinked. “Your mother mentioned it.”
“And the table in the dining room, it would stay with the house. It is a fine piece of craftsmanship.”
The corners of his mouth pulled down. “I’m sure. But enough about the house. Tell me something about you. What do you enjoy?”
Ignoring the squirm in her stomach, Opal glanced at the door. What took Mama so long? “Oh, well, I like to read.”
He made a startled noise, drawing her gaze back to his smooth face. “Oh, well. I meant something…more appropriate. Something useful.”
She cocked her head. “Useful? Well, I have managed the daily tasks at the house, and have become more proficient in cooking, though I confess I am still not all that adept with a needle. But you asked for things I enjoy. I enjoy the opera, though I’ve no more occasions to go, and reading.”
Mr. Weir’s eyes lit. “The opera. We shall take in a show, then.”
“Pardon?” Where did this man think he would be able to see an opera in Mississippi? And for that matter, his assumption that she would accompany him was audacious.
“Do you enjoy the theater as well? I am sure we will be able to take in several during the summers.”
Opal considered her words. “Mr. Weir, I am afraid I do not understand.”
He leaned forward. “Your mother did not mention my proposal?”
“Pro…proposal?” She nearly choked on the word.
He smiled. “Ah, well, forgive me. I suppose that does take some of the heart out of the business. I have offered to take you on as my wife. I’ll expect you to maintain the household, and I will restore you to your previous standard of living.”
She gaped at him, no words finding purchase upon her lips. He began a tumult of words that she couldn’t grasp, her mind still reeling. He didn’t seem to notice, and by the time Mama stepped into the room, he’d rambled an entire monologue.
“Mrs. Martin,” Mr. Weir said, coming to his feet at her entrance. “Your daughter and I were just discussing plans for the future.”
Mama looked at Opal, then she shook her head. “Mr. Weir, I believe you have taken my daughter by surprise. I said we could discuss courtship after we come to a settlement about the house.”
Heat seared its way up from Opal’s stomach and burned the back of her throat. She rose. “If you two will excuse me, I’m afraid I am not feeling well.”
Mr. Weir sputtered something, but Mama’s words stayed him. “Certainly, dear. Take a few moments to get some fresh air while I finish the visit with our guest.”
Mama’s tone held apology, but Opal’s head spun too quickly for her to try to return Mama’s gaze. She grasped the parlor doorframe for support. The rear door offered a beacon of hope and she scrambled to it, glad to escape the confines of the house. The sky had darkened, giving the early afternoon the look of evening. Even still, it felt brighter than the suffocating panic in the parlor. A cool breeze brushed her cheeks as she closed the door behind her.
The dog greeted her with the thump of its tail. She moved to shoo him away, but then thought better of it. This creature had never offered anything more than a happy canine expression and a friendly nature. With a sigh, she bent and patted him on the head.
“And what are we to do with you when we leave?”
“Mrs. Martin says he is to go with me.”
Opal startled at Mr. Stuart’s voice, but hid it. “That is well and good.” She gave the dog another pat and then straightened, unsure what to do with herself under his heavy gaze.
Mr. Stuart scratched the back of his neck. “Things go all right in there?”
His shirt clung to his chest, the damp fabric finding every hardened muscle. Opal averted her gaze. How different he looked than the smooth Mr. Weir. “He and Mama are discussing things, though I wish they would just hurry up and settle on a price. He wants to buy, she wants to sell. Let us have done.”
He took a step closer, the axe he carried slung over his broad shoulder. His deep brown gaze assessed her, asking questions his lips didn’t need to form.
“I…I suppose I will be moving to Massachusetts to live with Mama’s cousin.” She successfully kept a hitch from her voice, unable to mention the other option Mama seemed to be considering. “It will be much nicer than living here, hoping we can survive the winter.”
“I suppose.” He continued to stare at her.
“And where will you go, Mr. Stuart?” she asked, scrambling for something more to say. Something that would keep him in her presence a moment longer, if for nothing more than the foolishness of her hopeless heart.
“Tristan.” He held her gaze, as though waiting for her to acknowledge the invitation before he would answer her question.
“Where will you go, Tristan?”
Something sparked in his eyes, but she didn’t dare contemplate its meaning. “I don’t know. West, maybe.”
She’d heard of people heading toward the Western coast, trying to set up new lives for themselves away from the war. “A good plan.”
He lifted the axe from his shoulder and let it come to a rest at his side. “What’s the banker going to do with Riverbend?”
She barked a bitter laugh. “For some reason he has this notion that I would stay on as his wife and run his household, and perhaps manage the plantation, though I cannot fathom where he concocted such an idea. As for farming, well, I don’t see him having much of a hand with that, so who is to say what will become of this place?”
Tristan’s eyes darkened. “You are not considering his marriage offer, are you?”
She spread her hands. “I suppose any normal lady would be glad to see her former lifestyle of plenty restored and would be glad to wed an attractive young man with substantial wealth. Many young ladies spend their society years clamoring for such a match.”
He dropped the axe took the steps, coming to stand only an arm’s length in front of her.
“But…perhaps I am not… a normal lady.” The words came out breathy as she tilted her head back to look at him.
Slowly, he reached out a hand and took hold of a lock of her hair, rubbing it between his fingers. “I daresay that is truth, Miss Martin.”
“Opal.”
Tristan stepped closer. “Opal.” He dropped the hair and traced a finger along her jaw. “Not a normal lady at all. Far better, I say. With more compassion, grace, and kindness than that scoundrel deserves.”
She blinked up at him as he leaned closer, her breath snagging in her chest. The world seemed to slow, each pump of her heart sending heat through her veins. He cupped her cheek in his hand, then his lids lowered as he rested his forehead against hers.
“And Lord forgive me, far better than this broken soul could ever hope for.” His whispered words brushed against her lips just before he lowered his mouth to hers.
In a sweep of emotion she pressed her lips back into his, feeling the tingle of his whiskers against her face. For one intoxicating moment he held there, and then stepped away, hanging his head.
“Forgive me. I should have never taken such a liberty.” The haunted look in his eyes returned, and he turned away.
Overhead, the crack of thunder split the sky, causing her to jump. She placed her fingers to her lips as though that would hold the sensation of his kiss in place. Then she watched as he stalked out into the gathering storm.
It started as a trickle, just a dusting of moisture that pulled some of the heat from his skin, but in the few moments it took Tristan to get across the rear lawn, the rain gathered and now fell with devilish intensity. He shook his head, shortened locks sending a spray of droplets to join their fellows.
He shouldn’t be standing here in the rain like a fool, but neither could he return to the house. What had possessed him to take Miss Martin into his embrace? To sully lips that he would guess had never known a man’s touch before? The lasting sensation of her sent another wave of heat through his center, further knocking him off balance. Something in that fleeting moment of sweet pleasure had unmoored him and sent him into unrelenting waves of uncertainty.
Tristan pressed the heel of his hand into his eye. Why did he have to open a door somewhere in his depths he could never close again? The familiar ache, the crushing sorrow that had been his daily companion pressed down upon him again, reminding him that he had been foolish to think the reprieve he’d found here could last. He’d been delusional to think he could stay here and not taint anyone. To taste of purity and not ruin it. His gaze fell upon the river, its murky waters gulping up the rain and churning with as much intensity as the fire in his chest.
He clutched at his shirt, desperately wanting it to relent, to leave him be, even if in so doing he remained only a shell. But he deserved no such mercy. Not he who had owned men like chattel and then robbed those who sought to stop him of their lives. He had broken many of God’s commandments. He had not honored his mother, and stayed at her side. He had stolen supplies from the enemy. He had killed men in battle. Had watched their lifeblood drain out with detached indifference.
Forgive me, God. It is another failure, another weakness. Though I do not deserve it, save me from this darkness that consumes me. Send me something of your light. Show me you have not forgotten me, for once I was yours.
“Tristan!”
He turned, unsure if the call of his name had sprung from his own desperation or from lips that should not be so near. Through the sheets of falling rain, a flash of color drifted through the haze. Opal held the bunched fabric of her skirts in her hands, her booted feet slipping in the mud as she struggled to get to him.
In two strides, he had her by the elbow. Water streamed down her face and clung to her lashes like tiny diamonds. She shouldn’t be here.
“What are you doing?”
The bite of his words didn’t send her running as they should. Instead, she turned her chin up, the defiant set to her jaw warning him a scolding was forthcoming. It was no less than he deserved.
“I’m saving you!” She grasped his forearms, her wide eyes a mixture of fear and anger.
“What?”
She flung a hand at the river. “I’ll not let you go in again! I swear I will not!”
He turned to look at the churning waters lapping at the edges of the bank. He scowled. It had risen at least eight inches since he last looked upon it. He glanced back to the house, situated far too near.
He started pulling on Opal’s arms. “Come, Miss Martin, let’s get you back inside.”
She planted her heels. “You must let go of some of this pain, or it is going to steal from you all that remains of life.”
A growl rumbled in his chest, but she only stepped closer, defying him. Did she not see the danger she was in? The concern in her eyes softened his edges of steel, robbing them of the cuts they should deliver.
He gentled his tone. “This is hardly the place for such a conversation.”
“If I leave you alone, I fear you may do something foolish. And if I take you into the house, this moment will be gone and you will never speak of what happened.”
“You want me to speak of it?” How could he? How could he voice things that would only douse the guarded affection he’d glimpsed in her eyes and replace it with the hatred he deserved?
She reached up and placed a hand on his cheek, and he longed to hold her again. Tristan shoved the sentiment aside. He was a sinking ship, and she should not go down with him. Better he undo this now before it became more than he could bear.
He grabbed her sodden elbow and thrust her toward the house. She nearly lost her balance, but he kept her upright, hauling her away from the rising river. “What would you have me say? I am sorry I took liberties that were not mine.” He pulled her through the mud, heedless of the way it sucked at his boots. “I should never have stolen that from you. It was a mistake. You have my word it will never happen again.”
“But, but…I….” She tried to stall his progress, but he kept his grip firm and his pace steady. “I’m not going to marry him!” She yanked her arm free, slipping and falling to the ground.
“You’ll go north,” he said through gritted teeth, thrusting his hands into the mud and underneath her. Tristan set his feet and lifted her from the ground. “And you will forget about that rascal. And you will forget about me. Live a better life.”
She gasped and snaked her arm around his neck. “I cannot forget about you.” The words, spoken so close to his ear, twisted his gut.
“You must.”
Her fingers dug into his shoulder and then retreated as he hauled her up onto the porch and set her on her feet.
“Of course.” She lowered her head, a vibrant flower withering underneath all that soiled him. “There will always be Millie.”
He froze. What did Millie have to do with this? “What?”
“I know you will always love her, but I thought….that maybe….” her voice crumbled and she put her fist to her mouth. “I am a fool.”
Water coursed down her cheeks, and he knew tears mingled with the rain. Tears he had caused. He clenched his hands. When he could not form words through the constriction in his throat, she gave a sob and darted into the house, leaving him alone with his shattered thoughts.