The Seduction Of Shay Devereaux

“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.”