twenty–one

AS THE TRAIN LURCHED INTO MOTION, Aurora turned sideways in her seat and laced her fingers together in her lap. “I’ve decided on my first wish.”

They had taken the last train out of Oxford, switching to the connector at Holly Springs, which was scheduled to arrive in Tupelo by eight. His afternoon had been full of tedious reports, expense accounting, and trying to convince Judge Hill to admit Mrs. Scully’s testimony against her husband. The judge might or might not cooperate.

Resigned, Zane looked at Aurora. “Have you? What is it?” He had a feeling he was going to regret this rash agreement having to do with wishes. He had managed to head off her previous attempts to bring it up by probing the surprising depth of Joelle’s knowledge about Mississippi politics, but with no warning Joelle had fallen asleep, leaving Zane to fend for himself.

“I want you to tell me about your family.” Aurora stuck out her chin.

He frowned. “You didn’t say talking would be involved.”

“You didn’t ask.” Squirming, she settled her shoulder against the back of the seat. “Joelle told me you grew up in Indiana and worked in a gunpowder mill.”

“Yes. I was born in Delaware, though. My father was of French Huguenot descent, employed by the Duponts. My mother, I believe, was a descendent of the Delaware chief Hopocan. She died during the move to Indiana when I was about three. I don’t remember her.” If he thought that depressing bit of information would stop her questions, he had misjudged her.

She simply touched his hand in sympathy. “I’m sorry. Sager doesn’t sound like a French name, though.”

“It was originally St. Gérard, but it got anglicized over the years.”

“We’re very English and Scottish,” Aurora said, eyes twinkling. “Grandpapa turned up his nose at Frenchmen. Do you have brothers and sisters?”

“Just a sister, Jacqueline. She’s a little more than two years older than me.” She was going to ask, so he might as well give her the whole story. “After Ma died, our pa turned into a sorry drunk. Which is why I had to leave school and go to work in the mill. After a few years, Jacqueline started thinking it might help Pa to go west and start over. She’d heard about the Overland Express and wrote letters in Pa’s name, applying to run a station.”

“Your sister did that? How very . . . enterprising of her! She sounds like Selah.”

“Or you.” He couldn’t help a grin. “Jack would like you.”

“Jack?”

“She dressed as a boy for over a year, while she ran the station when our pa got drunk and passed out.” He paused and shrugged. “That happened a lot. And I was gone most of the time, either riding my route or catting around over at Fort Kearney. I didn’t take my oath of morality very seriously.”

That didn’t seem to bother her. “You’re not like that anymore.”

“No, I’m not, but—” He swallowed, met her gaze. “I clearly can’t be trusted alone with you.”

Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “That wasn’t entirely your fault. What happened to your father and Jack when the war started?”

“By then she had married a deputy marshal named Micah Fitzgerald. They’re still out west. Pa’s dead.”

“Hmm. Then you really are all alone.”

“Yep.”

“And you like it that way.” Her tone was bland, and she looked away from him, at her sleeping sister.

“No. I don’t like it.”

Her eyes flashed back to his. “Then—”

“But that’s the way it’s got to be.” He loaded the words, aimed them, and let them go. “Until Sam Jones is behind bars or dead, whichever comes first.”

Aurora lay awake beside Joelle, wishing she could undo that wish.

Not that she didn’t want to know about Zane’s family. But perhaps if she’d waited a little longer, he might have told her on his own. Maybe he wouldn’t have said in so many words that he had no intention of giving her space in his life. Instead, she had grown impatient again, forcing him to define boundaries.

She tried to think and pray through what God had already taught her about faith—and how she could apply it here and now. She seemed to remember reading that “faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” Usually she could live as if God had her best interests at heart, even when there was no physical representation of it. Sadly, she now realized, that might be because her life had been singularly blessed to this point.

It was hard to believe in what she couldn’t see, when her heart stung with rejection.

Feeling that rejection, for the remainder of the trip home she’d withdrawn, and Zane had let her. He closed his eye—sleeping or pretending to sleep, she couldn’t tell—leaving her bracketed in silence between him and Joelle. How anyone could sleep with the train bumping and jarring one’s head against the seat was a mystery to Aurora, and her relief at pulling into the Tupelo station had her nearly sprinting for the exit. The three of them arrived at the Dogwood just in time to eat a late supper with Grandmama and the saloon girls. Rosie had cooked the meal—a rich, thick stew of chicken, Chinese-style dumplings, and rutabagas, the giant yellow turnip that grew in abundance at Daughtry House.

After the meal, Zane went up to the attic to confer with Deputy Mosley, leaving Aurora and Joelle to recount to Grandmama their adventures in dress design and interviewing reluctant witnesses.

Grandmama sipped her after-dinner Lapsang souchong tea (brought with her from Memphis) and asked incisive questions, which Aurora had to answer carefully in order to avoid incriminating herself.

“Did you promise this woman her husband would not go to jail?” Grandmama wanted to know.

Aurora picked at her nails. “I told her the judge would go easier on a man who repented of his sins.”

“You don’t know whether he has repented or not. Even if he does, you don’t know how the judge will rule. And what does his wife’s testimony have to do with Scully’s repentance?” Grandmama scowled. “Truly, your papa’s choice of companion always left much to be desired.” She cast a disparaging look about her. “A saloon, for heaven’s sake.”

Finding nothing useful to add to that observation, Aurora changed the subject. “Joelle, what do you think of Charmion’s reimagining of the painting? Isn’t it lovely?”

All five women looked up at the framed canvas now rehung over the piano. Playing off the name of the saloon-cum-boardinghouse, Charmion had painted a graceful dogwood branch with delicate green leaves and lacy pink-and-white blossoms on a background of pale blue-washed sky.

“It’s so pretty it makes me want to cry,” Joelle said. “I asked if she’d do another for me, and she said she’d see what she could do.”

Bedelia sniffed at the idea of crying over trees. “I kind of miss our bubble lady. Saucy look in her eye, that one.”

Joelle rolled her own big blue eyes. “I doubt that’s what the men appreciated about her.” She stood up, yawning. “Trying on veils wears me out. I’m going to bed. Coming, Pete?”

Aurora wasn’t tired, but she had no desire to make herself the sole target of Grandmama’s disapproving remarks. “I suppose.” She trailed in Joelle’s wake up the stairs, rather randomly responding to her sister’s remarks as they prepared for bed—until Joelle said with some asperity, “Pete, he is fighting so hard not to give in. Give him some room, and he’ll land himself.”

“He? What are you talking about?” Pausing in the act of braiding her hair into a long plait over her shoulder, Aurora stared at Joelle, who sat cross-legged on the bed, writing in her journal. “You weren’t asleep on the train, were you?”

Jo sighed. “Of course not. Who could sleep with all that noise and head-jarring? I thought he might talk to you if I bowed out of the conversation.”

“Well, I wish you wouldn’t speak of him as if he were a large-mouth bass. I don’t want to land him. I just want to understand why he’s so touchy.”

“He’s afraid. They’re all afraid. Afraid they won’t be good enough. Afraid they’ll be rejected. A million other ‘afraids.’”

“That’s—that’s unchristian.” Aurora twitched back the covers and climbed into bed.

“Isn’t it?” Joelle set her notebook on the side table and clasped her arms around her knees. “But we’re all afraid of something.”

“What are you afraid of? You went into a burning house to rescue your friend!”

Joelle winced. “Not one of my brighter decisions. The roof nearly fell on us all. Good thing Schuyler came in and carried Charmion out. Anyway.” She waved a hand. “I’ll tell you what terrifies me. The idea of testifying in a courtroom in front of a judge and a bunch of lawyers and the entire town. I’m like Moses—talking makes my brain freeze. I asked if I couldn’t just write down my testimony, but . . .” She shrugged. “Levi said no.”

“Well, if you’re Moses, then I’ll be your Aaron. I’ll be there and hold your arms up.”

Joelle smiled. “That’s so funny. That’s exactly what Selah said.”

“Then I’ll be Miriam. Or something. Never mind, we’ll both be in the courtroom praying. And so will Levi and Schuyler. You are brilliant, Jo. There’s nothing to worry about.”

After rewarding Aurora with a brief, affectionate hug, Joelle had blown out the lamp and instantly gone to sleep.

Aurora, however, couldn’t so easily dismiss the conversation, and let the events of the entire day roll through her brain like a series of scenes from a dime novel. Though she hadn’t told Joelle about her own fear of rejection, surely God knew about it. It was just so hard to know where faith and courage crossed over into presumption. Lord, please give me wisdom.

That was when she heard a noise on the stairs.

She froze. It could be one of the deputies, or it could be Grandmama, a light sleeper who had been known to ramble at night. It could be Rosie or Bedelia, heading to the privy.

But Zane’s clear worry about some man called Sam Jones kept resurfacing. What if Jones had found Zane?

Should she stay in bed and let him deal with whoever had decided to walk around in the middle of the night? But what if he was asleep? Surely it wouldn’t hurt to at least take a look around. Besides, if Grandmama or one of the girls had fallen ill, she should offer to help. No need to assume dramatic attacks by imaginary villains.

Still . . .

Slipping out of bed, she drew on the dressing gown hanging on the back of the door, tied its belt firmly, then reached into her reticule for the little pepperbox derringer she carried when traveling and slipped it into her pocket. Grandpapa had taught her to shoot it years ago, when the Yankees took Memphis. Feeling a tiny bit safer, she opened the bedroom door. She would just take a quick look downstairs, then come back to bed and go to sleep.

Otherwise, she’d look like a complete hag tomorrow.

Sleeplessness had become such an old friend that Zane no longer cursed the darkness. In fact, he found the small hours of the night a rich medium for confession, prayer, and contemplation. A season when he could hear God’s voice without distractions.

That was before Aurora Daughtry, clad in a dress the color of sunshine, penny-bright hair curling beneath a frivolous straw hat, unloaded before him a basket full of drool-inducing food and dared him with a smile to eat it. Every day since then, walking beside her, hearing her laugh, splashed by the overflow of her joy, he saw glimpses of the mature woman of God she was growing into. Of course he didn’t worship her as an idol—but he’d come to recognize a partner only God could have created for him.

Now, tonight, he begged God to remove this painful thorn of longing. He wanted to tell her more than his place of birth and who his sister had married. He wanted to bare his wounds and let her cauterize them with tenderness and passion. He wanted to cover her in his own strength, protecting her from anything that would bring her distress. He wanted to slay dragons for her favor.

In short, he was becoming a sentimental idiot.

So he got out of bed—why had he thought lying down would bring relief from useless wishes?—strapped on his gunbelt, and quietly opened the bedroom door. Just a walk around the perimeter of the building. One more check of the security of each door. Then perhaps he’d be tired enough to go to sleep.

Out in the hall, at the foot of the attic stairs, he stood listening. All was quiet. No reason to disturb Mosley and the two prisoners. So he continued down to the ground floor, placing his foot near the banister to avoid the creaks in the middle of the step. At the bottom, he paused again. Silence.

He kept going. Having already memorized the layout of the dining and sitting rooms—formerly the bar area—and practiced maneuvering through them without a light, he moved with silent confidence toward the front door in the dark. He was almost there when he heard a scraping noise behind the bar. He wheeled.

Veins icy, he stalked noiselessly back toward the bar and rounded it. By now his vision had adjusted to the darkness, and he saw that the trapdoor leading to the cellar lay open. He slid his gun out of its holster.

He weighed the danger of fetching a lamp against going down blind. If he rushed the stairs from here, with or without a light, whoever was down there could escape through the outside doorway. He could fix that. Grateful that some intuition had made him learn every weak floorboard, rug, and table that might trip him, he made it safely outside.

The night was clear and humid, with a half-moon to light his progress around the building. He wished he’d had time to get Mosley to guard the front door while he went around back, but he didn’t want to give the intruder the opportunity to escape. The exterior cellar door locked from the inside, so there was no way for him to get in that way without creating a lot of noise. His only option, then, was to somehow block the prowler’s exit.

To his relief, he saw that Shug had left a wagon full of lumber and bricks near the back door, so Zane simply moved them a few at a time until the cellar door was braced shut, impossible to push open from the inside, trapping the intruder inside. That task accomplished, Zane reentered the house from the front and again made his way around the bar to the trapdoor.

He had started to descend, gun drawn, when a light flared below, temporarily blinding him.

He froze. Had the interloper seen him? Or did he have some other bizarre reason for suddenly lighting a lamp? Swallowing, he cocked his revolver. “Who’s there?” he whispered harshly. “I’ve got a gun on you.”

There was an eternal moment of silence. Then, “Zane?”

“Aurora.” Releasing the hammer and returning the gun to its holster, he realized his hand was shaking. What if he’d accidentally shot her? He sat down hard on the top step of the cellar stairs and covered his face with one hand.

The light came closer. “What are you doing?” she asked.

Lowering his hand, he stared at her and thought stupidly that he must have died and gone to heaven. Or maybe the other direction, at this point he wasn’t sure. Did angels really have white robes, freckles, and long, copper-red braids? “It must be nearly two o’clock in the morning. I’m checking the perimeter of the building. That’s my job. What are you doing? In the cellar? At two o’clock in the morning!”

She looked offended. “I know what time it is, you don’t have to repeat yourself. I heard something, and I came to see what it was.”

All Zane’s relief coagulated into another wave of fear. “You heard something? Where? Down here?”

“No, I thought I heard something on the stairs. I was afraid one of the other girls was sick, or Grandmama might need something, so I came to check—”

“By yourself? In the middle of the night? Aurora, how could you be so stupid? What if there was an intruder? I’ve told you there are bad people looking for me and the prisoners. And why would you come down here, if you heard a noise on the stairs?”

Her lips pinched together, her eyes narrowed, and he thought she might start hissing. But she seemed to regain control of her temper—barely. “Don’t you dare call me stupid! I brought my pistol. And I came down here because I saw the trapdoor open. I didn’t leave it open. Did you?”

“No, of course not—pistol? What pistol?”

Her hand went into her pocket, and she showed him a tiny pepperbox revolver. It looked somehow familiar, but that didn’t make sense. “Where did you get that?”

“I’ve had it since I was fourteen. One of the patients left it at the house after the steamboat explosion. Grandpapa said I could keep it, and he taught me how to shoot it.” She held up the lamp and glared at him. “What difference does that make? I have it, I know how to use it, and you’re being a boor.”

“That’s because—” He wiped his sweaty forehead. He felt as if he’d come down with a fever. “I’m sorry my manners desert me when I’m scared half out of my mind. I’m sorry I called you stupid, even though that’s not exactly what I said. I told you I don’t talk well. I just—I don’t know whether I want to kiss you or—”

“Oh, you’re not getting any more kisses out of me, mister, not until I get all three of my wishes.”

“Is that right?” As he stood up, the blood rushed out of his head, leaving his brains addled, possibly accounting for the fact that he walked down the steps instead of hightailing it back to the safety of his room. “Let me have the other two. Let’s get this over with right now.”

“I’m not ready to divulge that information at the moment.”

By now he was standing one step away from her, towering over her. “So you’re just going to keep me in suspense, waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

She looked belligerent. “Well, you haven’t been exactly forthcoming with me either.”

“Touché. I think they call this an impasse.” Suddenly he wanted to laugh. This woman. “I have an idea. I’ll guess your next wish, and you let me know if I’m right.” He leaned down to whisper in her ear. “But no more talking allowed. Put the lantern down.”

“You’re going to guess my wish without talking?” She sounded skeptical. But she set the lamp on the floor.

“Shh. No talking,” he reminded her, leaning down to take her earlobe between his lips.

She gave a sharp gasp and fell against him. He caught her around the waist, lifting her off her feet. The only sounds to follow involved breath and the sibilant contact of lips. He’d intended to teach her a lesson about sassiness, about visiting cellars in the middle of the night, and about the correct location for carrying a handgun. But it was hard to be hard-nosed, with an armful of Aurora to deal with.

“Zane,” she breathed at some point, “I’m sorry but I’ve got to talk.”

“Why?” He kissed her.

“Because”—she dodged his mouth—“I need to say, you’re a very good guesser.”

“There are a lot of things I’m good at.” He kissed her again. “Talking isn’t one of them.”

“You win this time.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

“You win. Zane, stop. Grandmama’s going to wake up and see the light and—”

“Do we really care?”

“Yes.” She hummed a little nonsense word. “I see now that I should have come to get you when I heard that noise—”

He set her abruptly away from him. “Which I should be investigating.” Ignoring the slamming of his own heart, he picked up the lantern and stepped around the red-haired angel who always seemed to be in his path. “Go back to bed. Go to sleep. I’m going outside to look around, and I don’t want to see you again until daylight.” He looked over his shoulder. “Please, Aurora.”