Nan Ryan (16 page)

Kurt nodded, picked up the folded towel, and took a seat on the chair. He dropped the towel across a knee. “Just tell me how you want me,” he said. “What you want me to do.”

Curbing the urge to shout
I
want you to put on your clothes and leave
, Helen said, “Drape the towel around your shoulders so you won’t get hair all over your … on your …”

“Will do,” he said. He shook out the towel, leaned up, and swirled it around his bare shoulders. “Ready when you are.”

“Hold these,” ordered Helen, handing him the mirror and the brush.

Knowing she could put it off no longer, Helen swallowed hard, stepped around behind him, nudged his head forward, lifted a handful of long, curling black hair, and was amazed to find its texture so pleasingly soft and silky. The thick jet locks were so luxuriant she found herself half longing to lay the scissors aside and fill both her hands with the abundance of beautiful black hair.

“You have so much hair,” she commented, needing to break the silence, her hand closed around a lush thick wedge of inky-black curls. Her throat felt dry. She ran her tongue over her lips.

“Take as much off as you want,” he said, wondering why she was stalling.

He didn’t see her fight for a breath, or momentarily close her eyes and shake her head to clear it. Nor did he see the appealing half-tender, half-sad expression that came into her blue eyes when finally she raised the scissors and snipped away a lock of his hair. He didn’t see the way she reluctantly opened her hand and allowed the severed hair to slide from her soft palm and flutter to the spread sheet beneath them.

Kurt had no idea she was striving hard to stay poised and aloof as she cut and clipped and turned his head this way, then that. But when she had worked her way around and stood directly in front of him, he noticed she’d caught her upper lip between her teeth and that she was struggling to keep her hand completely steady.

In a matter of seconds Kurt was as tense as Helen.

And it wasn’t because he was afraid she might cut him.

As she worked, she moved steadily closer, unconsciously stepping in to stand directly between his spread knees. While she ordered him to “Hand me the brush” and “Now take the brush back” and “Hold still, please” and “Close your eyes now,” he caught the faint scent of the lilac soap she used for her baths and fought the impulse to inhale deeply. Her slender arms were lifted, her hands in his hair, the scissors clipping and snipping.

He tried to keep his eyes shut for two reasons. He didn’t want to get hair in them and he didn’t want to openly stare at her.

But he couldn’t manage it.

His eyes opened to slits. Guiltily he watched the gentle bounce and sway of her perfectly formed breasts—inches from his face—as she reached and stretched. He felt the muscles of his inner thighs bunch and jump beneath the tight-fitted trousers, his bare belly contract involuntarily.

Meaning only to venture a stolen glance at her face, his gaze slowly lifted, but got only as far the open collar of her pastel summer dress. Her slender neck was glistening with dewy moisture. A single bead of perspiration trickled slowly downward toward the delicate hollow of her throat. As he watched the shimmering droplet slide seductively down the slender column of her throat, he was rocked with the insane desire to lift his hands to her back, press her gently forward to him, and lick away the tiny diamond bead from her pale heated flesh.

Kurt’s hands were on his thighs, the mirror on the chair between his legs. His long fingers moved nervously, gripping the trousered flesh above his knees, then stiffening, like the claws of a cat.

A sudden flash of heat from Kurt’s body, so near to hers, assaulted Helen, burned through her summer dress, raised her own temperature. She felt as if she were pressed flush against his naked chest. She could feel her heart—or was it his?—pounding, pounding. Her breath was growing short.

Kurt saw the throbbing pulse in Helen’s slim throat, knew his own was hammering out of control at his temple. Rivulets of perspiration dripped down his heaving chest, pooling on his rigid stomach.

Helen paused for a moment, scissors in hand, to press a forearm to her shiny brow.

Kurt felt he must say something to ease the crackling tension.

“Awful still today,” he said.

Her breath shallow, she nodded. “No breeze whatsoever.”

“Might mean rain later this evening.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Their bodies taut, warm, and wet, they talked about the weather, the coming storm season, carefully avoiding each other’s eyes. Her hands ice-cold despite the worrisome heat of her body, Helen continued to clip the coal-black locks, hurrying now, anxious, frantic to be finished.

“There,” she said at last, stepping back, exhaling with relief. “Done. All done.”

“Is it?” he said softly, and she knew he was not referring to the haircut. He rose to his feet before her, allowing the white towel to slide from his bare brown shoulders.

“Yes, it is,” she said emphatically. “Of that I’m absolutely certain!”

Chapter Seventeen

W
hile Helen was nervously clipping Kurt’s silky black hair on the front veranda of her home, Niles Loveless was also getting a haircut. Niles didn’t trust Skeeter Jones or Skeeter’s young apprentice to snip his prized golden locks.

Each week a Mobile barber in whom Niles had total confidence arrived at the palatial Loveless mansion at an appointed hour. He came to cut Niles Loveless’s hair, to clip and buff his nails, and to give his handsome face a shave and a special skin moisturizing treatment.

Seated in the comfortable, tufted-backed barber’s chair in his private barbershop, Niles, as usual, was conducting business as his foppish little Mobile barber carefully trimmed his pale gold hair.

Three of Loveless’s employees stood dutifully still before their boss, as subjects might stand before their monarch. They never sat in Niles’s presence. Here there were no chairs, save the one in which Niles half reclined, his wide shoulders draped with a fancy striped barber’s cape, his expensively shod feet crossed and resting atop a tufted footstool.

It was here, in his own personal barbershop, that Niles conducted the kind of business he wouldn’t want known by the townspeople. Or by his wife. The men standing patiently before him were a trusted, hand-picked trio who could be counted on to carry out any and every assignment. And then to keep their mouths shut about it. The Mobile barber wouldn’t consider blabbing anything he overheard. Niles paid him handsomely for his services and for his silence.

Halfway through the haircut, Niles lifted a hand, signaling the barber to stop. The flashing clippers instantly stilled. Niles yanked the flowing barber’s cape off, snapped his fingers, and pointed to his discarded vest and suit coat, which lay across a heavy black walnut chest against the wall.

“Bring that vest here to me.”

It was done in the blinking of an eye.

Niles draped the vest across his knee, reached down inside a small front pocket, and brought forth a gold-and-diamond-cased pocket watch with a heavy gold chain. He tossed the vest back to one of his faithful three, lifted the watch by its gold chain, and began to methodically swing it back and forth.

“Boys, have you any idea what this watch is worth to me?”

“Hundreds,” said one.

“Thousands,” proclaimed another.

“I’ve no idea,” admitted the third.

“It’s priceless,” said Niles.

He stopped swinging it back and forth, scooped it up into his palm, stuck a thumbnail under its outer rim, and flipped the gleaming back open. He gazed at the sentimental message etched inside.

“My wife gave this watch to me as a wedding present.” The men nodded, said nothing. They had seen the watch many times. Knew it meant a lot to their boss. “My sweet Patsy,” murmured Niles, almost reverently, “the adored mother of my children.”

He snapped the back shut. “Catch!”

He threw the priceless gold-and-diamond pocket watch at the three unsuspecting men and chuckled when all anxiously leaped for it, terrified lest it slip through their hands and crash to the marble floor.

“Got it, boss,” said big Harry Boyd, pleased to have come up with it. The other two, husky Jim Logan and balding Russ Carter, sighed with relief and exchanged glances.

“One of you—just one—ride out to the old Burke farm after midnight tonight,” instructed Niles. “Make certain everyone is sleeping when you get there. Hide the watch somewhere in the outbuildings. Conceal it well enough so the Yankee or that snot-nosed kid of his won’t stumble onto it. But don’t hide it so well that a thorough search conducted by the proper authorities won’t quickly turn it up.”

The man holding the gold-and-diamond-cased pocket watch frowned skeptically. “Boss, it’s a good idea. But how you gonna make it stick? You said yourself today was the first time you’d seen the Yankee. He doesn’t even know about the watch, much less have had an opportunity to swipe it from you.”

Niles grinned, self-satisfied. “You’re wrong, Boyd. When I ran into the Yankee in town this afternoon, I shook his hand. Then I foolishly turned by back on him to admire his stallion. Obviously the sneaky bastard picked my pocket when I wasn’t paying attention.”

The men laughed and shook their heads, approving of their clever boss’s scheme.

“By this time tomorrow, Helen Courtney’s Yankee will be in jail,” Niles confided, eyes sparkling. “And being the kindhearted man I am, I’ll gallantly agree to drop charges if Northway will agree to get out of Alabama. Immediately.” Niles leaned back in his barber chair, clasped his hands behind his half-shorn head, and smiled smugly. “Now, since the poor fellow hasn’t the money to get across the county line, much less to Maryland, I’ll graciously offer to purchase his sorrel stallion, thereby supplying the cash for his journey.”

Again the three men laughed and nodded their approval.

Niles’s hands came down from his head. He leaned forward, looked at each man in turn, and said, “I want the Burke farm and timberlands. I want that blue-coated bastard out of Alabama
before
he makes it possible for Helen to hold out for another year. I want to own that Yankee’s fine sorrel stallion. I want to run that magnificent thoroughbred at the Baldwin County Fair.” He paused, smiled without warmth, and asked, “Am I going to get my way, boys?”

“Yes. You bet. Count on us, boss!” all quickly assured him.

Again Niles leaned back. He summoned the patiently waiting little barber to step back up to the chair. He said, “If that dirty Yankee is not in the Spanish Fort Jail within twenty-four hours, one of you is going to be mighty sorry I’ve been crossed.”

Out of breath, a troubled expression on his fair face, Niles Loveless rushed across the street and into the outer office of the Spanish Fort Jail at half past nine the very next morning.

Sheriff Brian A. Cooper, seated behind a paper-cluttered desk, looked up.

“Mornin’, Niles,” Coop said, not bothering to rise. “Where’s the fire?”

“It’ll be under your skinny ass come election time if you don’t arrest that thieving Yankee living out there with—”

“Whoa! Hold on a minute,” said Coop. “What’s this all about? Have a seat. Get your breath.”

“There’s no time for that! Helen Courtney’s Yankee hired hand stole an extremely valuable pocket watch from me! I want justice done, dammit!”

“Have any proof this Yankee stole your watch?”

“Proof? How’s this for proof? I’ve had that gold-and-diamond watch since the day I married sixteen years ago! You’ve seen it. The whole town’s seen it. The Yankee must have known I owned an expensive watch and …” Niles went on to explain about meeting the Yankee, admiring his stallion, and foolishly turning his back on the man, who was apparently an adept pickpocket.

His tale told, he pointed a finger in Coop’s face, “Go on, Sheriff! Get out there to Helen’s farm and arrest the worthless Yankee thief!”

“I’ll look into it,” said Coop, and returned to his paperwork.

“Look into it? You’ll look into it?” Niles said, incredulous, his face growing beet red. He pounded his fist down on Coop’s cluttered desk. “I want that bastard in jail!”

Coop didn’t flinch or so much as blink. Cocking his head to one side, he looked at Niles and said, “I thought you wanted the watch back.”

“I do! Of course I want the watch, but I—”

“I’ll ride out to Helen’s farm when I finish up here. Talk to the man. See what I can find out.”

“That it? That’s all you aim to do?”

“That’s it.”

“You listen here, the law states that—”

“In Baldwin County I am the law,” Coop quietly interrupted.

Growing angrier by the second, Niles said sarcastically, “Get this straight, Coop, you may have been a big hero in the war, but the war’s over. Now you’re nothing more than an elected servant, a high sheriff of Baldwin County. I pay your salary; I call the shots. Get my watch and bring in that dirty Yankee son of a bitch!”

Niles turned and stalked out the door while Sheriff Brian A. Cooper, still seated, tranquilly watched him go. A half smile touched Coop’s wide lips. He shook his curly red head, half in pity, half in disgust.

Niles Loveless couldn’t push him around, but Niles didn’t understand that. Couldn’t possibly understand.

In Coop’s opinion, Niles Loveless was a spineless coward who had shirked his responsibility as a son of the South during the war. The wealthy owner of a hundred slaves, Loveless had been exempt from conscription, so he hadn’t served, hadn’t fought for the Confederacy. While every able-bodied man from sixteen to sixty rode into battle, Niles Loveless never left his plantation, never heard a shot fired in anger.

Niles Loveless knew nothing about hospitals and stockades and dungeons. He knew nothing about pain and starvation and suffering. He hadn’t learned what it was like to be constantly hungry and tired and either freezing cold or sweltering hot. He’d never held in his lap the head of a dying comrade, precious life waning away from lack of proper care and medication.

Niles Loveless would never understand that once a soldier had been through the unspeakable horrors of a bloody, four-year-long war, he could not be threatened by any man.