Come Love a Stranger

Chapter Five

MARELDA left Belle Chêne with all the outraged energy of a summer tempest. She gave minimal farewells to the elder ladies, who were somewhat dazed by her abrupt decision to be gone. Her large trunk was wrestled into the back of her landau, and when Ashton came to see her off, she gave him a curt nod, scorning his proffered hand before she turned to accept assistance from her driver. As the carriage departed, Amanda and Jennifer cast curious glances at Ashton, but neither gained any measure of understanding from his slowly widening grin.

Marelda seethed the entire distance to Natchez and mumbled curses against the master of Belle Chêne, hoping the earth would open up and devour him and his specious bride. As her rage and frustration mounted, she thought she would definitely revel in news of their mutual demise. Indeed, if such an announcement ever came to her ears concerning Lierin Wingate, she made a promise to herself that she would dance on the little tart’s grave. She had suffered far too much at the hands of that twit. It seemed her best efforts had been frustrated by the family’s willingness to be taken in by that feigned innocence, and she considered it highly unfair. She had been the one abused, not that chit!

The prior evening’s scene was repeated over and over in Marelda’s mind and did much to churn up animosities from the darkest pit of hell. Not only were the couple mentally cursed and castigated, but stripped and put on imaginary racks of torture, where she laid burning coals against their flesh for every offense they had caused her to suffer. She especially delighted in the idea of flogging the wench, while Ashton helplessly witnessed the torture. Thoughts of revenge only aggravated her hatred, and she began to conjure actual ways her venom could reach out and destroy them. Much to her sorrow, however, there seemed to be no successful way of escaping the backlash of her schemes. Justice would be blind to her reason, and whatever she set out to do she could only expect to feel the bite of her own fangs in the end. The threat of enduring reprisal dissuaded her from pursuing the matter further. Until she found a way to repay the pair without coming under condemnation herself, they would be safe from her plots.

The carriage rattled down a Natchez street and passed in front of a tavern where a group of men stood conversing on the boardwalk. Marelda gave no notice to the gathering until she recognized the short, stocky shape of M. Horace Titch on its outer fringe. The man bobbed up and down like a bird on his short legs as he maneuvered for a better position, but for the most part the other men seemed to ignore him. She had always considered him a rather comical character and had often made fun of him behind his back, but she had also noticed his adoring stares following her about. Perhaps she might be successful in persuading him to do her bidding with only a smile as a reward. She could hardly see how she could fail.

Marelda spoke a word to her driver, and the closed landau was brought to a halt beside the boardwalk. Leaning out the window, she waved her handkerchief to gain the squat little man’s attention. “Mr. Titch! Yahoo! Mr. Titch!”

Horace glanced around and, seeing who hailed him, beamed in sudden delight. Immediately excusing himself from his companions, he hurried toward her carriage with his short-legged duck walk and was nearly breathless with elation when he arrived. “My dear Miss Rousse! Ah’m delighted to see you!”

The stage had truly been deprived of a great artist when Marelda chose to pursue the pampered life of a wealthy heiress. Her greatest act was that of the properly demure lady. Of course, even if she had been less skilled with her performance, Horace would never have noticed as those dark eyes swept downward above a coy smile. “You’re very gallant, Mr. Titch. You make a lady seem so special.”

“But you are special, Miss Rousse,” he responded eagerly. “Very special.”

“Why, Mr. Titch. You say the nicest things. I must be careful not to let you turn my head with such sweet flattery.”

Horace was nearly bursting with enthusiasm. “Oh, it isn’t flattery in the least! You’re the finest lady in all of Natchez! And may I say the most beautiful?”

Marelda cast her eyes downward again and smiled, feigning nervous embarrassment. “I fear you’ll make me blush if you continue, Mr. Titch.”

Horace thrust out his rounded chest, threatening the buttons of his large checkered vest. Never before had he brought a heightened color to any woman’s cheeks, except of course by anger, and the idea that he could accomplish such a feat with the beauteous Marelda Rousse was an invigorating boost to his ego. As he bathed in this moment of bliss, the realization began to dawn on him slowly that a distressed frown had replaced her smile and that she had begun twisting her handkerchief between her hands in a distraught fashion. He finally remembered that she had summoned him and made a cautious inquiry. “Uh…may I assist you in some way, Miss Rousse?”

“Oh, Mr. Titch, I wouldn’t want to trouble you….”

“I assure you it would be my pleasure.”

“Well, if you’re sure it would not be too much of an imposition…”

“Certainly not, Miss Rousse!” he declared. “Ask anything at all, and if it’s within my power, your wish will be granted.”

Marelda affected a reluctant guise as she concocted the lie: “I just don’t know where to turn. You see, my uncle is coming for a visit…and he has gotten into the habit of taking a toddy in the evening…for medicinal purposes, you understand.”

“Oh, of course!”

In an exaggerated drawl fairly dripping with honey and cream she continued: “I clearly forgot to ask the servants to purchase a bottle or two for the larder, and here he’ll be coming this very evening. I declare, with no man in the house to attend to such needs, I’m simply at a loss. The cupboard is bone dry, and if I don’t serve him a little something, my uncle is bound to think the very worst of my hospitality. I hesitate to venture into a tavern by myself. You understand, don’t you? It’s such manly territory. But if I send my driver, he must leave the carriage unattended.”

“Oh, please! Allow me, Miss Rousse.” Horace swallowed the bait with vigor.

“Oh, would you, Mr. Titch?” Marelda loosed the drawstring of her purse, and a few coins rattled on the bottom as she began digging inside. “If you’ll just wait a moment, sir, I have the money here.”

Astounded by the opportunity to serve this beautiful woman, Mr. Titch hastened to object: “I’ll not hear of it, Miss Rousse. I beg you to let me deliver this favor as a true gentleman of the first water. It’s the least I can do.”

Eagerly Horace set out on his errand, taking short, quick steps that were closely reminiscent of a duck crossing an icy pond. Intent upon this moment of glory, he reasoned as he went that if the lady would like one bottle, she might better appreciate two or even three.

Marelda’s eyes took on a feral gleam as a whole series of thoughts enraptured her. Her love of money had not been satiated by the small fortune her sire had bequeathed to her, but here was a resource she had not considered before and one well worth tapping. The Titch family had money enough to balance out the faults of the little man, and Horace did seem incredibly pliant to her wishes. Hardly like that devil, Ashton, who had always been difficult to manage. She was so taken with the prospect of gaining greater wealth, it seemed only a few brief moments before the door of the tavern opened again and the short man teetered out, his arms filled with a large cloth sack. His rapid gait brought him to her carriage without delay, and after swinging the door open, he deposited the offering at her feet.

“Enough for a fortnight or more, Miss Rousse.” He spread the top of the bag to display four bottles. “Your…uh…uncle should not go wanting during his visit.”

“Why, Mr. Titch, I do declare. I believe you have put me in your debt and richly so. Would you like to ride with me? Perhaps I can drop you somewhere.”

“The ride itself would be my pleasure, Miss Rousse, and anywhere you choose to drop me would be fine.” He gestured down the street to a black man who sat atop a waiting conveyance. “My carriage will follow.” Hoisting himself aboard, Horace settled into the seat facing her, rather awed at being in her company.

Marelda waved her handkerchief to indicate the group of men he had left. “I hope I’m not taking you away from some important discussion with your friends.”

“Important enough to rouse fear in the hearts of every man, woman, and child in Natchez if they knew the truth. What we need now is some sort of action.”

“My goodness, it sounds frightfully important.” She fluttered her lashes to convey her bemusement. “What truth do you speak of, Mr. Titch?”

“Why, the truth about those half-wits escaping from the madhouse!”

Marelda was genuinely surprised. “Someone escaped from the asylum?”

“Haven’t you heard?” Horace was impressed with his own ability to enlighten her. “The madhouse burned, and several inmates walked away. At this very moment they’re roaming completely free around the countryside, and there’s no telling what sort of danger we might be in.”

“But when did all this happen?”

“The same night we were all at Belle Chêne awaiting Ashton Wingate’s return.”

Marelda leaned back in her seat and stared at him while her mind worked in a slowly turning cycle. Ashton had said Lierin might have escaped from a burning house, and here was news that the madhouse had gone up in flames. Was it a coincidence? Or a stroke of luck for her? She almost laughed as she mentally rubbed her hands in glee. Perhaps she had found a safe way to have her revenge after all.

Marelda assumed an expression of worry and concern as she focused her regard on the stubby little man. “Do you suppose that girl Ashton brought home might have come from the madhouse?”

Horace’s bushy brows shot up in surprise. He hadn’t even considered the wench. “Why, I suppose she could have….”

“Ashton says that she’s his long-dead wife come back alive, but how can anyone believe that?” Marelda could almost see the man’s mind gulping down the tidbits she fed him. “How can she be his wife when everyone knows Lierin Wingate died three years ago?”

“Why…why would Ashton say that she’s his wife when she’s really not?”

Marelda managed a concerned frown before she shrugged. “I would hate to be the one who said it, but you know how Ashton is about a pretty face. With him knowing she might be from the asylum and the girl saying she can’t remember, he’s probably giving that excuse to make things convenient for him.”

Horace stroked his chin thoughtfully. What the lady said might very well be true, but he would never dare confront Ashton and accuse him of lying. “I guess that’s one of ’em who’s found a safe nest.”

Marelda was aghast that he did not jump at the opportunity she was presenting him. “What do you mean?”

“No one’s going to interfere with Ashton,” he said simply.

“But the girl might have escaped from the madhouse!” Dissatisfied by his lack of zeal, she threw his words back at him. “We could all be in danger!”

“I’m afraid we’ll have to wait until she does something before we can take her from Belle Chêne.”

“Does what?” Marelda had to curb her mounting irritation with the man. “You mean kill someone?”

“Or hurt somebody.” It would take something drastic to prompt him to move against the man, and he could imagine there were others who felt the same way.

“I shall not be able to sleep a wink!” she declared, but those who knew her were cognizant of the fact that after a few toddies, the mighty Mississippi could change its course and sweep her house away without her being aware of it. “I could be murdered in my bed by that woman, and there’d be no one to rush to my defense!”

“I’d gladly lend you my protection, Miss Rousse,” Horace offered magnanimously. “In fact, if it would make you feel better, I can come by ’most every day…or…ah…evening and…ah…make sure that you are safe.”

“Oh, would you, Horace?” Smiling warmly, she reached over and placed her gloved hand upon his. “You are a true friend indeed.”

Now that it had received some nourishment, Mumford Horace Titch’s infatuation with Marelda burgeoned well out of proportion. With the excuse he had provided for himself, he came to visit her as soon as he was assured that he would not intrude upon her uncle’s visit, reluctantly letting a week go past before he approached her door. The maid let him in and looked him over with some skepticism before she showed him into the parlor, there bidding him wait until she had informed her mistress of his presence. Though the mantel clock showed less than two hours before midday, Horace, in his diligence to his newly acquired duties, had failed to consider that the lady was a late riser. A silver coffee service was brought to help him while away the time, and he drummed his fingers nervously on the porcelain cup as the clock ticked away the minutes. He was on his second cup of the dark bitter brew when Marelda finally came into the parlor, but the wait proved worthwhile, at least on his part. Her robe seemed hastily donned, and the thin gown worn beneath it displayed enough of her bosom to make the strong coffee go to his head.

“My most humble apologies, dear lady!” Horace stammered and came to his feet, nearly spilling the cup of steaming liquid into his lap. “I did not mean to disturb your sleep.”

Marelda leisurely crossed the room and, pouring herself a draft, sweetened it with several spoonfuls of sugar and lightened the color with a liberal dribble of cream before noting that her guest’s face was a reddish hue. His eyes seemed to bulge as they remained locked on her carefully arranged décolletage. Since his breaking point appeared imminent, she casually presented her back as she sipped from her cup.

“You mustn’t give it another thought, Mr. Titch. It’s just that I hadn’t expected anyone at this…um…hour.” She gazed lazily at the mantel clock, favoring him with a full view of her left profile, which she considered her best. “Had I any clue whatsoever that you’d really be coming to attend to my welfare, I would have prepared myself better.” This was hardly the truth, but she ignored the inaccuracy and enjoyed the effect her state of dishabille was provoking in the short, pudgy man.

“Please,” she murmured graciously, waving a hand to the settee from which he had risen, “make yourself comfortable.” As he obeyed, she took a seat in a chair directly opposite him, letting him have a glimpse of an ankle before pulling her robe together.

Horace’s head was still filled with swelling bosom, sleepy dark eyes, and ruby lips when this latest blast brought a light beading of perspiration upon his upper lip. He stretched his neck and twitched it to ease the sudden tightness of his cravat.

“I…that is…I mean, if we are going to be friends now, uh…“mister” sounds so…um…formal. Maybe…” He couldn’t quite put such a bold proposal into words, and was relieved when the lady seemed to understand.

“Of course.” She sipped from her cup and eyed him over its edge. “You may call me Marelda, and I”-she leaned forward and smiled seductively-“shall call you…Mumford.”

It took a decidedly strong effort on his part to tear his eyes from her gaping gown and meet her gaze. It was terribly difficult to suggest that this beautiful creature could displease him in any way. “I…uh…” Openly sweating now, he ran a finger beneath his collar, feeling in dire need for a breath of cool, fresh air. “My…um…middle name is Horace, and I…”

“But, dahling,” she pouted prettily, “I rather like Mumford, or even…”

Horace almost cringed as he sensed it coming.

“…Mummy!”

“I…er…Horace is my favorite.” His voice grew very small as he dared disagree with this delectable demoiselle. “My mother and Sissy always called me Mummy, and the other boys…” The memory of some of their taunts was simply too painful to express. He sat erect on the edge of the divan and stared at the buckles of his shoes while he fumbled with his cup and struggled to find a way to change the subject.

“Of course, my dear.” Marelda set her cup aside and rose. “It shall be whatever you wish.”

Horace scrambled to his feet as she stepped very close to him, and her sweet lavender fragrance set his brain swirling.

“You can see that all is well here and that I am in no danger,” she stated matter-of-factly. She ran a hand down her side, smoothing the velvet robe to emphasize her words while noting how his eyes followed the gesture. “Since the hour is close to noon, I really must be getting dressed and seeing to lunch.” The cook had better be well along with the latter, she thought. She was not a breakfast person unless she was visiting the Wingate estate, and she almost shuddered when she considered the hours those people kept. “Was there something else you wanted? Have you found out any information about that woman at the Wingates’?” Marelda took him by the arm and began leading him toward the door, casually pressing her breast against him. “I’ll bet you anything she’s one of those who escaped from the madhouse. Why else would she show up in a nightgown the very same night? It’s really a shame someone doesn’t at least bring that to Ashton’s notice.” He’s taking a great chance with her living there. Suppose, if you might, that she set the fire at the madhouse, and she’s just waiting the chance to torch Belle Chêne.”

Somehow M. Horace Titch found himself outside on the stoop with no recollection of how he had arrived there. He had a vague recall of sweet lips curved in a tantalizing smile before the door shut them from sight, but the memory of the yielding softness against his arm overshadowed all else and filled his chest with a pounding heart. The cool air cleared his mind by slow degrees, and he found a hat in his hand. Since it had all the appearance of being his, he placed it on his head and began to walk toward the center of town. A rattle of wheels beside him reminded him that he had come in a carriage, and he climbed inside to review the idea of approaching Ashton Wingate on the matter of the mysterious girl and the possible reactions of the man if it were done wrongly.

The elements of Horace Titch’s problem ricocheted around in his head, but whenever he settled on a tactic that seemed commensurate with diplomacy, his imagination ended the scene with chilling images of Ashton Wingate committing various forms of horrendous mayhem upon his person. His thoughts were still locked on this dilemma when the carriage passed a knot of men who had gathered on a street corner. A single word caught his attention.

“…Madhouse!”

Promptly Horace rapped on the roof and bade his driver to halt. Keenly curious, he made his way to the edge of the crowd and turned an attentive ear to what was being said. A man holding the reins of a sweating horse was breathlessly relating the news.

“Yeah, they found him in one of the backrooms with the charred hilt of a knife stickin’ from his back. It’s the sheriff’s guess that he was one of the keepers and that the fire was deliberately started to cover up the murder. My bet is that one of those inmates who escaped caught him unawares, grabbed his keys, and took off after setting the place on fire.”

The men mumbled among themselves and grew angrier as conjectures about the escaped inmates became more lurid. As he listened, it became increasingly apparent to Horace that if these fellows were provided with the proper incentive, he would not have to face Ashton Wingate at all, for they would do it for him.

He glanced about him, sizing up many in the group as a bunch of ruffians who frequented the taverns and picked up odd jobs here and there to supply them with necessary coinage. By their rough garb, it was easy to assess that these were not part of the affluent class and might be impressed by the presence of a wealthy gentleman in their midst. Having worn his newest and best for Marelda’s benefit, he was outfitted well enough to strike awe in the minds of these penniless yokels. His fine gray frock coat and trousers were imbued with light plum stripes, while the brocade vest was traced with a pattern of small plum flowers. Why, his garments, right down to the plum-and-gray-checkered silk cravat, might have even made the arrogant Ashton Wingate writhe in envy.

Horace cleared his throat to gain the others’ notice, sensing that here was his chance to put forth his suspicions. “Men, listen to me. We’ve got to do something about those madfolk running around our community. None of us are safe, and it’s a downright shame that the womenfolk of Natchez have to venture out at the risk of their very lives.”

A low rumble of assent accompanied the nodding of heads, and after a moment the men quieted and again gave Horace their full consideration. Warming to his topic, the squat, would-be orator puffed out his chest and hooked his thumbs in his vest pockets. It was no mystery to him that several stared with jaws hanging slack, for he was sure his authoritative demeanor and costly garb affected some in that manner. If he heard, he gave no hint when one man commented to a companion:

“Gor! Ain’t no man what dresses like that this time o’ morn’n!” The fellow scratched a heavily stubbled chin. “He musta spent the whole night swillin’ down gin. Prob’ly slept it off wid one o’ Cottonmouth Maggie’s girls down by the Trace.”

“Look to yourselves, men!” Horace barked. “It’s not only the women who are in danger. Reliable accounts have it that mad people sometimes have the strength of five or six men! They’re likely to tear a common man apart for the pennies in his pocket!” He sought to find the magic words that would set them aflame with righteous fervor. “I say it’s time we band together and search out these escaped madfolk before they do us some harm!”

Silence settled over the group as they realized he was actually asking them to do something. A few more curious souls had joined the gathering, and a jug was passed around and repeatedly tipped to moisten thirsty gullets.

“Now, it’s been assumed that the escaped inmates were all men, but I’ve heard there was also a woman among them. In fact, the very same night the madhouse burned, Ashton Wingate brought home an injured girl who was wearing only a nightgown and was all muddied and bruised from trampin’ through the swamp. What’s a man to think when we all know it’s only a few miles through the woods from Belle Chêne to the madhouse?”

He could see the responding nods and hear the growing buzz of comments.

“There’s no tellin’ what she might do to them poor folks out there or to those old ladies who stay alone when Ashton’s away on business. Set another fire?”

The crowd could summon no great sympathy for the ladies, especially when they thought of that big black overseer who watched over the place. Ashton Wingate had made it clear some time ago that no one fooled with any of his, be it his kin, his slaves, or his property. They remembered a time when he had called out the sheriff to carry off a bunch of boys who had gone out to his place on a ’coon hunt, and after several hours behind bars, they had ended up having to pay for that cow, which at night and from a distance had really looked like a coon. There were other stories about how men were hired out there and expected to work right alongside the slaves. Why, it was common knowledge that a man couldn’t earn a day’s pay at Belle Chêne without churning up a sweat and nearly working his fingers to the bone. Any excuse to trample on the Wingates’ lawn was to be taken advantage of, and this one seemed a far better excuse than most. It would feel sort of good to tweak Ashton’s nose on his own front lawn….

Horace cried aloud as if haunted by the horror of it all. “We just can’t let this kind of thing go on! That madwoman”-the leap from suspicion to conclusion was easy-“could murder a dozen people or more if she isn’t put away!”

This time there was a shout of assent, and when it died, Horace ranted on in his high-pitched voice.

“We’d just be doing all of them a favor and performing our duty to make it safe for everyone to sleep at night and for womenfolk and children on the streets.”

“You’re right!” The hue and cry was taken up. “Who knows their way around out there? We need someone to lead us out!”

Horace grew anxious as a sudden note of confusion seemed ready to sap the will of the crowd. “I do!” he yelled and became instantly aware of his folly. “I can draw you a map.” His voice dwindled even lower as he added, “I…er…I’d go myself but I have no horse….”

“Use mine! We need some one to show us the way!”

Horace stared at his hand where a pair of reins had suddenly appeared, and when he looked about, the owner of the horse had gone. The rawboned nag at the other end of the leather straps gave Horace gaze for gaze. The horse appeared to have been assembled by a neophyte who had randomly jammed long gnarled bones into a sagging, mottled brown, and mostly hairy hide. The steed’s narrow eyes appeared to harbor an ill-disguised desire to wreak vengeance on any man fool enough to straddle his bony back. Horace shuddered as he recalled the pain that had accompanied his last attempt to ride a horse. That particular event had caused him to swear an oath to keep himself forevermore to the well-padded seat of a carriage.

“I…um…don’t…” he murmured weakly, then turned away from that mean-eyed stare and managed somehow to gather some semblance of bravado: “There’s no tellin’ how violent that woman might be. Someone should…”

“Here!” A rusted antique of a long, double-barreled flintlock shotgun was thrust into his other hand. “She’s primed and loaded, so’s you treats her like a baby, see?”

Guns were another item Horace failed to understand. They had always left him hurting in one part or another. At first his father had scorned him because he could not shoot, then, relenting, had tried to instruct him in the proper use of firearms. An hour later the elder Titch had found himself seriously contemplating a savaged hat and shredded coattails while a doctor plucked buckshot from the lower portion of his backside. He had hastened to agree with the medical man that the son would likely fare just as well without a knowledge of hunting in his education, and the subject had never been broached again…until now.

“Come on!” someone shouted. “Let’s be about it!”

All around him men were mounting horses that seemed to have been gathered from nowhere, and somehow Horace found himself in the saddle with the gun cradled in his arm. He hurt almost at once and, glancing around in dismay, searched for some trace of his driver or carriage. He noticed the sheriff’s bewhiskered deputy surveying the happenings from a short distance away, but the man’s tobacco-chewing reticence gave Horace no reason to hope that this ride would be terminated. Several men climbed into a wagon, and the whole entourage assembled behind the short-legged dandy, with a pair of buckboards bringing up the rear. Though he sought heartily to catch a glimpse of his carriage and promised himself that he would deal harshly with his driver whenever he found him, there was no escape for M. Horace Titch.

Someone slapped his horse, and they were off amid shouts and a noisy scramble. Horace was quite astounded by the fact that a steed could have such a bone-jarring trot. The corners of his mouth turned down in an agonized grimace as his backside bounced unmercifully against the saddle. To escape the abuse he tried to stand in the stirrups for a moment, but that position threatened to topple him headfirst over the horse’s neck. When he clamped his legs tighter around the horse’s belly, it only seemed to excite and encourage the animal into a faster trot. Horace jerked on the reins to keep the pace slower, and the best the confused mount could do was a stiff-legged half-trot. Horace’s dark head jerked with every downward motion of his body, and he became a mass of jiggling ripples from his jowls to his toes. It was a long way to Belle Chêne, and he was more than a little afraid that the ride went directly through hell.

The harpsichord took unto itself a new life under the slender, agile fingers that caressed the keyboard. Lierin was enthusiastic at her ability to play the instrument and, while the ladies napped upstairs, had slipped into the parlor to examine the extent of her talent. The sweet fluid notes had drawn Ashton to the room immediately upon his arrival home. He had seen to the last details of the steamboat’s departure upriver and left his captain and Mr. Logan to the matter of boarding the passengers.

Breathing out the smoke of a long, black cheroot, Ashton leaned back in his chair and watched the vapors drift slowly toward the ceiling as the light, airy music filled his head and echoed through the house. He was bathed in a sea of bliss. He could name no other woman who could stir his emotions so completely and bring such pleasure to his senses. Her merest presence touched his life with happiness, and yet he realized she was still much of an enigma to him. She had a great deal to tell him about herself and her life and where she had been for these past three years.

The mood was broken by a sudden and persistent knocking on the door. Lierin stopped playing and glanced around as if she had forgotten there was another world beyond the parlor. When Ashton called out, bidding admittance, he was amazed when one of the stablehands answered the summons and hurried in with hat in hand. It was unusual for Hickory to come into the house, and Ashton knew before the man spoke that a crisis was imminent.

“Massa,” the groom wheezed and waggled a finger in the general direction of Natchez. “Massa, dey’s a whole passel o’ men acomin’ dis way, ridin’ lickety-split an’ lookin’ like dey’s up to no good.” The black paused to swallow and catch his breath before continuing: “Suh, Ah do believe dey’s headin’ here. Dere jes’ ain’t no other place fo’ dem to go.”

Ashton pondered the matter as he tapped the burning end of his cigar in a dish. “Perhaps we should see what kind of reception we can arrange for them. Do you have any more running left in those long legs of yours?”

“Yassuh, Massa Ashton.” Hickory grinned and nodded an eager affirmative. “Ah was jes’ up in de hayloft when Ah seen dem acomin’. Why, Ah gots at least a mile or more o’ dust raisin’ left.”

“Judd is cleaning some of the brush away from the creek.” Ashton rattled out orders in rapid-fire sequence. “You get down there and tell him to come back and bring every man he can lay a hand to. Tell him to come ready for trouble. I’ll leave instructions with Willabelle in the kitchen. Best be on your way now, Hickory.”

The man was already turning to leave, and the door quickly closed behind him. Ashton went to Lierin, who had risen from the bench. He smiled to ease her worried frown and took her hands into his.

“No need to fret, my love,” he soothed. “Some of the boys from town get themselves liquored up once in a while and start cavorting around the countryside, seeing what kind of trouble they can get into. We’ve learned how to handle them without anyone getting hurt, so just continue to play. The sound of your music pleasures me greatly, and I would hear more of it. I must have a word with Willabelle now, and then I’ll just step outside on the porch.” He pressed a quick kiss on the back of her hand, then released her and left. Lierin returned to her music, but with Ashton’s departure from the parlor, the delightful interlude had ceased to be. The luster of the moment had definitely fled with him.

The group of horsemen drew near the porch where the master of Belle Chêne awaited them. They dissolved into a roiling, struggling mass as each one jockeyed for a position. Of course, the loser of this melee had to be the rider least skilled in the art of horsemanship, in this case one Mumford Horace Titch. This stalwart who had led the hardy band came to a stumbling, scrambling halt with the hooves of his gallant mount almost banging into the bottom step. A shocked expression contorted his face at the last stiff-legged bounce, and he sucked in his breath through gritted teeth at the pure agony of the moment. He stood up in the stirrups, trying to ease his pain, and surreptitiously sought to untangle the butt of the overlong shotgun from the loose ends of the reins. The gaping twin bores of the eight-gauge swung in a wide arc, and there was a sudden scurrying as Mr. Titch’s companions wisely concluded that their spokesman needed more room.

Horace finally succeeded in freeing the recalcitrant locks of the smoothbore from the tenacious leather straps and, glancing around for support, found that his allies had withdrawn several paces to the rear, leaving him solely in charge of delivering the elements of their complaint to Mr. Wingate. Since everyone seemed to be waiting for him to open the proceedings, he cleared his throat and, in spite of his bruised state, drew himself up to his full height, only to find that he still had to look up to meet Ashton’s gaze. The sun-bronzed features hinted of that one’s amusement, which severely unsettled Horace’s composure. Nervously he cleared his throat again, but strive though he might, he could not lay tongue to a single sensible word with which to begin.

Ashton Wingate saved the day as he squinted at the sun briefly and then greeted his visitors. “Good afternoon, Mr. Titch.” He nodded to the others. “Gentlemen.” He leaned indolently against a pillar, his fingers jammed in the tops of his pockets. “You seem to have picked a fine day for a ride in the country.”

M. Horace Titch tried to hitch himself a notch or two higher, then had to grab for the gun as it began to slip away from him. “I doubt, suh, that you will be able to deal with these good men through the use of inane pleasantries.”

Ashton arched a condescending brow. “I have a feeling that you’re about to correct my error, Mr. Titch. You can start by telling me what the lot of you are doing here on my lawn.”

The fowling piece was growing heavy, and Horace shifted it to a new position before he answered: “That’s just what I’m about to do, suh, and I warn you to be wary. I assure you that we represent the whole of Natchez and Davis County.”

“Indeed?” Ashton let the single word convey his doubt.

“There’s been a grievous wrong perpetrated upon the good people of our area.” Horace was sweating heavily and would have wiped his brow had he found a free hand. “As you are well aware, suh, several of those madfolk escaped from the sanitarium when the place burned down. I have it on very good authority that you have involved yourself in this travesty….” Horace noticed an almost imperceptible hardening of the hazel eyes, but he continued, encouraged by the presence of those behind him. Even Ashton Wingate would not think of standing against such odds. “It seems you have taken one of those crazy people into your home.”

Horace almost held his breath as he awaited the man’s reaction to this bold statement. Other than a slight tensing of the lean jaw, he saw no real sign of change and came to the conclusion that Ashton Wingate had either not heard him or had misunderstood his statement.

“I mean to say, suh, that the…uh…young woman you brought home a couple of weeks ago might just be one of them mad ones.”

A murmur of agreement rose behind Horace, but Ashton only glanced at the sun again, and then consulted his pocket watch.

Seeing no threat forthcoming, Horace warmed to his topic and rushed on: “Really, Mr. Wingate, I can’t understand why you would take such a risk by bringing one of them right into your own home. We must insist that she be delivered into the hands of the authorities.” M. Horace Titch realized he had finally gained Ashton’s full attention when he found himself under the unwavering regard of those penetrating green-brown eyes. He hastened to add, “Just until it can be determined who she is, of course…and only for the safety of the women and children around these parts.”

Now that the demand was out, the rest of the men relaxed a bit. There was a full chorus of assents, with a lot of bobbing heads.

“’At’s right!”

“Way to tell ’im, Titch!”

“We gotta take ’er in!”

Ashton seemed strangely undisturbed by their proposition. “You men have had a long ride out here, and the day has been unseasonably warm.” He called out to include the lot of them: “And you seem mighty uncomfortable on those horses. Why don’t you climb down and rest for a spell?”

A pause followed as they considered this, and a general mumbling rose among them as they agreed that Ashton Wingate wasn’t such an almighty ogre after all. As invited, they dismounted.

M. H. Titch was overjoyed at the prospect of standing on good, solid earth again. A considerable degree of havoc had been wreaked upon his posterior and anterior parts, and he was not at all sure that a walk back to Natchez was not preferable to another ride on this wretched beast. He tried several times to swing his leg over the saddle, as some of the others had so easily done, but the long weapon got in his way. Somehow he ended up sitting on top of the thing, and had the trigger assembly been any less stout, he might have lost his manhood or, at the very least, a part of his leg.

Horace considered his predicament for a moment, giving no heed to the gaping stares he had collected. If he could just hold the gun up high, he thought, then get his right leg free and over the saddle…Amazing! Of a sudden, he found himself standing in the left stirrup with nothing tangled or caught. He was not completely aware of the danger of having his foot deeply wedged in the iron when he began to lower himself from the saddle, but he began to have some inkling of this when he found his other leg too short to reach the ground. He hung there, debating his next maneuver, when the matter resolved itself. The weapon slipped from his grasp, falling between him and the steed, and on the way down, the outsized hammers raked him from breastbone to belly. Forgetting his tenacious grip on the horse’s mane, he snatched for the evil weapon. At the same time his right foot shot underneath the belly of the nag, and with a thud and a loud “whoof,” Horace hit the ground in an absolutely prone position. The weary steed craned its neck to view this latest inanity with a good measure of disdain. The gun teetered precariously on top of the dazed man’s chest, and it was nearly a full minute before Horace came to his senses. Sudden visions of being dragged all the way back to town moved him to immediate action. Dust billowed up around the short, stout man as he struggled frantically to free his foot from the stirrup.

One of his companions had mercy on him and came to his aid. When the boot was untangled, Horace climbed slowly to his feet, using the gun for a crutch, and ruefully dusted off his new suit, causing an epidemic of sneezing fits to strike those nearest him. He slapped the beaver hat against his leg until it regained some semblance of its former hue, then settled it once more upon his head. With the completion of this simple toilet, he lifted his gaze to his host and immediately detected the fact that Ashton Wingate was regarding him with something akin to pity. He could have endured outright hatred far better; at least that emotion would have made him feel less like a bumbling clod.

“Suh, I must warn you,” he began angrily, but had to pause to spit dirt out of his mouth. “We will not be put off lightly. We’ve come here to see that our community is made safe again.”

The troop of unworthies began to exchange self-righteous comments as they regrouped behind their leader. They lifted clubs and guns en masse to affirm their agreement with what Horace had stated.

With calm deliberation, Ashton perused the crowd of men, then casually called over his shoulder for a bucket of cool water to be brought up fresh from the well and a jug of rum to accompany it. Unruffled, he waited until both had arrived and made a show of emptying the dark, potent brew into the bucket. He stirred the lot with a long-handled dipper, then raised the cup and took a long, slow sip, following his action with a smile of obvious pleasure.

The mob had grown strangely quiet as envious eyes marked his every movement. Dry tongues licked longingly over parched lips, while nostrils quivered to catch the scent. When he was sure he had gained their rapt attention, Ashton lifted the dripping ladle aloft and dribbled the liquid in a slow, tantalizing stream.

“The road from town is hot and dusty. I’m sure you men could use a bit of cool water.”

Sighs of relief were quickly overwhelmed by shouts of assent, and a mass of burly bodies gathered near the stoop. Nudging elbows prodded slighter forms aside as each sought to receive his ration. Ashton stared down at them and almost smiled as he stepped back.

“Aye, that’s the way, lads. Nothing like a good swig of grog to cut the grime in a man’s throat.”

They nodded eagerly in a rushing tide of agreement. Horace finally yielded to his own thirst and deigned to put the brimming dipper to his lips. He swirled the first draft around in his mouth and then spewed a muddy stream onto the lane before he quenched his thirst. As he passed the dipper on, he got back to the matter at hand. “Mr. Wingate!” He gained that one’s rather skeptical regard almost immediately. “Do you intend to hand the woman over to us so we might deliver her to the sheriff?”

His cohorts suddenly recalled the reason for their visit and, since the bucket was nearly empty, clustered around their selected spokesman. Horace had never been leader of anything before, and he felt a surge of importance as he laid the gun over his arm and turned to survey his fellows. There was a wild dash for cover as the bore of the weapon swung with him.

Had Ashton been in a better mood, he might have found some humor in these antics, but he could manage no more than a coldly tolerant smile when the little man’s round, dirt-streaked face confronted him again. He had not heard the harpsichord for some moments and could only hope that Willabelle had had the foresight to escort Lierin up to her room.

Horace cleared his throat. “You understand clearly why we’ve come, suh. If you would be so kind as to fetch the girl, we’ll take her in to the sheriff and let him decide what to do with her. I’ll see that no action is taken against you.”

Ashton neither spoke nor changed his expression, but Horace’s eyes widened perceptively as the front door swung open and Belle Chêne’s huge black overseer, Judd Barnum, stepped casually out, with a pair of oversize horse pistols tucked in his belt. In the crook of his arm rested an ancient but well-kept, bell-muzzled blunderbuss, and across his chest he wore a wide leather strap from which dangled a dozen or so wooden charges for the awesome weapon. The black held his silence, but braced his feet apart and proceeded to dip into the large pocket of his waistcoat, removing a handful of small, jagged metal pieces, which he ceremoniously dumped into the muzzle of the blunderbuss. Laying the piece again over his massive arm, Judd glanced up to meet the startled and disturbed stare of the short man, then his gaze ranged leisurely over the rest of the gathering.

At least one of the onlookers shuddered as he conjured a mental image of the mayhem such a charge would cause. Bellies tightened and grumbled as they churned in sudden consternation. Somewhere the note of lighthearted fun had vanished from this afternoon’s foray, and they began to have second thoughts about the wisdom of disturbing the occupants of Belle Chêne.

“You gentlemen are under a misconception,” Ashton announced almost pleasantly.

Horace tried to form a question, but he found his mouth gone dry, this time with roweling dismay. He had heard that Ashton Wingate had a penchant for turning the tables on pranksters or anyone else who meant him harm, but he had not expected the man to stand firm against such odds and surely not to take the upper hand. Intensely aware of the threat that faced them, Horace could only stand and gape.

The hazel eyes flicked toward him briefly. “You most of all, Mr. Titch.”

“Why…?” The single word was strangled out.

“The lady whom you have so carelessly slandered is my wife, and you should know me well enough by now at least to guess that I’m not partial to having anything taken from me by force, especially when it is something I treasure.”

“If’n she’s your’n, why ain’t we never seent her befo’?” The question came from a bearded, snaggle-toothed fellow who stood near the rear of the group.

“If Sheriff Dobbs has any questions he wishes to address to me, I will most respectfully respond, but I owe none of you an explanation.”

“Ah…the sheriff’s a friend o’ his. Ol’ Harvey ain’t gonna do nothin’ to upset his lordship here. We’ve gotta take care o’ this matter ourselves if’n we want justice done.”

Once again nodding heads conveyed the general consensus of the group of men.

“Yeah! She might’ve been the one what murdered the attendant, an’ she could kill again! Maybe one o’ ours next!”

“Yeah! If’n he won’t give her to us, we’ll take her!”

There was a sudden surge toward the porch, but Judd stepped forward, snatching one of the pistols from his belt and driving them rapidly back as he swung the wide bore of the blunderbuss to face them.

“Ah di’n hear Massa Ashton say any o’ y’all was invited on his nice clean porch,” he said almost amiably. His big, square grin displayed a full set of gleaming white teeth. “Ah be careful about dirtyin’ it if’n Ah was y’all. Massa Ashton’s gots a mighty mean temper when he’s riled. He jes’ might tell me to blow a few heads off. It be a mess all right, but Ah gotta to do what he sez, ’cause he de massa. Y’all understand?”

“You’d better understand, nigger! You kill a white man, and you’ll be hanged. You’d better think twice about that!”

Judd’s broad grin never wavered as he met the man’s glare. “Dat ain’t gonna do yo no good, mistah, ’cause yo be six feet under befo’ dey ketch me.”

“Arrogant nigger!” an unkempt, slovenly fellow sneered. “Anybody’d think he’s got a title or somepin’.”

“There’s enough of us to take ’em,” another man urged from the center of the fray.

“Well, I seen the two of ’em clean ol’ Sal’s place out last year,” one who favored caution argued. “We’d better think on this some more.”

“Good advice, gentlemen,” Ashton agreed. “Consider the odds carefully before making any hasty decisions.”

“You don’t scare us, Mistuh Ashton,” a burly fellow jeered. “We’re gonna make pulp outa you an’ your black boy here.”

Ashton raised his arm and beckoned to the right and left. “You men best show yourselves now before these fools get hurt.”

Somewhere in the back one man nudged another, then jerked his head to one side. Other heads began to turn warily on suddenly stiff necks, while jaws began to sag. If the arrival of the massive black had not been enough to dampen the spirit of adventure, this latest development was well calculated to do the job. A steady stream of sweating black men came marching from around both ends of the house. Some of them bore scythes, while others carried pitchforks or axes, and a few had found pistols or other paraphernalia that could do injury to the common man. By the grins they wore, it was easy to determine that they were going to enjoy this rout. Willis’s eyes were wide as he slipped out the front door, and the long weapon he carried matched the one Mr. Titch had so zealously guarded. Hiram came around the end of the house, and he too bore a firearm of some length and power.

Ashton leisurely strolled across the front of the porch and, turning, retraced his steps as he considered the suddenly troubled faces of his visitors. “You men know I’m not fond of trespassers, especially those who come to poach, steal, or destroy anything of mine. Some say I’m a hard man, demanding retribution for the slightest offense. Now, it’s obvious that I can’t hang all of you, because you haven’t stolen anything or killed anyone yet. You’re too many for the sheriff to lock up, and you’d only abuse his hospitality anyway. I could give each of you the thrashing you deserve for coming out here as an unlawful mob, but I have other affairs that demand my attention. However, I think a nice, long, reflective saunter back to Natchez will suit my purposes….” He smiled tolerantly and, glancing over his shoulder at Judd, casually inclined his head. The black chuckled and, descending a step, raised the pistol and blunderbuss into the air. The bits of metal and shot went skyward with a roar, and in quick accompaniment those with similar weapons copied his manner. The blasts caused a horrendous cacophony that thoroughly startled the mounts, and to add to the chaos the falling debris rained down like a swarm of stinging bees on their hides. The bedlam was immediate and almost unbelievable. The frightened steeds snorted, whinnied, and bucked beneath the smarting shower. The reins snaked out of Horace’s hand, and the nag, sensing his freedom, took flight. The rest of the men scurried to catch flying reins, manes, or tails before their own steeds followed the example. Iron-weighted hooves lashed out in every direction, and it was a wild dance to escape their abuse. Some stalwarts foolishly persisted and ended up yelping and jumping around while others grimaced in silent agony and staggered away, and all this to the chortling amusement of those who witnessed the melee.

Finally, the last of the steeds broke loose, and the herd stampeded off down the road, raising a plume of dust out behind them. They had no more than disappeared from sight than another group of horsemen swung into the long, tree-lined lane and approached the house. Sheriff Dobbs rode in the van, and among those who followed was one who made Ashton frown. It was Peter Logan from the asylum. The man’s presence caused Ashton to regret the tardiness of the steamer’s departure.

Harvey Dobbs pulled his horse to a halt near the porch and thoughtfully chewed on the stub of a cigar as he contemplated the bedraggled rabble and the blacks who stood around with their various weapons. He peered down the dusty lane, then removed the cigar butt and stared at it for a brief moment before flipping it away.

“I should’ve known you wouldn’t need any help.” Harvey gave Ashton a lopsided grin, then inclined his head toward his deputy. “Ol’ Foss here heard the commotion in town, and we decided to come out here and have a look-see.”

The grizzled and bewhiskered deputy cocked a bushy brow at the leader of the now horseless pack and spat a long spurt of chewing tobacco juice in the dust near Titch’s feet, making that one dance away in outraged dignity.

“See here!” Horace protested and jerked his handkerchief from his pocket to wipe away some of the dark liquid that had splattered his boots. As he bent over, the barrel of the gun slipped downward. He grabbed for the clumsy piece, unwittingly catching his fingers in the trigger guard. The resulting force of both barrels firing into the ground at close range rolled him over, right into the tiny puddle of dark slimy spittle that he had so fastidiously avoided a moment before. There was stunned silence for a moment, then the faces of the gawking men began to break in sporadic waves as the sheriff’s chortling laughter infected them and they were able to see the humor in the incident. When the guffaws grew louder, Horace’s cheeks took on a hue that was nearly as dark and red as beets. With his lips pulled back in repugnance, he got to his hands and knees and gingerly held his trouser leg away from him as he raised himself to an upright position.

Sheriff Dobbs wiped his hand across his mouth, seeming to smooth away his laughter. He swung down from his horse and, with a nod, directed Peter Logan to do the same. Hitching up his trousers, he stepped onto the porch beside Ashton and threw a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the smaller man as that one came forward.

“Mr. Logan agreed to come out here and settle this matter before he left, so no one”-he paused to frown at Horace sharply-“will come out here again on this fool’s errand. He needs only to see the girl to put this rumor to shame.” Harvey gazed out over the heads of the men who were closely following the exchange and explained for their benefit. “Mr. Logan is from the asylum, so he should be able to identify those who escaped.”

Ashton regarded the attendant briefly. “My wife has been indisposed this week. I don’t wish to upset her.”

Harvey Dobbs’s brows shot up. “Your wife?”

Ashton nodded stiffly. “I don’t care to explain now, Harvey, but it is Lierin.”

“But I thought…” Harvey began, then frowning in bemusement, drew his large frame up slowly. “Are you sure, Ashton?”

“Yes.”

The single word satisfied the lawman, but there were other factions to be considered. “For her future protection, Ashton, I think we ought to let Mr. Logan see her and end this thing right now. There’s been a murder committed, and these men could take it in their heads to come here while you’re gone.”

“I don’t wish to put her through this, Harvey….”

The front door creaked open slightly, drawing Ashton’s immediate notice. His heart gave a sudden lurch as he saw Lierin in the narrow opening. Willabelle stood behind her and was anxiously trying to coax her back.

“I have to know!” Lierin whispered urgently, resisting the woman’s effort. Pushing the portal wider, she stepped out in the full light of the lowering sun. There were several audible intakes of breath, for she seemed almost angelic as she approached the three men who stood on the edge of the porch. Ashton thought she had never looked more beautiful. The gold and red rays stretching out across the heavens touched her hair and set the fiery strands aglow. The upswept coiffure and the pale blue of her high-necked, lace-trimmed gown created a soft and lovely setting for her delicate beauty. Her striking comeliness caused the onlookers to debate the wisdom of their leader, for it was clearly evident that this was no wild-eyed lunatic. No raving madwoman. She was only a pale, frightened girl.

A few of the brave hearties who had ridden out recalled some of the rudiments of gentlemanly courtesy and hastily snatched battered hats from mop-haired heads. Even Horace was struck with awe, but the compulsion to beg this one’s forgiveness was promptly squelched by the sure knowledge that Marelda would not approve.

Lierin’s smile wavered with uncertainty as she halted beside Ashton. Hesitantly she raised her eyes to the sheriff, who was taller by a full head and more.

“Did you wish to see me, sir?” she queried softly.

Harvey Dobbs cleared his throat and peered askance at Peter Logan, who had halted beside him. The smaller man stared agog at the one in question; then remembering himself, he tugged off his own soft cap and glanced up into Ashton Wingate’s tense frown. The scowl seemed to bring him to his senses, and he directed himself to the sheriff, giving a quick, negative shake of his head. He repeated the same gesture for the benefit of their host, adding a smile and a wink.

Though the attendant’s manner confused Ashton and made him wonder if the man could rightfully identify anyone, he felt a wave of relief wash over him. He had stubbornly rejected the idea of Lierin being the one from the madhouse, but there had always been the possibility that she had been unjustly imprisoned there. Henceforth no one would question the matter of where she belonged, for Peter Logan had given his answer, and she was safe. Relaxing now, Ashton slipped his arm about her and made the introductions.

“This is my wife, Lierin,” he stated with a sense of pride swelling in his chest. “My sweet, this is Sheriff Harvey Dobbs, a friend of mine, and”-he gestured to Peter-“Mr. Logan, who will be traveling to Memphis aboard one of our steamers tonight.”

“Did I understand them to say that you’re from the asylum?” she asked, startling the three men with the inquiry.

“Aye, that I be, ma’am,” Peter Logan replied.

“I couldn’t help overhearing…I mean, the voices were so loud….” She swept a hand to indicate the loose cluster of men. “I could hardly ignore them, and I heard enough to gather that I’ve been well defended from this mob of duty-minded citizens.” Her eyes calmly rested on Horace, who hurriedly dropped his gaze and, in sudden discomfiture, shifted his feet. His embarrassment was hardly alleviated when she directed her comments to the sheriff. “Sir, if I’m not the one you seek, I urge you to consider the plight of those poor, unfortunate people who did escape and not allow this offense to be repeated.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sheriff Dobbs respectfully agreed. “I shall surely do that.”

“If there has been a murder committed, surely we must all consider that it might have been an outsider who did the deed. Would you judge the inmates guilty before giving them a hearing?”

“No, ma’am.” The sheriff’s adamant tone denied the possibility.

“I shall take comfort in your assurances and in the belief that no harm will come to the inmates while you’re in charge.”

“I’ll do my best not to disappoint you, ma’am,” he pledged with a smile.

“I’m sure you won’t, sheriff,” she replied graciously. “But what of the plight of these men?” Lierin scanned the faces of her audience and, with a slight frown, commented on the obvious. “They’ve lost their mounts, and I see no way for them to return to Natchez. Is it a long walk back?”

Ashton chuckled as those in the adverse party were reminded of their situation and began to mutter and grumble. Their shuffling movements raised a welter of dust from the drive, but having already been told their fate, no one dared voice a complaint. “Long enough to give them time to think, my sweet.”

“Shouldn’t we at least take them back to town?”

“She’s a blessed saint,” a man responded as a hopeful murmur rose up around him. Titch’s followers were more than willing to accept some leniency from this woman and waited with bated breath as their host lifted an inquiring brow toward Judd. “Don’t we have a wagon large enough to accommodate these men?”

The huge black pondered the matter in a sober manner until an idea struck; then a wide grin spread across his dark face as he caught the flow of Ashton’s thoughts. “Well, dere is one, Massa Ashton, but de boys done got it hitched up behind de barn. Ah don’t reckon it’d suit dese here gen’lemen at all.”

“Anything’s better than walking!” a rotund fellow declared. His feet were already aching from the strain of standing.

Ashton turned to speak to Hickory, who had come to stand near the end of the porch. “Go fetch the wagon from the stable. We can’t have Mr. Titch strolling all the way back to Natchez and wearing out his new shoes.”

Chuckling to himself, Hickory left at a shuffling trot, and the men responded with mumbled thanks at the prospect of being provided transportation back to town. They began to smile and laugh until a gasp from Horace drew their attention to what came around the end of the house. There was no question the wagon was large enough, for it was made with thick board sides attached to a stout bed and mounted on massive axles. The wide, heavy wheels dropped with a jolting impact into every rut as a pair of draft horses pulled it near. Lierin pressed a perfumed handkerchief over her nose and mouth as the staunch odor of fresh manure wafted to them on an errant breeze. Huge chunks of the stuff were thickly caked to the interior and covered the lowered tailgate. A cloud of distressed flies followed closely behind as if determined not to be left bereft of either home or sustenance.

It was Titch who seemed the most offended as he stared aghast at the contraption. “You can’t be serious!”

“I have nothing else of comparable size, and there is quite a number of you,” Ashton reminded him. “If you’re unduly squeamish, you can always walk. Perhaps next time you will consider waiting for an invitation; then I can be better prepared, but for now, I would suggest you be on your way…whichever way you choose to travel.”

Sheriff Dobbs faced the discontented pack with a widening grin. “You heard ’im, boys. It’s time for you to be leaving. I might warn you also: The next time you presume to take over my responsibilities, I’ll set a fine so stiff, you’ll have to come out here and work for Judd Barnum to get enough to pay for it.” He chuckled at his own humor. “You mosey on into town now, and mind you, if you’re set on walking, don’t dally on Mr. Wingate’s lands. I’ll be along in a moment to see that you abide by what I say. So get on your way.”

Hickory sat on the high seat, clear of the stench and the flies, and whistled through his gapping front teeth and a wide, innocent grin as those who chose to accept the offering climbed in. After all, they reasoned, it was a long way back to Natchez.

Mr. Titch held back, stubbornly resolving to walk behind the conveyance. He cast dire glares toward his erstwhile host as the wagon trundled down the lane.

Sheriff Dobbs stood chortling as he observed their untidy departure. “A few miles down the road, and most of ’em won’t know the wagon even smells, but heaven help Lower Town when they arrive.”

“They should remember this for some time,” Ashton remarked.

Harvey crinkled his brows. “Some of those boys are not too forgiving, Ashton. You’d better look to yourself and your own for a while. Sometimes, it’s the ones who seem the most harmless who carry the biggest grudge.”

Ashton dropped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I’ll try to take care, Harvey…and thanks.”

“Anytime.” The lawman grinned and turned to watch the departing band.

Several who had selected to walk went away limping, and the gallant Mumford Horace Titch, who had ridden in the fore on the way out, was now pushed to the rear in disgrace. It was much later when he relented and jumped up on the tailgate, where he clung tenaciously to the precarious perch until he was forced by discomfort to walk again. Needless to say, he had sufficient time to contemplate the error of trespassing on Ashton Wingate’s property.