Authors: Elizabeth Courtright
“You need a name,” Constance told her new companion as she reached for one of the towels lying in the grass beside her. “I can’t remember what Violet called you, and ‘Silly Dog’ isn’t a name. I can’t just keep calling you that now, can I? How ’bout Fluffy? No? You don’t like that? Me neither… hmm… Okay, hop out.”
The pup did just as she asked, stepping over the low edge of the washtub. Of course, the towel being almost as soaked as the dog, it didn’t do much good. Constance used it anyway, vigorously rubbing the pup’s scruff, then she reached for the next one. This one was dry, at least.
“How ’bout Rex? You look like a Rex. And you look—and smell—much better without all that mud on you. You’re actually quite dapper, aren’t you?”
With more care she ran the towel over the pup’s shoulder and down its front leg.
“Does it still hurt? I promise you, Rex, never again will I let anyone kick you like that awful man did. You’ll stay right here with Izzy and me. This is your home now.”
For that, she received a lick on the nose, although the gesture was stilted. The dog’s ears perked and his body stiffened. Then he growled, but he wasn’t looking at her. His focus was behind her.
Constance was too startled to catch her pup before he took off, no longer limping, and barking ferociously.
“Rex!” she hollered, as she tried to spin. Because he’d knocked her off balance, she landed on her rump. “Rex!”
Scrambling about, she saw the dog, poised now, with paws spread and head low, just feet away from a man.
Mortified, Constance grabbed for one of the discarded towels. Her house was secluded enough, especially the rear yard. The last thing she’d expected when she set about to bathe Rex was that Harry Simpson would come calling. She was in her shift, for goodness sake!
Apparently Harry was as embarrassed as she was. Upon seeing her, and the compromised state she was in, he’d turned around. Except not completely, because he had an arm extended to ward off the snarling dog. At least, however, his eyes were downcast.
“I…I’m sorry,” he stuttered. “I would’ve knocked, but I…I heard you, so I came around the house. I didn’t know…”
“Rex! Silly dog! Stop. Come here. It’s Harry. He’s my friend,” Constance said, but Rex kept barking. By then, she was on her feet, one towel around her midriff, another like a shawl over her shoulders. Although still not presentable, at least she was no longer exposed. Except for the lower half of her legs!
Indecision warred. Should she get Rex or run inside for proper clothing? Moving closer to Harry seemed the worse of two evils. Rex would just have to keep barking. So long as he didn’t attack.
“I’m sorry, Harry, about the dog,” she called out. “I’ll be right back!”
Constance’s heart pounded as she skittered into her bedroom, still holding the towels to her body. That room, however, afforded no protection. The window was open and the curtains drawn back. Harry was right outside. Ducking—not that this did much good—she grabbed the skirt and blouse from the bed and ran to the hallway. There, at least, she could put on the garments without being seen.
But this task wasn’t as easy as it should have been, not with her underclothes as wet as they were. It didn’t help that her hands were shaking. She wiggled and yanked and pulled, and then the buttons had to be done up. And somewhere along the line Rex had stopped barking.
Had the dog run away? The school property had no fencing around it to keep him in. Had he bitten Harry? Had Harry done something to him—something as bad, or worse than what Edward Murphy had done? After all, Harry had been in prison. Trent Emerson believed he’d murdered Luther. If he’d done something that heinous, he would have no qualms about hurting a dog.
She should have gotten Rex first. She should have brought him inside where he would be safe. She should have protected him like she’d promised!
Not knowing what she’d find, still without stockings and shoes, heart thumping madly, Constance raced out through the rear door into the yard. But the scene that greeted her had never even crossed her mind.
Rex had quieted, not because Harry had done something awful to him. The pup hadn’t run off, either. Rex, though still wet, was contentedly sitting in the grass, head cocked to one side, because Harry was down on his haunches scratching him behind an ear.
Harry looked up when he heard her, but his eyes quickly diverted. Constance glanced down at herself. Except for her bare feet, and a few wet patches seeping through her blouse, she was passably attired. Her buttons were all fastened at least. It took a second for her to remember Harry never really looked at her. The look-away wasn’t because her chest—or any other part of her—remained on display.
Only then did she notice the flowers on the grass beside Harry—a small bouquet of freshly picked yellow primrose. By the way the under-layer of his hair was damp, he’d bathed before he came. Sunlight spilling down on him made the upper layer of his hair appear almost white, and so soft. Then and there, Constance decided Trent Emerson had to be wrong. Etienne had said so, hadn’t he? Etienne didn’t think Harry was a bad man, and Etienne wanted her to… she wasn’t going to think about
that
… yet.
“Rex is a good name,” Harry said. “He looks like a Rex. He reminds me of the Murphy’s dog. I think you know the Murphys. The boy, Archie, is one of your students.”
“Yes, he is,” Constance replied. “And Rex looks like their dog, because he is their dog. Violet Murphy asked me to take him. Her…her father doesn’t like him.”
Harry frowned, but made no comment. That frown though, was telling.
He picked up the bouquet and stood up. “These are for you,” he murmured.
“They’re lovely, Harry. Thank you.” Constance took the flowers. “I should put them in water. While I’m inside, would you like something to drink? I made lemonade this morning.”
“No, no,” Harry stuttered. “I should go. I just wanted to ask if I could give you a ride to church tomorrow?”
“I’d like that,” Constance said. “But please stay for a few minutes. You came all this way…”
She did end up bringing him a glass of lemonade, and together they sat on the stoop. It was pleasant there, shaded from the lowering sun by nearby trees. Rex too, seemed to like the ambiance. Soon enough he was lying at her feet. To hide her toes, Constance slipped them into his fur. She was nervous, not because of how Harry had happened upon her, or even because he made her uncomfortable. The nerves rattling through her were because of what Etienne wanted her to do. She didn’t know how to act on it, or what kind of signal to give to let Harry know she would be receptive to…
er
… a physical pursuit.
She also didn’t know how to bring up the two questions that were prevailing in the back of her mind. As it was, most of their dialogue was about the weather and the minister’s upcoming lesson, and she couldn’t figure out how to subtly interject. She was just about to give up when Harry made excuses to leave.
“How thoughtless of me,” Constance intoned. “You said so earlier and I’ve kept you too long. It’s getting dark. You must have plans tonight.”
He shook his head. “I don’t have plans.”
“Oh.” Now she was the one having a hard time looking at him. “I thought perhaps you were going to the Murphys’ tonight. Violet mentioned her father had invited friends over this evening. I just assumed since you recognized Rex, you and Mr. Murphy were—”
“Edward Murphy is not my friend,” Harry interrupted.
His tone was so vehement—and so unlike him—Constance was struck. For a moment she could do nothing but stare. As usual Harry wasn’t looking at her. Eventually, to break the silence, she stammered, “I…I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t be,” he said more timidly. “I should explain. Edward Murphy was in the Klan. Like me, he’s been in prison, but you probably already knew that. There was a time I looked up to him, but I don’t anymore. I—”
The way he cut himself off caused Constance to blanch. Her next question wasn’t one of the two she’d wanted to ask, but she couldn’t hold back. “Do you think he had something to do with Luther Emerson’s death?”
“I don’t know.” Harry shrugged. “I don’t think so.”
“Do you think the Klan is getting back together? Do you think the meeting at the Murphys’ is Klan related?” she asked.
“I don’t know about that, either.”
“Harry?” she murmured. “If the Klan asked you to join again, would you?”
“No,” he said. “I want nothing to do with them.”
He stood up, so Constance did, too. She was above average height for a woman and Harry wasn’t a particularly tall man, which made them just about eye to eye. Without a petticoat, her skirt wasn’t as billowy as it normally would have been. There was no buffer, nothing to prevent them from being close, and they were close, close enough she could feel his breath.
“You know, Harry,” she murmured, “you can tell me anything. I’m your friend.”
“I know,” he whispered and took her hand. His touch was gentle, almost fleeting, but still she could feel callouses on his palm. They reminded her how hard he’d been working to make a life for himself since his release.
“Thank you for the lemonade. And thank you for convincing me to stay,” he said softly.
His fingers weren’t pressing or demanding. Even his eyes were slightly downcast. There wasn’t an expectant bone in him. This was why, Constance supposed, the sudden urge came over her. And oddly enough, it had nothing whatsoever to do with Etienne Grace’s edict. It had to do with the reassuring conviction that Harry couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with Luther’s death.
She closed the short few inches between them and kissed him.
Constance didn’t need to be told her actions were too abrupt and inept, just as she didn’t need to be told Harry hadn’t expected the bold move. This was obvious by the way his whole frame stiffened and he let go of her hand.
“I…I’m sorry,” she murmured.
“No,” he whispered, and smiled. For once, he was looking into her eyes.
He was going to kiss her again. Constance was sure of it. If it weren’t for Rex’s nose poking at her hand, tickling her, giving her an excuse to laugh and look away, Harry would have kissed her.
“Goodnight, Constance,” he said.
“Goodnight, Harry.”
He started away, then looked back over his shoulder. “I think the Murphys called the dog Rusty, but he looks more like a Rex to me. I think Rex is good name.”
Long after she could no longer see him, Constance remained by the stoop. Despite the awkwardness, the kiss hadn’t been unpleasant. It certainly hadn’t been abhorrent. What she couldn’t decide was whether she would have welcomed another. And that was just odd. Because really, she didn’t want to kiss Harry. She didn’t want to kiss anyone. Ever.
This brought her around again to the idea that had begun forming from the moment she’d left the Murphy farm that afternoon. Edward Murphy was having company tonight. Harry didn’t know anything about it, but considering his claims, that wasn’t surprising. Edward Murphy could very well be the one starting a Klan resurgence. Harry wouldn’t be there to find out details, but perhaps there was another way to do so. Besides, she needed to make sure Archie had made it home. Not that any boy would be safe in a home with a nasty father like that. It was no wonder he’d run off. Constance could only hope, whether he’d gone back home or not, he was safe.
“Come along, Rex,” she said.
Obediently the dog followed her inside. Curiously he sat, watching as she stood in front of the mirror and braided her hair. The style wasn’t one she often wore, but it was the best way to ensure the thick tresses wouldn’t escape their confines. Soon she was securing the tail, tucking it up and pinning it in place.
That accomplished, her next task was digging into dresser drawers. The clothes she pulled out hadn’t been worn in some time, and she had to dig to find the particular pieces she wanted. The blouse and vest didn’t belong together, and neither went with the britches she retrieved. The last things she grabbed were two scarves.
Soon enough the ensemble was laid out on her bed. With Rex at her heel, she stood back and took it all in. Black blouse. Black vest. Black stockings. Black riding trousers—men’s trousers. Black leather riding boots. Black gloves. The scarves weren’t black, but navy blue was dark enough to pass.
“Rex,” she said, “you stay home and keep watch over the house. Izzy and I are going to get our exercise tonight.”
“Sam! Open the damn door!” Etienne pounded on the wood portal to the servant’s hut one more time to no avail. He had half a mind to barge in, but stopped short. He knew Sam well enough to know if the dedicated adjutant was indeed within, he would have answered the knock immediately. That Sam wasn’t where he was supposed to be only pressed Etienne’s pique one notch nearer its boiling point.
His adjutant had been conspicuously unaccounted for the whole damn day. Etienne could have used Sam’s help earlier when he’d gone after Stone and Houser. He could have used him moments before while he’d been stuck behind a tree spying on the schoolteacher and her beau.
From that spot, Etienne had been too distant to hear more than bits and pieces, but moving in closer wouldn’t have worked. Any nearer and the dog would have caught wind of him. Just imagining the mongrel barreling into the trees, cornering him, giving away his secret post, was embarrassing enough. It was that inevitability that kept him immobile until Simpson swaggered off and the schoolteacher went into her house. Of course that meant he had to witness their entire exchange. He may not have gleaned any valuable information, but their abundant laughter sure had carried. And then… then they’d kissed…
Still fuming, Etienne headed back to the barn in his camphor-reeking clothes. He hadn’t joined the family for dinner, because aside from hearing that he smelled, rage had long since destroyed his appetite. He didn’t even care that Igore, after so many miles toward Pulaski and back, could have used a longer respite. That wasn’t true. He did care, but like him, the horse would just have to deal with it.
Nowhere-to-be-found Sam had undoubtedly gone to visit his old home. Although Etienne wanted Sam to do so, he hadn’t expected the adjutant to take a daylong extended liberty, and he hadn’t thought Sam would go without first consulting him. By asking the right questions, Sam could gather relevant information. Etienne had wanted to counsel Sam through all of this. He’d even told Sam as much, but Sam had run off before Etienne had had a chance. That left him with one remaining avenue—seek out Murphy on his own. He was going to, under the guise of looking for Sam.
The only problem was he hadn’t the faintest idea what direction to take. Julien would know. So would Jessica, or Trent and Emily. Daniel could have probably told him as well, but they were in the parlor, playing charades or some other such nonsensical game. Disturbing their post-evening-meal fun wasn’t Etienne’s concern. Keeping Julien from insisting on going along was.
Wally, who was usually a good source when it came to anything pertaining to Mount Joy and the surrounding farmlands, would be able to put him on the right path. But of course, Wally was nowhere in sight. Even the other stable hands were missing. The only person present was Wally’s daughter, Sadie.
“Colonel Grace.” She turned when she heard him stomp in. “May I help you with something?”
For a second Etienne was taken aback. The girl had a bruise on her face, high on her cheekbone, near her eye. But he didn’t have time to think about who might have hit her, or why. Instead he explained his dilemma and asked if, by chance, she could tell him how to get to the Murphy farm.
She knew exactly, and every one of the landmarks was spot on. In no time Etienne had the lighted windows of the Murphy farmhouse in sight. And it seemed Mr. Murphy was having a party. Several buggies were parked in the front yard. A handful of horses were hobbled near the porch as well. Another mount, standing alone, was under a tree farther up in the side yard. Rough estimates, assuming some of the buggies carried more than one man, were an indoor gathering of at least twenty. Among them, Etienne was sure he would find Sam.
Oddly enough, none of the horses out front were the adjutant’s. That meant Sam’s mount was either the one under the tree—it was too hidden in shadows for Etienne to tell—or Sam had secured his mare in the barn behind the house. The latter was more likely, as Sam had probably spent the day visiting.
Etienne’s next dilemma was whether to knock or resort to using his newfound alter-personality, Tom Peepers. Because the weather was holding, the windows were open. Through the one in front he glimpsed the assembly. Still on Igore, he drew close enough to count nine heads. Most were seated. Three were standing. One of them was Edward Murphy. The rest Etienne didn’t recognize. None appeared to be from among the men he’d met at Fisher’s Tavern, and he didn’t see Sam, but that didn’t mean the adjutant wasn’t present. From the angle, Etienne couldn’t see everyone. For a more thorough assessment, he needed to go around the house and look through the side window.
Dismounting, he gave Igore the ‘stay put’ pat, and crept closer—close enough to hear. He slipped between two buggies and out through the hitched horses, until he wasn’t far from the corner of the porch. From where the porch ended, thick bushes lined the house. He didn’t know what kind they were, but his nostrils flared at the scent—similar to cat urine. Why anyone would plant such horrendously odiferous bushes he had no idea. They smelled worse than he did. Trying to hold his breath, he edged onward.
Suddenly several horses behind him whinnied and snorted. To his left he heard something—a crunch in the lawn, followed by running footfalls. At least that’s what he thought it was.
Cursing the pitch darkness, his eyes scoured the area, but nothing appeared out of the ordinary. Except for the breeze rustling the leaves overhead and the voices from inside, everything was still and quiet.
The men in the house were talking about nothing of importance to Etienne—crops, this year’s prices, the better shopkeepers to deal with. Etienne moved farther along the bushes, past the window, to where he could turn and look back through and see those who had heretofore been hidden from view.
Just as he realized Sam wasn’t inside after all, he heard the distant crackle of saddle leather. Again he looked out into the side yard. There was enough moonlight to see the horse under the tree spin. At the same time its rider swung a leg over its back. The foot slipped into the stirrup and the horse took off.
Etienne dashed through the buggies to Igore. In seconds he was flying down the road in pursuit. The distance he had to close was significant, but with the road being straight and flat, and being out from under the shade of trees, the moonlight was bright enough that he could keep the silhouetted rider in sight.
His pulse was racing, but not from exertion. All he could think was as soon as he caught up, he was going to pop Julien on the nose. There was no question in Etienne’s mind his brother was the one on that horse. He knew because Julien, fool that he was, had done himself up in his old all-black spook outfit, complete with scarves—one to shield the bottom half of his face, the other to cover his head. One glimpse was all Etienne had needed of the silk fabric flapping to recognize him.
Julien had agreed to ‘stay put for now’ at Grace Manor. Apparently, without letting Etienne know, Julien’s ‘for now’ had come and gone. Cursing, Etienne leaned low in the saddle and dug in his heels.
Good god, Julien could ride! And he wasn’t even on his old faithful, Midnight. That mighty animal was in Washington, undoubtedly content in his stall, getting old. The horse Julien was using now had to be one of the black beauties from Grace Manor. Etienne had Igore at a full gallop, the fastest the horse could possibly go, and he wasn’t closing the gap. If anything, second by second, he was falling farther behind.
Ahead was a bend in the road, and that wasn’t good, because as soon as Julien rounded it, Etienne couldn’t see him. He kept on, pressing Igore as he’d never pressed him before. It wasn’t a good idea to travel at such a pace at night when visibility was poor, especially on terrain one wasn’t familiar with, but Julien wasn’t giving him a choice. Etienne came around the bend where another straight-away should have enabled him to spot his brother again, but there was no black silhouette racing onward in the distance. Etienne couldn’t even hear the rumbling hoof beats any longer. But that could have been because his ears were too full of Igore’s thundering.
Without slowing, Etienne glanced around. There, across a field of some low-growing crop Etienne couldn’t identify, on a distant hillcrest, against a backdrop of night sky was the black apparition. Yanking on Igore’s reins, Etienne tore into the field. Oddly the rider wasn’t moving. He was just sitting there, waiting, as if subtly taunting, “You’ll never catch me.”
Either that, or he’d figured out who was pursuing him and decided to let Etienne catch up.
“Julien!” Etienne hollered, not that Julien would hear him.
Igore’s hooves chewed up and spit out cabbage or radishes or whatever was growing there. Etienne was too mad to slow down, though he could have since Julien had stopped.
Little more than fifty yards separated them when Julien’s horse reared. The black legs punched through the air, again like a taunt. Before those hooves hit the ground, the beast was already flying down the opposite side of the hill.
Etienne sped on. He came up over the crest and followed the downward slope. In the next seconds it occurred to him that, when they’d been on the road, Julien hadn’t hit full velocity. Igore was a powerful horse, but Igore was losing ground so quickly, there was no point in continuing the chase. Still Etienne rode on. He kept going until he’d had no sign of Julien for a good long while, until it became clear Igore could no longer maintain the breakneck pace, until Etienne realized he was inexorably lost.
Fortunately he had a decent sense of direction. Either that, or all the time he’d spent wandering the endless hills and valleys out west had instilled some sort of sixth sense. He ended up close to the town of Mount Joy. From there, he was able to catch the right path to get him to Grace Manor.
In deference to Igore, Etienne didn’t rush. Perhaps in a way, that was a good thing. It allowed his temper to cool. Not much, but enough. He didn’t go storming into the grand estate house, slamming doors and waking every occupant. But he didn’t bother to take Igore to the barn and brush him down, either. He didn’t bother lighting a candle to help him find the main staircase. He had one particular destination in mind, and nothing would set him off course. It may have been the middle of the night, but he didn’t give a damn.
Just as he reached the top of the stairs, his eyes settled on the door, or rather the light coming from the crack at the bottom of it. This was all the evidence he needed. A lamp was lit because Julien had just arrived. Moving purposefully, but quietly, Etienne made his way down the hall. The silence of his own footfalls was perhaps what alerted him to his brother’s lingering moan. It was faint, but there was no mistaking it.
In that split second, all other thoughts left Etienne’s mind, save one. Julien was hurt! Riding in the dark on an unfamiliar horse, any number of calamities could have befallen him. The horse had stepped in an unseen hole, lost its footing, and Julien had been thrown. How badly was he injured? How had he made it back to the house unaided? Was Jessica tending him?
Etienne burst through the door. “Julien!”
“Eeeek!” Jessica squealed.
“Whoa!” Julien bellowed.
“Oh!” Simultaneously Etienne yelped. The bright lamp on the end table honed in like a beacon, directly illuminating two pale circular mounds—his brother’s bare derriere.
Julien was in bed, but clearly not suffering from an injury. He was buck naked, on top of his equally naked wife. For a millisecond, before he could react, Etienne watched Julien grapple for the blankets—blankets that had evidently been tossed aside, probably not long before.
“Geez, Etienne! Get out!” Julien fumed.
Etienne squeezed his eyes shut, covered them with both hands and spun around all at the same time. “Sorry. So sorry,” he mumbled.
“Go!” Julien yelled.
Moving on was not an option. At least not yet. Without turning, Etienne asked, “How long have you been…
er
… doing what you’re doing?”
“Oh, for god’s sake,” Julien ranted. “I’m going to throw something at you.”
“Answer my question, and I’ll go.”
“Last warning,” Julien fired back.
Something whizzed through the air. Etienne heard it before he felt the impact. Whatever it was, was solid as a rock and had a sharp corner. It hit him in the shoulder blade hard enough to make him grunt. The thing—most likely a brass candlestick—clamored to the ground behind him and rolled, but Etienne didn’t look.
“Have you been here all night?” he demanded again.
“Yes. Now go away!”
“Of course you’ll deny it,” Etienne mumbled, then raised his voice. “Where’d you hide your spook get-up?”
“What?”
“Which horse were you riding?”
“Have you lost your mind?” Julien barked.
A change in tactics was necessary. “Jessie, has Julien been here with you all evening? He didn’t go out and just get back a little while ago?” Etienne asked.
“You fruitcake! What the hell is wrong with you?” Julien cut in before his wife could reply.
“No, Etienne,” Jessica said. Etienne could hear the suppressed laughter in her tone. “Julien’s been in the house all night. We played charades, put the kids to bed and…
uh
… here we are…”
“Alright then. I apologize for the interruption. You may…
er
… resume.”
With that, treading lightly Etienne stepped out and closed the door behind him. For a moment he stood there in the hallway. It wasn’t so much the blatant image of his brother’s behind, or even Jessica’s shapely legs wrapped around him, flitting through Etienne’s mind. It was the marks on Julien’s back—scars from bullet wounds. Through the door Etienne could hear the two of them whispering, but he couldn’t make out the words. As soon as their laughter erupted, he silently stomped off.