Just Imagine aka Risen Glory

1

The old street vendor noticed him at once, for the boy was out of place in the crowd of well-dressed stockbrokers and bankers who thronged the streets of lower Manhattan. Cropped black hair that might have held a hint of curl had it been clean stuck out in spikes from beneath the brim of a battered felt hat. A patched shirt unbuttoned at the neck, perhaps in deference to the early July heat, covered narrow, fragile shoulders, while a strap of leather harness held up a pair of greasy, oversized britches. The boy wore black boots that seemed too big for one so small, and he held an oblong bundle in the crook of his arm.

The street vendor leaned against a pushcart filled with trays of pastries and watched the boy shove his way through the crowd, as if it were an enemy to be conquered. The old man saw things others missed, and something about the boy caught his imagination.

"You there, ragazzo. I got a pastry for you. Light as the kiss of an angel. Vieni qui."

The lad jerked up his head, then gazed longingly at the trays of confections the old man's wife made fresh each day The peddler could almost hear him counting the pennies concealed in the bundle he clutched so protectively "Come, ragazzo. It is my gift to you." He held up a fat apple tart. "The gift of an old man to a new arrival in this, the most important city in the world."

The boy stuck a defiant thumb into the waistband of his trousers and approached the cart. "Jes' what makes you reckon I'm a new arrival?"

His accent was as thick as the smell of Carolina jasmine blowing across a cotton field, and the old man concealed a smile. "Perhaps it is only a silly fancy, eh?"

The boy shrugged and kicked at some litter in the gutter. "I'm not sayin' I am, and I'm not sayin' I'm not." He punched a grimy finger in the direction of the tart. "How much you want for that?"

"Did I not say it was a gift?"

The boy considered this, then gave a short nod and held out his hand. "Thank you kindly."

As he took the bun, two businessmen in frock coats and tall beaver hats came up to the cart. The boy's gaze swept contemptuously over their gold watch fobs, rolled umbrellas, and polished black shoes. "Damn fool Yankees," he muttered.

The men were engaged in conversation and didn't hear, but as soon as they left, the old man frowned. "I think this city of mine is not a good place for you, eh? It has only been three months since the war is over. Our President is dead. Tempers are still high."

The boy settled on the edge of the curb to consume the tart. "I didn't hold much with Mr. Lincoln. I thought he was puerile."

"Puerile? Madre di Dio! What does this word mean?"

"Foolish like a child."

"And where does a boy like you learn such a word?"

The boy shaded his eyes from the late-afternoon sun and squinted at the old man. "Readin' books is my avocation. I learned that particular word from Mr. Ralph Waldo Emerson. I'm an admirer of Mr. Emerson." He began nibbling delicately around the edge of his tart. " 'Course, I didn't know he was a Yankee when I started to read his essays. I was mad as skunk piss when I found out. By then it was too late, though. I was already a disciple."

"This Mr. Emerson. What does he say that is so special?"

A fleck of apple clung to the tip of the boy's grimy index finger, and he flicked it with a small pink tongue, "He talks about character and self-reliance. I reckon self-reliance is the most important attribute a person can have, don't you?"

"Faith in God. That is the most important."

"I don't hold much with God anymore, or even Jesus. I used to, but I reckon I've seen too much these last few years. Watched the Yankees slaughter our livestock and burn our barns. Watched them shoot my dog, Fergis. Saw Mrs. Lewis Godfrey Forsythe lose her husband and her son Henry on the same day. My eyes feel old."

The street vendor looked more closely at the boy. A small, heart-shaped face. A nose that tilted up ever so slightly at the end. It seemed somehow a sin that manhood would soon coarsen those delicate features. "How old are you, ragazzo? Eleven? Twelve?"

Wariness crept into eyes that were a surprising shade of deep violet. "Old enough, I guess."

"What about your parents?"

"My mother died when I was born. My daddy died at Shiloh three years ago."

"And you, ragazzo? Why have you come here to my city of New York?"

The boy popped the last bit of tart into his mouth, tucked the bundle back under his arm, and stood. "I've got to protect what's mine. Thank you kindly for that tart. It's been a real pleasure makin' your acquaintance " He began to walk away, then hesitated. "And just so you know… I'm not a boy. And my name's Kit."

As Kit made her way uptown toward Washington Square according to the directions she'd received from a lady on the ferry, she decided she shouldn't have told the old man her name. A person bent on murder shouldn't go around advertising herself. Except it wasn't murder. It was justice, even though the Yankee courts wouldn't see it that way if she got caught. She'd better make certain they never found out that Katharine Louise Weston of Risen Glory Plantation, near what was left of Rutherford, South Carolina, had ever been within spitting distance of their damn city.

She clutched the bundle more tightly. It held her daddy's six-shot Pettingill's self-cocking army percussion revolver; a train ticket back to Charleston; Emerson's Essays, First Series; a change of clothing; and the money she'd need while she was here. She wished she could get it over with today so she could go back home, but she needed time to watch the Yankee bastard and get to know his ways. Killing him was only half the job. The other half was not getting caught.

Up until now, Charleston was the largest city she'd seen, but New York wasn't anything like Charleston. As she walked through the noisy, bustling streets, she had to admit there were some fine sights. Beautiful churches, elegant hotels, emporiums with great marble doorways. But bitterness kept her from enjoying her surroundings. The city seemed untouched by the war that had torn apart the South. If there was a God, she hoped He'd see to it that William T. Sherman's soul roasted in hell.

She was staring at an organ grinder instead of paying attention to where she was going, and she bumped into a man hurrying home. "Hey, boy! Watch out!"

"Watch out yourself," she snarled. "And I'm not a boy!" But the man had already disappeared around the corner.

Was everybody blind? Since the day she'd left Charleston, people had been mistaking her for a boy. She didn't like it, but it was probably for the best. A boy wandering alone wasn't nearly as conspicuous as a girl. Folks back home never mistook her. Of course, they'd all known her since she was born, so they knew she didn't have any patience with girlish gewgaws.

If only everything weren't changing so fast. South Carolina. Rutherford. Risen Glory. Even herself. The old man thought she was a child, but she wasn't. She'd already turned eighteen, which made her a woman. It was something her body wouldn't let her forget, but her mind refused to accept. The birthday, along with her sex, seemed accidental, and like a horse confronted with too high a fence, she'd decided to balk.

She spotted a policeman ahead and slipped into a group of workers carrying toolboxes. Despite the tart, she was still hungry. Tired, too. If only she were back at Risen Glory right now, climbing one of the peach trees in the orchard, or fishing, or talking to Sophronia in the kitchen. She closed her fingers around a scrap of paper in her pocket to reassure herself it was still there, even though the address printed on it was permanently stamped in her memory.

Before she found a place to stay for the night, she needed to see the house for herself. Maybe she'd catch a glimpse of the man who threatened everything she loved. Then she'd get ready to do what no soldier in the entire army of the Confederate States of America had been able to. She'd pull out her gun and kill Major Baron Nathaniel Cain.

Baron Cain was a dangerously handsome man, with tawny hair, a chiseled nose, and pewter-gray eyes that gave his face the reckless look of a man who lived on the edge. He was also bored. Even though Dora Van Ness was beautiful and sexually adventurous, he regretted his dinner invitation. He wasn't in the mood to listen to her chatter. He knew she was ready, but he lingered over his brandy. He took women on his terms, not theirs, and a brandy this old shouldn't be rushed.

The house's former owner had kept an excellent wine cellar, the contents of which, along with the home itself, Cain owed to iron nerves and a pair of kings. He pulled a thin cigar from a wooden humidor the housekeeper had left for him on the table, clipped the end, and lit it. In another few hours he was due at one of New York's finest clubs for what was sure to be a high-stakes poker game. Before then, he'd enjoy Dora's more intimate charms.

As he leaned back in his chair, he saw her gaze linger on the scar that disfigured the back of his right hand. It was one of several that he'd accumulated, and all of them seemed to excite her.

"I don't think you've heard a word I've said all evening, Baron." Her tongue flicked her lips, and she gave him a sly smile.

Cain knew that women considered him handsome, but he took little interest in his looks and certainly no pride. The way he saw it, his face had nothing to do with him. It was an inheritance from a weak-willed father and a mother who'd spread her legs for any man who caught her eye.

He'd been fourteen when he'd begun to notice women watching him, and he'd relished the attention. But now, a dozen years later, there'd been too many women, and he'd grown jaded. "Of course I heard you. You were giving me all the reasons I should go to work for your father."

"He's very influential."

"I already have a job."

"Really, Baron, that's hardly a job. It's a social activity."

He regarded her levelly. "There's nothing social about it. Gambling is the way I earn my living."

"But-"

"Would you like to go upstairs, or would you rather I took you home now? I don't want to keep you out too late."

She was on her feet in an instant and, minutes later, in his bed. Her breasts were full and ripe, and he couldn't understand why they didn't feel better in his hands.

"Hurt me," she whispered. "Just a little."

He was tired of hurting, tired of the pain he couldn't seem to escape even though the war was over. His mouth twisted cynically. "Whatever the lady wants."

Later, when he was alone again and dressed for the night, he found himself wandering through the rooms of the house he'd won with a pair of kings. Something about it reminded him of the house where he'd grown up.

He'd been ten when his mother had run off, leaving him with his debt-ridden father in a bleak Philadelphia mansion that was falling into disrepair. Three years later his father had died, and a committee of women came to take him to an orphan asylum. He ran away that night. He had no destination in mind, only a direction. West.

He spent the next ten years drifting from one town to another, herding cattle, laying railroad track, and panning for gold until he discovered he could find more of it over a card table than in the creeks. The West was a new land that needed educated men, but he wouldn't even admit that he knew how to read.

Women fell in love with the handsome boy whose sculptured features and cold gray eyes whispered a thousand mysteries, but there was something frozen inside him that none of them could thaw. The gentler emotions that take root and flourish in a child who has known love were missing in him. Whether they were dead forever or merely frozen, Cain didn't know. Didn't much care.

When the war broke out, he crossed back over the Mississippi River for the first time in twelve years and enlisted, not to help preserve the Union, but because he was a man who valued freedom above everything else, and he couldn't stomach the idea of slavery. He joined Grant's hard-bitten troops and caught the general's eye when they captured Fort Henry. By the time they reached Shiloh, he was a member of Grant's staff. He was nearly killed twice, once at Vicksburg, then four months later at Chattanooga, charging Missionary Ridge in the battle that opened the way for Sherman's march to the sea.

The newspapers began to write of Baron Cain, dubbing him the "Hero of Missionary Ridge" and praising him for his courage and patriotism. After Cain made a series of successful raids through enemy lines, General Grant was quoted as saying, "I would rather lose my right arm than lose Baron Cain."

What neither Grant nor the newspapers knew was that Cain lived to take risks. Danger, like sex, made him feel alive and whole. Maybe that was why he played poker for a living. Fie could risk everything on the turn of a card.

Except it had all begun to pale. The cards, the exclusive clubs, the women-none of those things meant as much as they should. Something was missing, but he had no idea what it was.

Kit jerked awake to the sound of an unfamiliar male voice. Clean straw pressed against her cheek, and for an instant she felt as if she were home again in the barn at Risen Glory. Then she remembered it had been burned.

"Why don't you turn in, Magnus? You've had a long day." The voice was coming from the other side of the stable wall. It was deep and crisp, with none of the elongated vowels and whispered consonants of her homeland.

She blinked, trying to see through the darkness. Memory washed over her. Sweet Jesus! She had fallen asleep in Baron Cain's stable.

She inched up on one elbow, wishing she could see better. The directions the woman on the ferry had given her had been wrong, and it had been dark before she'd found the house. She'd huddled in some trees across the way for a while, but nothing had happened, so she'd come around to the back and climbed the wall that surrounded the house in order to see better. When she'd spotted the open stable window, she'd decided to slip inside to investigate. Unfortunately, the familiar scents of horses and fresh straw had proved too much for her, and she'd fallen asleep in the back of an empty stall.

"You plannin' to take Saratoga out tomorrow?" This was a different voice, the familiar, liquid tones reminiscent of the speech of former plantation slaves.

"I might. Why?"

"Don't like the way that fetlock's healin'. Better give her a few more days."

"Fine. I'll take a look at her tomorrow. Good night, Magnus."

"Night, Major."

Major? Kit's heart pounded. The man with the deep voice was Baron Cain! She crept to the stable window and peered over the sill just in time to see him disappear inside the lighted house. Too late. She'd missed her chance to get a glimpse of his face. A whole day wasted.

For a moment she felt a traitorous tightening in her throat. She couldn't have made a bigger mess of things if she'd tried. It was long after midnight, she was in a strange Yankee city, and she'd nearly got herself found out the first day. She swallowed hard and tried to restore her spirits by forcing her battered hat more firmly down on her head. It was no good crying over milk that was already spilled. For now, she had to get out of here and find a place to spend the rest of the night. Tomorrow she'd take up her surveillance from a safer distance.

She fetched her bundle, crept to the doors, and listened. Cain had gone into the house, but where was the man called Magnus? Cautiously she pushed the door open and peered outside.

Light from the curtained windows filtered over the open ground between the stable and the carriage house. She slipped out and listened, but the yard was silent and deserted. She knew the iron gate in the high brick wall was locked, so she'd have to get out the same way she'd come in, over the top.

The open stretch of yard she'd have to run across made her uneasy. Once more she glanced toward the house. Then she took a deep breath and ran.

The moment she was free of the stable, she knew something was wrong. The night air, no longer masked by the smell of horses, carried the faint, unmistakable scent of cigar smoke.

Her blood raced. She dug in her heels and threw herself at the wall, but the vine she grabbed to help her over came away in her hand. She clawed frantically for another one, dropped her bundle, and pulled herself up the wall. Just as she reached the top, something jerked hard on the seat of her trousers. She flailed at the empty air and then slammed, belly-first, to the ground. A boot settled into the small of her back.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" the boot's owner drawled overhead.

The fall had knocked the wind out of her, but she still recognized that deep voice. The man who was holding her down was her sworn enemy, Major Baron Nathaniel Cain.

Her rage shimmered in a red haze. She dug her hands into the dirt and struggled to get up, but he didn't budge.

"Git your damn foot off me, you dirty son of a bitch!"

"I don't think I'm quite ready to do that," he said with a calmness that enraged her.

"Let me up! You let me up right now!"

"You're awfully feisty for a thief."

"Thief!" Outraged, she slammed her fists into the dirt. "I never stole anything in my life. You show me a man who says I have, and I'll show you a damn liar."

"Then what were you doing in my stable?"

That stopped her. She searched her brain for an excuse he might believe. "I-I came here lookin'… lookin'… for a job workin' in your stable. Nobody was around, so I went inside to wait for somebody to show up. Musta fallen asleep."

His foot didn't budge.

"W-when I woke up, it was dark. Then I heard voices, and I got scared somebody would see me and think I was tryin' to hurt the horses."

"It seems to me that somebody looking for work should have had enough sense to knock on the back door."

It seemed that way to Kit, too.

"I'm shy," she said.

He chuckled and slowly the weight lifted from her back. "I'm going to let you up now. You'll regret it if you try to run, boy."

"I'm not a-" She caught herself just in time. "I'm not about to run," she amended, scrambling to her feet. "Haven't done anything wrong."

"I guess that remains to be seen, doesn't it?"

Just then the moon came out from behind a cloud, and he was no longer a looming, menacing shadow but a flesh-and-blood man. She sucked in her breath.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, and lean-hipped. Although she didn't usually pay attention to such things, he was also the handsomest man she'd ever seen. The ends of his necktie dangled from the open collar of his white dress shirt, which was held together with small onyx studs. He wore black trousers and stood easily, a hand lightly balanced on his hip, his cigar still clenched between his teeth.

"What do you have in there?" He jerked his head toward the base of the wall where her bundle lay.

"Nothin' of yours!"

"Show me."

Kit wanted to defy him, but he didn't look like he'd take well to that, so she pulled the bundle from the weeds and opened it. "A change of clothes, a copy of Mr. Emerson's Essays, and my daddy's six-shot Pettingill's revolver." She didn't mention the train ticket back to Charleston tucked inside the book. "Nothin' of yours in here."

"What's a boy like you doing with Emerson's Essays?"

"I'm a disciple."

There was a slight twitching at the corner of his lips. "You have any money?"

She bent over to rewrap her bundle. " 'Course I've got money. You think I'd be so puerile as to come to a strange city without it?"

"How much?"

"Ten dollars," she said defiantly.

"You can't live for long in New York City on that."

He'd be even more critical if he knew she really had only three dollars and twenty-eight cents. "I told you I was lookin' for a job."

"So you did."

If only he weren't quite so big. She hated herself for taking a step backward. "I'd better be goin' now."

"You know trespassing is against the law. Maybe I'll turn you over to the police."

Kit didn't like being backed into a corner, and she stuck up her chin. "Hit don't make no nevermind to me what you do. I ain't done nothin' wrong."

He crossed his arms over his chest. "Where are you from, boy?"

"Michigan."

At first she didn't understand his burst of laughter, and then she realized her mistake. "I guess you found me out. I'm really from Alabama, but with the war just over, I'm not anxious to advertise that."

"Then you'd better keep your mouth shut." He chuckled. "Aren't you a little young to be carrying a gun?"

"Don't see why. I know how to use it."

"I'll just bet you do." He studied her more closely. "Why did you leave home?"

"No jobs anymore."

"What about your parents?"

Kit repeated the story she'd told the street vendor. When she was done, he took his time thinking it over. She had to force herself not to squirm.

"My stable boy quit last week. How'd you like to work for me?"

"For you?" she murmured weakly.

"That's right. You'd take your orders from my head man, Magnus Owen. He doesn't have your lily-white skin, so if that's going to offend your Southern pride, you'd better tell me now, and we won't waste anymore time." When she didn't reply, he continued. "You can sleep over the stable and eat in the kitchen. Salary is three dollars a week."

She kicked at the dirt with the toe of her scuffed boot. Her mind raced. If she'd learned anything today she'd learned that Baron Cain wouldn't be easy to kill, especially now that he'd seen her face. Working in his stable would keep her close to him, but it would also make her job twice as dangerous.

Since when had danger ever bothered her?

She tucked her thumbs into the waist of her trousers. "Two bits more, Yankee, and you got yourself a stable boy."

Her room above the stable smelled agreeably of horses, leather, and dust. It was comfortably furnished with a soft bed, an oak rocker, and a faded rag rug, as well as a washstand that she ignored. Most important, it possessed a window that looked out over the back of the house so she could keep watch.

She waited until Cain had disappeared inside before she kicked off her boots and climbed into bed. Despite her nap in the stable, she was tired. Even so, she didn't fall asleep right away. Instead, she found herself wondering how her life might have turned out if her daddy hadn't made that trip to Charleston when she was eight years old and taken it into his head to get married again.

From the moment Garrett Weston had met Rosemary, he'd been moonstruck, even though she was older than he and her blond beauty had hard edges any fool could have spotted. Rosemary didn't make a secret of the fact that she couldn't stand children, and the day Garrett brought her home to Risen Glory, she'd pleaded the need for a newlywed's privacy and sent eight-year-old Kit to spend the night in a cabin near the slave quarters. Kit had never been allowed back.

If she forgot that she no longer had the run of the house, Rosemary reminded her with a stinging slap or a boxed ear, so Kit confined herself to the kitchen. Even the sporadic lessons she received from a neighborhood tutor were conducted in the cabin.

Garrett Weston had never been an attentive father, and he barely seemed to notice that his only child was receiving less care than the children of his slaves. He was too obsessed with his beautiful, sensual wife.

The neighbors were scandalized. That child is running wild! Bad enough if she was a boy, but even a fool like Garrett Weston should know enough not to let a girl run around like that.

Rosemary Weston had no interest in local society, and she ignored their pointed hints that Kit needed a governess or, at the very least, acceptable clothing. Eventually, the neighborhood women sought out Kit themselves with their daughters' cast-off dresses and lectures on proper female behavior. Kit ignored the lectures and traded the dresses for britches and boys' shirts. By the time she was ten, she could shoot, cuss, ride a horse bareback, and had even smoked a cigar.

At night when loneliness overwhelmed her, she reminded herself that her new life had advantages for a girl who'd been born with an adventurous heart. She could climb the peach trees in the orchard any time she wanted and swing from ropes in the barn. The men of the community taught her how to ride and fish. She'd sneak into the library before her stepmother emerged from her bedroom in the morning and forage for books with no worries of censorship. And if she scraped her knee or caught a splinter in her foot, she could always run to Sophronia in the kitchen.

The war changed everything. The first shots had been fired at Fort Sumter a month before her fourteenth birthday. Not long after that, Garrett Weston had turned over the management of the plantation to Rosemary and joined the Confederate army. Since Kit's stepmother never rose before eleven and hated the outdoors, Risen Glory began to fall into disrepair. Kit tried desperately to take her father's place, but the war had put an end to the market for Southern cotton, and she was too young to hold it all together.

The slaves ran off. Garrett Weston was killed at Shiloh. Bitterly, Kit received the news that he'd left the plantation to his wife. Kit had received a trust fund from her grandmother a few years earlier, but that meant nothing to her.

Not long after, Yankee soldiers marched through Rutherford, burning everything in their path. Rosemary's attraction to a handsome young lieutenant from Ohio and her subsequent invitation for him to join her in her bedroom spared the house at Risen Glory, although not the outbuildings. Shortly after Lee's surrender at Appomattox. Rosemary died in an influenza epidemic.

Kit had lost everything. Her father, her childhood, her way of life. Only the land was left. Only Risen Glory. And as she curled into the thin mattress above the stable owned by Baron Cain, she knew that was all that counted. No matter what she had to do, she'd get it back. She fell asleep imagining how it would be when Risen Glory was finally hers.

The stable held four horses, a matched pair for the carriage and two hunters. Some of Kit's tension eased the next morning as a large bay with a long, elegant neck nuzzled her shoulder. Everything would be all right. She'd keep her eyes open and bide her time. Baron Cain was dangerous, but she had the advantage. She knew her enemy.

"His name is Apollo."

"What?" She spun around to see a young man with rich chocolate skin and large, expressive eyes standing on the other side of the half door that separated the stalls from the center aisle of the stable. He was in his early-to-mid-twenties and tall, with slim shoulders and a slight, supple build. A black-and-white mongrel waited patiently near his heels.

"That bay. His name is Apollo. He's the major's favorite mount."

"You don't say." Kit opened the door and stepped out of the stall.

The mongrel sniffed her while the young man looked her over critically. "I'm Magnus Owen. Major said he hired you last night after he caught you sneakin' out of the stable."

"I wasn't sneakin'. Well, not exactly. That major of yours has a naturally suspicious nature, is all." She looked down at the mongrel. "That your dog?"

"Yep. I call him Merlin."

"Looks like a no-account dog to me."

Magnus's smooth, high forehead puckered indignantly. "Now, why do you want to say somethin' like that, boy? You don't even know my dog!"

"I spent yesterday afternoon asleep in that stall over there. If Merlin was any kinda dog, he'd of been mighty annoyed about that." Kit reached down and absentmindedly scratched behind his ears.

"Merlin wasn't here yesterday afternoon," Magnus said. "He was with me."

"Oh. Well, I guess I'm just inherently prejudiced. The Yankees killed my dog, Fergis. Best dog I ever knew. I mourn him to this day."

Magnus's expression softened a little. "What's your name?"

She paused for a moment, then decided it would be easier to use her own first name. Behind Magnus's head she spotted a can of Finney's Harness Oil and Leather Preserver. "Name's Kit. Kit Finney."

"A mighty funny name for a boy."

"My folks were admirers of Kit Carson, the Injun fighter."

Magnus seemed to accept her explanation and was soon outlining her duties. Afterward, they went into the kitchen for breakfast, and he introduced her to the housekeeper.

Edith Simmons was a stout woman with thinning salt-and-pepper hair and strong opinions. She'd been cook and housekeeper for the former owner and had agreed to stay on only when she'd discovered that Baron Cain was unmarried and there'd be no wife to tell her how to do her job. Edith believed in thrift, good food, and personal hygiene. She and Kit were natural-born enemies.

"That boy is too dirty to eat with civilized people!"

"I won't argue with you there," Magnus replied.

Kit was too hungry to argue for very long, so she stomped into the pantry and splashed some water on her face and hands, but she refused to touch the soap. It smelled girlish, and Kit had been fighting everything feminine for as long as she could remember.

As she devoured the sumptuous breakfast, she studied Magnus Owen. From the way Mrs. Simmons deferred to him, it was obvious that he was an important figure in the household, unusual for a black man under any circumstances, but especially for one who was so young. Something tugged at Kit's memory, but it wasn't until they'd finished eating that she realized what it was Magnus Owen reminded her of Sophronia, the cook at Risen Glory and the only person in the world Kit loved. Both Magnus and Sophronia acted as if they knew everything.

A pang of homesickness struck her, but she pushed it away. She'd be at Risen Glory soon enough, bringing the plantation back to life.

That afternoon when she finished her work, she sat in the shade near the front door of the stable, her arm draped across Merlin, who'd fallen asleep with his nose resting on her thigh. The dog didn't stir as Magnus approached.

"This animal's worthless," she whispered. "If you was an ax murderer, I'd be dead by now."

Magnus chuckled and lowered himself beside her. "I got to admit, Merlin isn't much of a watchdog. But he's young still. He was only a pup when the major found him rootin' around in the alley behind the house."

Kit had seen Cain only once that day, when he'd curtly ordered her to saddle Apollo. He'd been too full of himself to take a few minutes to pass the time of day. Not that she wanted to talk to the likes of him. It was just the principle of the thing.

The Yankee newspapers called him the Hero of Missionary Ridge. She knew he'd fought at Vicksburg and Shiloh. Maybe he was even the man who'd killed her daddy. It didn't seem right that he was alive when so many brave Confederate soldiers were dead. And it was even more unjust that every breath he drew threatened the only thing she had left in the world.

"How long've you known the major?" she asked cautiously.

Magnus plucked a blade of grass and began to chew on it. "Since Chattanooga. He almost lost his life savin' mine. We been together ever since."

An awful suspicion began to grow inside Kit. "You weren't fightin' for the Yankees, were you, Magnus?"

" 'Course I was fightin' for the Yankees!"

She didn't know why she should be so disappointed, except that she liked Magnus. "You told me you were from Georgia. Why didn't you fight for your home state?"

Magnus removed the blade of grass from his mouth. "You got a lot of nerve, boy. You sit here with a black man and, cool as a cucumber, ask him why he didn't fight for the people who was keepin' him in chains. I was twelve years old when I got freed. I came North. I got a job and went to school. But I wasn't really free, do you understand me? There wasn't a single Negro in this country could really be free as long as his brothers and sisters was slaves."

"It wasn't primarily a question of slavery," she explained patiently. "It was a question of whether a state has the right to govern itself without interference. Slavery was just incidental."

"Mighta been incidental to you, white boy, but it wasn't incidental to me."

Black folks sure were touchy, she thought as he rose and walked away. But later, while she put out the second feed for the horses, she was still mulling over what he'd said. It reminded her of several heated conversations she'd had with Sophronia.

Cain vaulted from Apollo's back with a gracefulness unusual for a man of his size. "Take your time cooling him out, boy. I don't want a sick horse." He tossed Kit the bridle and began to stride toward the house.

"I know my job," she called out. "Don't need no Yankee telling me how to take care of a hot, sweaty horse."

The words were no sooner out of her mouth than she wished she could snatch them back. Today was only Wednesday, and she couldn't risk getting fired yet.

She'd already learned that Sunday was the only night Mrs. Simmons and Magnus didn't sleep in the house. Mrs. Simmons had the day off and stayed with her sister, and Magnus spent the night in what Mrs. Simmons described as a drunken and debauched manner unfit for young ears. Kit needed to hold her tongue for four days. Then, when Sunday night came, she was going to kill the Yankee bastard who was gazing down at her with those cool gray eyes.

"If you think you'd be happier working for somebody else, I can always find another stable boy."

"Didn't say I wanted to work for anybody else," she muttered.

"Then maybe you'd better try a little harder to hold your tongue."

She kicked the dirt with the dusty toe of her boot.

"And, Kit?"

"Yeah?"

"Take a bath. People are complaining about the way you smell."

"A bath!" Kit's outrage nearly choked her, and she could barely hold onto her temper.

Cain seemed to be enjoying her struggle. "Was there anything else you wanted to say to me?"

She clenched her teeth and thought about the size of the bullet hole she intended to leave in his head. "No, sir," she mumbled.

"Then I'll need the carriage at the front door in an hour and a half."

As she walked Apollo around the yard, she released a steady stream of profanity. Killing that Yankee was going to give her more pleasure than anything she'd done in all her eighteen years. What business was it of his whether she took a bath or not? She didn't hold with baths. Everybody knew they made you susceptible to influenza. Besides, she'd have to take off her clothes, and she hated seeing her body ever since she'd grown breasts because they didn't fit who she wanted to be.

A man.

Girls were soft and weak, but she'd erased that part of herself until she'd become strong and tough as any man. As long as she didn't lose sight of that, she'd be just fine.

She was still feeling out of sorts as she stood between the heads of the matched gray carriage horses and waited for Cain to emerge from the house. She'd splashed water on her face and changed into her spare set of clothes, but they weren't any cleaner than the ones she'd abandoned, so she didn't see what difference it made.

As Cain came down the steps, he took in his stable boy's patched breeches and faded blue shirt. If anything, he decided the kid looked worse. He studied what he could see of the boy's face beneath the brim of that mangled hat and decided his chin might be a little cleaner. He probably shouldn't have hired the scamp, but the boy made him smile like nothing else had for longer than he could remember.

Unfortunately, the afternoon's activity would be less amusing. He wished he hadn't let Dora maneuver him into taking her for a drive through Central Park. Even though they'd both known the rules from the start, he was beginning to believe she wanted a more permanent relationship, and he suspected she'd take advantage of the privacy their ride offered to press him. Unless they had company…

"Climb in the back, boy. It's about time you saw something of New York City."

"Me?"

He smiled at the boy's astonishment. "I don't see anybody else around. I need somebody to hold the horses." And to forestall an invitation from Dora to be a permanent member of the Van Ness family.

Kit gazed up into the Yankee's gray, Rebel-killing eyes, then swallowed hard and swung herself into the leather-upholstered seat. The less time she spent in his presence, the better, but he had her trapped.

As he expertly maneuvered the carriage through the streets, Cain pointed out the city's attractions, and her pleasure in the new sights began to overcome her caution. They passed Delmonico's famous restaurant and Wallach's Theatre, where Charlotte Cushman was appearing in Oliver Twist. Kit glimpsed the fashionable shops and hotels that surrounded the lush greenery of Madison Square, and, farther north, she studied the glittering mansions of the wealthy.

Cain drew up in front of an imposing brownstone. "Watch the horses, boy. I won't be long."

At first Kit didn't mind the wait. She surveyed the houses around her and watched the sparkling carriages with their well-dressed occupants flash by. But then she thought of Charleston, reduced to rubble, and the familiar bitterness rose inside her.

"A perfect day for a drive. And I have the most amusing story to tell you."

Kit looked up to see an elegant woman with shining blond curls and a pretty, pouting mouth come down the steps on Cain's arm. She was dressed in strawberry silk and held a lacy white parasol to protect her pale skin from the afternoon sun. A tiny froth of a bonnet perched on top of her head. Kit detested her on sight.

Cain helped the woman into the carriage and politely assisted her with her skirts. Kit's opinion of him sank even lower. If this was the kind of woman he fancied, he wasn't as smart as she'd figured.

She put her scuffed boot on the iron step and swung herself into the rear seat. The woman jerked around in astonishment. "Baron, who is this filthy creature?"

"Who're you callin' filthy?" Kit sprang from the seat, her hands balled into fists.

"Sit down," Cain barked.

She glared at him, but his Rebel-murdering expression didn't flicker. With a glower, she sank back into the seat, then gave the evil eye to the back of that pert strawberry-and-white bonnet.

Cain eased the carriage into the traffic. "Kit is my stable boy, Dora. I brought him along to stay with the horses in case you wanted to walk in the park."

The ribbons on Dora's bonnet fluttered. "It's much too warm to walk."

Cain shrugged. Dora adjusted her parasol and settled into a silence that screamed her displeasure, but to Kit's satisfaction, Cain paid no attention.

Unlike Dora, Kit wasn't prone to sulking, and she gave in to the pleasure of the bright summer afternoon and the landmarks he continued to point out. This was the only chance she'd ever get to see New York City, and even if she had to do it with her sworn enemy, she intended to enjoy it.

"This is Central Park."

"I don't see why they call it that. Any fool can tell it's at the north edge of the city."

"New York is growing fast," Cain replied. "Right now there's mainly open land around the park. A few shanties, some farms. But it won't be long before the city takes over."

Kit was about to voice her skepticism when Dora spun in her seat and fixed her with a withering glare. The message clearly said Kit wasn't to open her mouth again.

Fixing a simpering smile on her face, Dora turned back to Cain and patted his forearm with a hand gloved in strawberry lace. "Baron, I have a most amusing story to tell you about Sugar Plum."

"Sugar who?"

"You remember. My darling little pug."

Kit made a face and leaned back in the seat. She watched the play of light as the carriage slipped along the tree-lined promenade that ran through the park. Then she found herself studying Dora's bonnet. Why would anybody wear something so silly? And why couldn't Kit keep her eyes off it?

Two women riding in a black landau passed in the other direction. Kit noticed how eagerly they gazed at Cain. Women sure did seem to make fools of themselves over him. He knew how to handle horses, she'd give him that. Still, that didn't count much with a lot of women. They were more interested in how a man looked.

She tried to study him objectively. He was a handsome son of a bitch, no doubt about that. His hair was the same color as wheat right before harvest time, and it curled a little over the back of his collar. As he turned to make a comment to Dora, his profile stood out against the sky, and she decided there was something pagan about it, like the drawing she'd seen of a Viking-a smooth, high brow, a straight nose, and an aggressive line to the jaw.

"… then Sugar Plum pushed the raspberry bonbon away with her nose and picked a lemon one instead. Isn't that the sweetest thing you've ever heard?"

Pugs and raspberry bonbons. The woman was a damn fool. Kit sighed loudly.

Cain glanced back at her. "Is something wrong?"

She tried to be polite. "I don't hold much with pugs."

There was a slight movement at the corner of Cain's mouth. "Now, why is that?"

"You want my honest opinion?"

"Oh, by all means."

Kit darted a disgusted glare at Dora's back. "Pugs are sissy dogs."

Cain chuckled.

"That boy is impertinent!"

Cain ignored Dora. "You prefer mutts, Kit? I've noticed you spend a lot of time with Merlin."

"Merlin spends time with me, not the other way around. I don't care what Magnus says. That dog's 'bout as worthless as a corset in a whorehouse."

"Baron!"

Cain made a queer, croaking noise before he recovered his composure. "Maybe you'd better remember there's a lady present."

"Yessir," Kit muttered, although she didn't see what that had to do with anything.

"That boy doesn't know his place," Dora snapped. "I'd fire any servant who behaved so outrageously."

"I guess it's a good thing that he works for me, then."

He hadn't raised his voice, but the rebuke was clear, and Dora flushed.

They were nearing the lake, and Cain pulled the carriage to a stop. "My stable boy isn't an ordinary servant," he continued, his tone somewhat lighter. "He's a disciple of Ralph Waldo Emerson."

Kit looked away from a family of swans gliding between the canoes to see if he was making fun of her, but he didn't seem to be. Instead, he laid his arm over the back of the leather seat and turned to face her. "Is Mr. Emerson the only writer you read, Kit?"

Dora's indignant huff made Kit garrulous. "Oh, I read 'bout everything I can lay mv hands on. Ben Franklin, of course, but most everybody reads him. Thoreau, Jonathan Swift. Edgar Allan Poe when I'm in the mood. I don't hold much with poetry, but otherwise I have a generally voracious appetite."

"So I see. Maybe you just haven't read the right poets. Walt Whitman, for example."

"Never heard of him."

"He's a New Yorker. Worked as a nurse during the war."

"I don't reckon I could stomach a Yankee poet."

Cain lifted an amused brow. "I'm disappointed. Surely an intellectual like yourself wouldn't let prejudice interfere with an appreciation for great literature."

He was laughing at her, and she felt her hackles rising. "It surprises me you even know the name of a poet, Major, 'cause you don't look much like a reader to me. But I guess that's the way it is with big men. All the muscle goes to their bodies, not sparin' much for the brain."

"Impertinent!" Dora shot Cain an I-told-you-so look.

Cain ignored it and studied Kit more closely. The boy had guts, he'd give him that. He couldn't be older than thirteen, the same age Cain had been when he'd run away. But Cain had nearly reached his adult height at that time, while Kit was small, only a couple of inches over five feet.

Cain noted how delicate the boy's grimy features were: the heart-shaped face, the small nose with its decided upward tilt, and those thickly lashed violet eyes. They were the kind of eyes women prized, but they looked foolish on a boy and would look even more outlandish when Kit grew to be a man.

Kit refused to flinch under his scrutiny, and Cain felt a spark of admiration. The daintiness of his features probably had something to do with his pluck. Any boy who looked so delicate must have been forced to do a lot of fighting.

Still, the kid was too young to be on his own, and Cain knew he should turn him over to an orphan asylum. But even as he considered the idea, he understood he wouldn't do it. There was something about Kit that reminded Cain of himself at that age. He was feisty and stubborn, walking through life daring somebody to take a swing at him. It would be like clipping the wings of a bird to put that boy in an orphanage. Besides, he was good with the horses.

Dora's need to be alone with him finally overcame her aversion to exercise, and she asked him to walk to the lake. There, the scene that he had hoped to avoid was played out with tiresome predictability. It was his fault. He had let sex overcome good judgment.

It was a relief to get back to the carriage where Kit had struck up a conversation with the man who rented the canoes and two brightly painted ladies of the night out for a stroll before they went to work.

The kid sure could talk.

That evening after dinner Kit sprawled in her favorite spot outside the stable door, her arm propped on Merlin's warm back. She found herself remembering something strange Magnus had told her earlier when she'd been admiring Apollo.

"The Major won't keep him long."

"Why not?" she'd said. "Apollo's a real beauty."

"He sure is. But the Major doesn't let himself get tied to things he likes."

"What do you mean?"

"He gives away his horses and his books before he can get too attached to them. It's just the way he is."

Kit couldn't imagine it. Those were the things that kept you anchored to life. But maybe the major didn't want to be anchored.

She scratched her scalp under her hat, and an image of Dora Van Ness's pink-and-white bonnet flashed through her mind. It was foolish. The bonnet wasn't anything more than a few pieces of lace and a trail of ribbons. Yet she couldn't get it out of her mind. She kept imagining what she'd look like wearing it.

What was wrong with her? She pulled off her own battered hat and slammed it on the ground. Merlin looked up in surprise.

"Don't pay me no nevermind, Merlin. All these Yankees are makin' me queer in the head. As if I don't have enough distractin' me without thinkin' 'bout bonnets."

Merlin stared at her with soulful brown eyes. She didn't like admitting it, but she was going to miss him when she went home. She thought of Risen Glory waiting for her. By this time next year, she'd have that old plantation back on its feet.

Deciding that the mysterious human crisis was over, Merlin put his head back down on her thigh. Idly, Kit fingered one of his long, silky ears. She hated this city. She was sick of Yankees and the sound of traffic even at night. She was sick of her old felt hat, and most of all, she was sick of people calling her "boy."

It was ironic. All her life she'd hated everything that had to do with being female, but now that everybody thought she was a boy, she hated that, too. Maybe she was some kind of mutation.

She tugged absentmindedly at a dirty spike of hair. Every time that Yankee bastard had called her "boy" today, she'd gotten a sick, queasy feeling. He was so arrogant, so sure of himself. She'd seen Dora's watery eyes after they'd come back from their walk to the lake. The woman was a fool, but Kit had felt a moment of sympathy for her. In different ways, they were both suffering because of him.

She trailed her fingers over the dog's back and reviewed her plan. It wasn't foolproof, but all in all, she was satisfied. And determined. She'd get only one chance to kill that Yankee devil, and she didn't intend to miss.

The next morning, Cain tossed a copy of Walt Whitman's Leave? of Grass at her.

"Keep it."

2

Hamilton Woodward stood as Cain walked through the mahogany doors of his private law office. So this was the Hero of Missionary Ridge, the man who was emptying the pockets of New York's wealthiest financiers. Not a flashy dresser, that much was in his favor. His pinstriped waistcoat and dark maroon cravat were expensive but conservative, and his pearl-gray frock coat was superbly tailored. Still, there was something not quite respectable about the man. It was more than his reputation, although that was damning enough. Perhaps it was the way he walked, as if he owned the room he'd just entered.

The attorney came around the side of his desk and extended his hand. "How do you do, Mr. Cain. I'm Hamilton Woodward."

"Mr. Woodward." As Cain shook hands, he made an assessment of his own. The man was middle-aged and portly. Competent. Pompous. Probably a lousy poker player.

Woodward indicated a leather armchair drawn up in front of his desk. "I apologize for asking you to see me on such short notice, but this matter has been delayed long enough. Through no fault of my own, I might add. I only learned of it yesterday. I assure you, no one associated with this firm would be so cavalier about something this important. Especially when it concerns a man to whom we all owe so great a debt. Your courage during-"

"Your letter said only that you wanted to speak with me on a matter of great importance," Cain cut in. He disliked people praising his wartime exploits, as if what he'd done were something to be unfurled like a flag and hung out for public display.

Woodward picked up a pair of spectacles and settled the wire stems over his ears. "You are the son of Rosemary Simpson Cain-later Rosemary Weston?"

Cain hadn't made his living at the poker tables by telegraphing his feelings, but it was difficult to hide the ugly emotions that sprang up inside him. "I wasn't aware she'd remarried, but yes, that's my mother's name."

"Was her name, don't you mean?" Woodward glanced at a paper in front of him.

"She's dead, then?" Cain felt nothing.

The attorney's plump jowls jiggled in distress. "I do apologize. I assumed you knew. She passed on nearly four months ago. Forgive me for having broken the news so abruptly."

"Don't trouble yourself with apologies. I haven't seen my mother since I was ten years old. Her death means nothing to me."

Woodward shuffled the papers before him, not appearing to know how to respond to a man who reacted so coldly to the death of his mother. "I, uh, have a letter sent to me by a Charleston attorney named W. D. Ritter, who represents your mother's estate." He cleared his throat. "Mr. Ritter's asked me to contact you so you can be advised of the terms of her will."

"I'm not interested."

"Yes, well, that remains to be seen. Ten years ago your mother married a man named Garrett Weston. He was the owner of Risen Glory, a cotton plantation not far from Charleston, and when he was killed at Shiloh, he left the plantation to your mother. Four months ago she died of influenza, and she seems to have left the plantation to you."

Cain didn't betray his surprise. "I haven't seen my mother in sixteen years. Why would she do that?"

"Mr. Ritter included a letter that she wrote to you shortly before her death. Perhaps it will explain her motives." Woodward withdrew a sealed letter from the folder in front of him and passed it across the desk.

Cain put it in the pocket of his coat without glancing at it. "What do you know about the plantation?"

"It was apparently quite prosperous, but the war took its toll. With work, it might be reclaimed. Unfortunately, there's no money attached to this bequest. And there's also the matter of Weston's daughter, Katharine Louise."

This time Cain didn't bother to hide his surprise. "Are you telling me I have a half sister?"

"No, no. She's a stepsister. You aren't related by blood. The girl is Weston's child from his previous marriage. She does, however, concern you."

"I can't imagine why."

"Her grandmother left her quite a lot of money, fortunately in a Northern bank. Fifteen thousand dollars, to be exact, to be held in trust until her twenty-third birthday or until she marries, whichever event occurs first. You've been appointed administrator of her trust and her guardian."

"Guardian!" Cain erupted from the deep seat of the leather chair.

Woodward shrank back in his own chair. "What else was your mother to do? The girl is barely eighteen. There's a substantial sum of money involved and no other relatives."

Cain leaned forward over the gleaming mahogany surface of the desk. "I'm not going to take responsibility for an eighteen-year-old girl or a run-down cotton plantation."

Woodward's pitch rose a notch. "That's up to you, of course, although I do agree that giving a man as-as worldly as yourself guardianship over a young woman is somewhat irregular. Still, the decision is yours. When you go to Charleston to inspect the plantation, you can speak with Mr. Ritter and advise him of your decision."

"There is no decision," Cain said flatly. "I didn't ask for this inheritance, and I don't want it. Write your Mr. Ritter and tell him to find another patsy."

Cain was in a black mood by the time he arrived home, and his mood wasn't improved when his stable boy failed to appear to take the carriage.

"Kit? Where the hell are you?" He called twice before the boy raced out. "Damn it! If you're working for me, I expect you to be here when I need you. Don't keep me waiting again!"

"And howdy to you, too," Kit grumbled.

Ignoring her, he leaped from the carriage and strode across the open yard to the house. Once inside, he went straight to the library and splashed some whiskey into a glass. Only after he'd drained it did he pull out the letter Woodward had given him and break the red wax seal.

Inside was a single sheet of paper covered with small, nearly indecipherable handwriting.

March 6, 1865

Dear Baron,

I can imagine your surprise at receiving a letter from me after so many years, even if it is a letter from the grave. A morbid thought. I am not resigned to dying. Still, my fever will not break, and I fear the worst. While I have strength, I will dispose of those few responsibilities I have left.

If you expect apologies from me, you will receive none. Life with your father was exceptionally tedious. I am also not a maternal woman, and you were a most unruly child. It was all very tiresome. Still, I must admit to having followed the newspaper stories of your military exploits with some interest. It pleased me to learn you are considered a handsome man.

None of this, however, concerns my purpose in writing. I was very attached to my second husband, Garrett Weston, who made life pleasant for me, and it is for him that I write this letter. Although I've never been able to abide his hoydenish daughter, Katharine, I realize she must have someone to watch out for her until she comes of age. Therefore, I have left Risen Glory to you with the hope that you will act as her guardian. Perhaps you will decline. Although the plantation was once the finest in the area, the war has done it no good.

Whatever your decision, I have discharged my duty.

Your mother,

Rosemary Weston

After sixteen years, that was all.

Kit heard the clock on the Methodist church in the next block chime two as she knelt in front of the open window and stared toward the dark house. Baron Cain wasn't going to live to see the dawn.

The predawn air was heavy and metallic, warning of a storm, and even though her room was still warm from the afternoon's heat, she shivered. She hated thunderstorms, especially those that broke at night. Maybe if she'd had a parent to run to for comfort when she'd been a child, her fear would have passed. Instead, she'd huddled in her cabin near the slave quarters, alone and terrified, certain that the earth was going to split open at any minute and gobble her up.

Cain had finally gotten home half an hour ago. Mrs. Simmons, the maids, and Magnus were gone for the night, so he was in the house alone, and as soon as he'd had time to fall asleep, the way would be clear.

The distant rumble of thunder jangled her. She tried to convince herself that the weather would make her work easier. It would hide any noise she might make when she slipped into the house through the pantry window she'd unlocked earlier. But the thought didn't comfort her. Instead, she imagined herself as she'd be in an hour or so, running through the dark streets with a thunderstorm crashing around her. And the earth splitting open to gobble her up.

She jumped as lightning flashed. To distract herself, she tried to concentrate on her plan. She'd cleaned and oiled her daddy's revolver and reread Mr. Emerson's essay "Self-Reliance" to bolster her courage. Then she'd bundled her possessions and hidden them in the back of the carriage house so she could grab them quickly.

After she killed Cain, she'd make her way to the docks off Cortlandt Street, where she'd catch the first ferry for Jersey City. There she'd find the train station and begin her journey back to Charleston, knowing the long nightmare that had begun when that Charleston lawyer had come to her was finally over. With Cain dead, Rosemary's will would become meaningless and Risen Glory would be hers. All she had to do was find his bedroom, aim her gun, and pull the trigger.

She shivered. She'd never actually killed a man, but she could think of no better place to start than with Baron Cain.

He should be asleep by now. It was time. She picked up her loaded revolver and crept down the stairs, being careful not to disturb Merlin as she left the stable. A clap of thunder made her shrink against the door. She reminded herself she wasn't a child and shot across the yard to the house, then scrambled through the shrubbery to get to the pantry window.

She tucked the revolver into the waistband of her breeches and tried to open the window. It didn't budge.

She pushed again, harder this time, but nothing happened. The window was locked.

Stunned, she leaned against the house. She'd known her plan wasn't foolproof, but she hadn't expected to be thwarted so soon. Mrs. Simmons must have discovered the unfastened latch before she left.

The first drops of rain began to fall. Kit wanted to run back to her room and hide under the covers until the storm passed, but she summoned her courage and circled the house, looking for another way inside. The rain fell harder, striking her through her shirt. A maple tree thrashed in the wind. Near its branches she spotted an open second-story window.

Her heart pounded. The storm roared above her, and her breath came in short, panicky gasps. She forced herself to grab the lowest branch of the tree and pull herself up.

A bolt of lightning split the skies, and the tree quivered. She clung to the branch, terrified by the force of the storm and cursing herself for being so lily-livered. Setting her teeth, she forced herself higher into trie tree. Finally, she began edging out onto the branch that seemed to grow closest to the house, although the driving rain made it impossible to see how far it went.

She whimpered as another thunderclap left the stink of brimstone in the air. Don't swallow me up! She willed herself to move farther out. The limb pitched in the wind then began to sag under her weight.

The skies lit with another lightning bolt. Right then, she saw that the branch didn't grow close enough for her to reach the window. Despair washed over her.

She blinked her eyes, wiped her nose on her sleeve, and worked her way back down the tree.

As she reached the bottom, lightning struck so close that her ears rang. Trembling, she pressed her spine against the trunk. Her clothes stuck to her skin, and the brim of her hat hung like a sodden pancake around her head. Tears she refused to shed burned hot behind her lids. Was this the way it would end? Risen Glory taken from her because she was too weak, too chick-enhearted, too girly to get into a house?

She jumped as something brushed her legs. Merlin stared up at her, his head cocked to the side. She sank to her knees and buried her face in his wet, musty fur. "You no-account dog…" Her arms trembled as she drew the animal closer. "I'm as worthless as you."

He scraped her wet cheek with his rough tongue. Another blast of lightning struck. He howled, and Kit jumped to her feet, fear igniting her determination. Risen Glory was hers! If she couldn't get into the house through a window, she'd get in through the door!

Half crazed from the storm and her own desperation, she raced toward the back door, fighting the wind and rain, too desperate to pay attention to the tiny voice that told her to give up and try again another day. She threw herself against the door, and when the lock didn't give, she began pounding it with her fists.

Tears of fury and frustration choked her. "Let me in! Let me in, you Yankee son of a bitch!"

Nothing happened.

She continued to pound, cursing and kicking.

A jagged bolt of lightning shot from the sky and struck the maple that had so recently sheltered her. Kit screamed and threw herself inside.

Directly into the arms of Baron Cain.

"What in the hell…"

The heat from his naked, sleep-warmed chest seeped through her cold, wet shirt, and for a moment, all she wanted to do was stay where she was, right there against him, until she could stop shivering.

"Kit, what's wrong?" He grabbed her shoulders. "Has something happened?"

She jerked back. Unfortunately, Merlin was behind her. She stumbled over him and sprawled down on the hard kitchen floor.

Cain studied the tangled heap at his feet. His mouth quirked. "I take it this thunderstorm is a little too much for you."

She tried to tell him he could go straight to Hades, but her teeth were chattering so hard she couldn't talk. She'd also landed on the revolver tucked in her britches, and a sharp pain shot through her hip.

Cain stepped over them to shut the door. Unfortunately, Merlin chose that moment to shake himself off. "Ungrateful mutt." Cain grabbed a towel from a hook near the sink and began rubbing it over his chest.

Kit realized her revolver would be visible under her clothes as soon as she stood up. While Cain was preoccupied drying off, she slipped it out of her britches and hid it behind a basket of apples near the back door.

"I don't know which of you is more scared," Cain grumbled as he watched Merlin disappear down the hallway that led to Magnus's room. "But I wish you both could have waited till morning."

"I'm sure not scared of a little damn rain," Kit retorted.

Just then there was another crash, and she leaped to her feet, her face turning pale.

"My mistake," he drawled.

"Just because I-" She broke off and swallowed as she finally got a good look at him.

He was nearly naked, wearing only a pair of dun-colored trousers slung low on his hips, with the top two buttons left unfastened in his haste to get to the door. She'd been around her share of scantily clad men working in the fields or at the sawmill, but now it was as if she'd never seen a one of them.

His chest was broad and muscular,, lightly furred. A raised scar slashed one shoulder, and another jutted over his bare abdomen from the open waistband of his trousers. His hips were narrow and his stomach flat, bisected by a thin line of tawny hair. Her eyes inched lower to the point at which the legs of his trousers met. What she saw there fascinated her.

"Dry yourself off."

She lifted her head and saw him staring at her,, a towel extended in his hand, his expression puzzled. She grabbed the towel and reached under the collapsed brim of her hat to dab at her cheeks.

"It might be easier if you'd take your hat off."

"I don't want to take it off," she snapped, unsettled by her reaction. "I like my hat."

With a growl of exasperation, he headed into the hallway, only to reappear with a blanket. "Get rid of those wet clothes. You can wrap up in this."

She stared at the blanket and then at him. "I'm not takin' off my clothes!"

Cain frowned. "You're cold."

"I'm not cold!"

"Your teeth are chattering."

"Are not!"

"Damn it, boy, it's three o'clock in the morning, I lost two hundred dollars at poker tonight, and I'm tired as hell. Now get out of those damned clothes so we can both get some sleep. You can use Magnus's room tonight, and I'd better not hear another sound from you till noon."

"Are you deaf, Yankee? I said I wasn't takin' off any clothes!"

Cain wasn't used to anybody standing up to him, and the grim set of his jaw told her she should have killed him right away. As he took a step forward, she shot toward the basket of apples where she'd hidden her gun, only to jerk to a stop when he caught her arm.

"Oh, no, you don't!"

"Let me go, you son of a bitch!"

She started swinging, but Cain was holding her at arm's length. "I told you to take off those wet clothes, and you're going to do what I say so I can get some damn sleep!"

"You can rot in hell, Yankee!" She swung again, but her blow bounced off as harmlessly as thistledown.

"Stop it before you get hurt." He shook her once as a warning.

"Go fuck yourself!"

Her hat flew off as she felt herself being lifted off the floor. There was a clap of thunder, Cain sank down onto a kitchen chair, and she found herself upended over his outstretched knee.

"I'm going to do you a favor." His open palm slammed down on her bottom.

'"Hey!"

"I'm going to teach you a lesson your father should have taught you."

Once again his hand came down, and she cried out, more from indignation than from pain. "Stop it, you rotten Yankee bastard!"

"Never cuss at people who are bigger than you are…"

He gave her another hard, stinging smack.

"Or stronger than you are…"

Her bottom began to burn.

"And most of all…"

The next two smacks left her bottom on fire.

"… don't cuss at me!" He pushed her off his lap. "Now, do we understand each other or not?"

She sucked in her breath as she landed on the floor. Fury and pain swirled in a haze around her, clouding her vision, so she didn't see him reaching for her. "You're going to get out of these clothes."

His hand clamped her wet shirt. With a howl of rage, she leaped to her feet.

The old, worn fabric ripped in his hand.

After that, everything happened at once. Cool air touched her flesh. She heard the faint patter of buttons skittering across the wooden floor. She looked down and saw her small breasts exposed to his gaze.

"What in the-"

A sense of horror and humiliation suffocated her.

He released her slowly and took a step back. She grabbed for the torn edges of her shirt and tried to pull them together.

Eyes the color of frozen pewter stared down at her. "So. My stable boy isn't a boy after all."

She clutched the shirt and tried to hide her humiliation behind belligerence. "What difference does it make? I needed a job."

"And you got one by passing yourself off as a boy."

"You're the one who assumed I was a boy. I never said any such thing."

"You never said any different, either." He picked up the blanket and tossed it to her. "Dry yourself off while I get myself a drink." He moved toward the hallway door. "I'll expect some answers when I come back, and don't even think about running away, because that'd be your biggest mistake yet."

After he disappeared, she flung down the blanket and raced toward the basket of apples to retrieve the revolver. She sat at the table to hide it in her lap. Only then did she gather her tattered shirttails together and tie them in a clumsy knot at her waist.

Cain stalked back just as she realized how unsatisfactory the result was. He'd ripped her undershirt along with her shirt, and a deep V of exposed flesh extended down to the knot.

Cain took a sip of whiskey and stared at the girl. She was sitting at the wooden table, her hands folded out of sight in her lap, the soft fabric of her shirt clearly outlining a pair of small breasts. How could he have believed for a moment that she was a boy? Those delicate bones should have been a giveaway, along with her eyelashes, which were thick enough to sweep the floor.

The dirt had thrown him off. The dirt and the cussing, not to mention that pugnacious attitude. What a scamp.

He wondered how old she was. Fourteen or so? He knew a lot about women, but not about girls. When did they start growing breasts? One thing for sure… she was too young to be on her own.

He set down his whiskey tumbler. "Where's your family?"

"I told you. They're dead."

"You don't have any relatives at all?"

"No."

Her composure annoyed him. "Look, a child your age can't run around New York City alone. It isn't safe."

"The only person who's given me trouble since I got here's been you."

She had a point, but he ignored it. "Regardless. Tomorrow I'll take you to some people who'll be responsible for you until you're older. They'll find a place for you to live."

"Are you talkin' 'bout an orphanage, Major?"

It irritated him that she seemed amused. "Yes, I'm talking about an orphanage! You sure as hell-heck-aren't going to stay here. You need some place to live until you're old enough to look after yourself."

"Doesn't seem to me I've had too much trouble up till now. Besides, I'm not exactly a child. I don't think orphanages take in eighteen-year-olds."

"Eighteen?"

"You havin' trouble hearing?"

Once again she'd managed to shock him. He stared down the length of the table at her-ragged boy's clothing, a grimy face and neck, short black hair that was stiff with dirt. In his experience, eighteen-year-olds were nearly women. They wore dresses and took baths. But then, nothing about her bore the slightest resemblance to a normal eighteen-year-old.

"Sorry to spoil all your nice plans for an orphanage, Major."

She had the nerve to smirk, and he was suddenly glad he'd spanked her. "Now, you listen to me, Kit-or is your name phony, too?"

"No. It's my real name, all right. Leastways it's what most everybody calls me."

Her amusement faded, and he felt a prickling at the base of his spine, the same sensation he'd felt before a battle. Odd.

He watched her jaw set. "Except my last name's not Finney," she said. "It's Weston. Katharine Louise Weston."

It was her last surprise. Before Cain could react, she was on her feet, and he was looking down into the barrel of an army revolver.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered.

Without taking her eyes from him, she came around the edge of the table. The gun pointing at his heart was stead)' in her small hand, and everything fell into place.

"Doesn't seem to me you're so particular about cussin' when you're the one doin' it," she said.

He took a step toward her and was immediately sorry. A bullet whizzed by his head, just missing his temple.

Kit had never fired a gun indoors, and her ears rang. She realized her knees were shaking, and she tightened her grip on the revolver. "Don't move unless I tell you, Yankee," she spat out with more bravado than she felt. "Next time it'll be your ear."

"Maybe you'd better tell me what this is all about."

"It's self-evident."

"Humor me."

She hated the faint air of mockery in his voice. "It's about Risen Glory, you black-hearted son of a bitch! It's mine! You've got no right to it."

"That's not what the law says."

"I don't care about the law. I don't care about wills or courts or any of that. What's right is right. Risen Glory is mine, and no Yankee's takin' it from me."

"If your father'd wanted you to have it, he'd have left it to you instead of Rosemary."

"That woman made him blind and deaf as well as a fool."

"Did she?"

She hated the cool, assessing look in his eyes, and she wanted to hurt him as she'd been hurt. "I suppose I should be grateful to her," she sneered. "Hadn't of been for Rosemary's easy ways with men, the Yankees would've burned the house as well as the fields. Your mother was well known for sharin' her favors with anybody who asked."

Cain's face was expressionless. "She was a slut."

"That's God's truth, Yankee. And I'm not goin' to let her get the best of me, even from the grave."

"So now you're going to kill me."

He sounded almost bored, and her palms began to sweat. "Without you standin' in my way, Risen Glory will be mine, just what should of happened in the first place."

"I see your point." He nodded slowly. "All right, I'm ready. How do you want to go about it?"

"What?"

"Killing me. How are you going to do it? Do you want me to turn around so you won't have to look me in the face when you pull the trigger?"

Outrage overcame her distress. "What kind of fool jackass thing is that to say? You think I could ever respect myself again if! shot a man in the back?"

"Sorry, it was just a suggestion."

"A damn fool one." A trickle of sweat slid down her neck.

"I was trying to make it easier for you, that's all."

"Don't you worry about me, Yankee. You worry about your own immortal soul."

"All right, then. Go to it."

She swallowed. "I intend to."

She lifted her arm and sighted down the barrel of her revolver. It felt as heavy as a cannon in her hand.

"You ever killed a man, Kit?"

"You be quiet!" The trembling in her knees had grown worse, and her arm was beginning to shake. Cain, on the other hand, looked as relaxed as if he'd just awakened from a nap.

"Hit me right between the eyes," he said softly.

"Shut up!"

"It'll be fast and sure that way. The back of my head will blow off, but you can handle the mess, can't you, Kit?"

Her stomach roiled. "Shut up! Just shut up!"

"Come on, Kit. Get it over with."

"Shut up!"

The gun exploded. Once, twice, three times, more. And then the click of an empty chamber.

Cain hit the floor with the first shot. As the kitchen once again fell silent, he looked up. On the wall behind where he'd been standing, five holes formed the outline of a man's head.

Kit stood with her shoulders slumped, her arms at her sides. The revolver dangled uselessly from her hand.

He eased himself up and walked over to the wall that had received the lead balls originally intended for him. As he studied the perfect arc, he slowly shook his head. "I'll say this for you, kid. You're one hell of a shot."

For Kit, the world had come to an end. She'd lost Risen Glory, and she had no one to blame but herself.

"Coward," she whispered. "I'm a damn, lily-livered coward of a girl."

3

Cain made Kit sleep in a small, second-story bedroom that night instead of in her pleasant leather- and dust-scented room above the stalls. His orders were precise. Until he decided what to do with her, she couldn't work with the horses. And if she tried to run away, he'd bar her from Risen Glory forever.

The next morning, she fled back to the stable and huddled miserably in the corner with a book called The Sybaritic Life of Louis XV, which she'd sneaked out of the library several days earlier. After a while, she dozed off and dreamed of thunderstorms, bonnets, and the King of France romping with his mistress, Madame de Pompadour, across the cotton-laced fields of Risen Glory.

When she awoke, she felt groggy and heavy-limbed. She slumped dejectedly outside Apollo's stall with her elbows resting on the greasy knees of her britches. In all her planning, she'd never anticipated what it would feel like to look an unarmed man square in the eye and pull the trigger.

The stable door opened, letting in the feeble light of an overcast afternoon. Merlin scampered across the floor and flung himself at Kit, nearly knocking her hat off in his exuberance. Magnus followed at a more leisurely pace, his boots stopping near her own.

She refused to lift her eyes. "I'm not in the mood for conversation right now, Magnus."

"Can't say I'm surprised. The major told me what happened last night. That was some trick you pulled, Miss Kit."

It was the form of address she was accustomed to hearing at home, but he made it sound like an insult. "What happened last night was between me and the major. It's none of your business."

"I don't like misjudging people, and as far as I'm concerned, there's nothin' about you that's any of my business anymore." He picked up an empty bucket and left the stable.

She threw down her book, grabbed a brush, and headed into the stall that housed a russet mare named Saratoga. She didn't care what Cain's orders were. If she didn't keep busy, she'd go crazy.

She was running her hands down Saratoga's hind legs when she heard the door open, lumping up, she whirled around to see Cain standing in the center aisle of the stable, regarding her with granite-hard eyes.

"My orders were clear, Kit. No work in the stable."

"The good Lord gave me two strong arms," she retorted. "I'm no good at sittin' idle."

"Grooming horses isn't an appropriate activity for a young lady."

She stared at him hard, trying to see if he was making fun of her, but she couldn't read his expression. "If there's work to be done, I believe in doin' it. A sybaritic life doesn't appeal to me."

"Stay away from the stable," he said tightly.

She opened her mouth to protest, but he was too quick for her. "No arguments. I want you cleaned up and in the library after dinner so I can talk to you." He turned on his heel and strode out the stable door, his powerful, long-legged gait too graceful for a man of his size.

Kit reached the library first that evening. In token obedience to Cain's orders, she'd scrubbed the middle of her face, but she felt too vulnerable to do any more. She needed to feel strong now, not like a girl.

The door opened, and Cain came into the room. He was dressed in his customary at-home uniform of fawn trousers and white shirt, open at the throat. His eyes flicked over her. "I thought I told you to get cleaned up."

"I washed my face, didn't I?"

"It's going to take a lot more than that. How can you stand to be so filthy?"

"I don't hold much with baths."

"Seems to me there are a lot of things you don't 'hold much' with. But you're taking a bath before you spend another night here. Edith Simmons is threatening to quit, and I'll be damned if I lose a housekeeper because of you. Besides, you stink up the place."

"I do not!"

"Hell you don't. Even if it's only temporary, I am your guardian, and right now you're taking orders from me."

Kit froze. "What you talkin' about, Yankee? What do you mean, 'guardian'?"

"And here I thought there wasn't anything that got past you."

"Tell me!"

She thought she saw a flash of sympathy in his eyes. It disappeared as he explained the details of the guardianship and the fact that he was also the administrator of her trust fund.

Kit barely remembered the grandmother who'd set aside the money for her. The trust fund had been a constant source of resentment to Rosemary, and she'd forced Garrett to consult one lawyer after another about breaking it, to no avail. Although Kit supposed she should be grateful to her grandmother, the money was useless. She needed it now, not in five years or when she got married, which she wouldn't ever do.

"The guardianship is Rosemary's joke from the grave," Cain concluded.

"That damn lawyer didn't say anything to me about a guardian. I don't believe you."

"I've seen your temper firsthand. Did you give him a chance to explain?"

With a sinking heart, she remembered how she'd forced him out of the house as soon as he'd told her about Cain's inheritance, even though he'd said there was more.

"What did you mean earlier about it bein' a temporary state?"

"You don't think I'm going to let myself be saddled with you for the next five years, do you?" The Hero of Missionary Ridge actually shuddered. "Early tomorrow morning, I'm leaving for South Carolina to get this mess straightened out. Mrs. Simmons will watch over you until I get back. It shouldn't be much more than three or four weeks."

She clasped her hands behind her back so he couldn't see that they'd started to tremble. "How're you plannin' on straightening things out?"

"I'm going to find you another guardian, that's how."

She dug her fingernails into her palms, terrified to ask her next question, yet knowing she had to. "What's goin' to happen… to Risen Glory?"

He studied the toe of his boot. "I'm going to sell it."

Something like a growl erupted from Kit's throat. "No!"

He raised his head and met her eyes. "I'm sorry, Kit. It's for the best."

Kit heard the note of steel in his voice, and felt the few fragile remnants of the only world she knew snap She didn't even notice when Cain left the room.

Cain needed to get ready for a high-stakes game in one of the Astor House's private dining rooms. Instead, he wandered to the bedroom window. Not even the prospect of the late-night invitation he'd received from a famous opera singer lifted his spirits. It all seemed like too much trouble.

He thought about the violet-eyed scamp under his roof. Earlier, when he'd told her he was selling Risen Glory, she'd looked as though he'd shot her.

His rumination was interrupted by the shatter of glass and his housekeeper's scream. He swore and dashed into the hall.

The bathroom was a shambles. Broken glass lay near the copper tub, and clothing was scattered across the floor. A container of talc had spilled over the marble basin and dusted the black walnut wainscoting. Only the water in the tub was undisturbed, pale gold in the light of the gas jets.

Kit was holding Mrs. Simmons at bay with a mirror. She had the handle clenched in one fist like a saber. Her other hand gripped a towel around her naked body as she backed the unfortunate housekeeper to the door. "Nobody's givin' me a bath! You get out of here!"

"What the hell's going on?"

Mrs. Simmons grabbed him. "That hoyden's trying to murder me! She threw a bottle of witch hazel! It just missed my head." She fanned her face and moaned. "I can feel an attack of my neuralgia coming on."

"Go lie down, Edith." Cain's flint-hard eyes found Kit. "I'll take over."

The housekeeper was too upset to protest the impropriety of leaving him alone with his naked ward, and she fled down the hallway muttering darkly of neuralgia and hoydens.

For all of Kit's bravado, he could see that she was frightened. Briefly he considered relenting, but he knew he wouldn't be doing her a favor. The world was a dangerous place for women, but it was doubly treacherous for naive little girls who believed they were as tough as men. Kit had to learn how to bend or she'd break, and right now he seemed to be the only one who could teach her that lesson.

Slowly, he unfastened the cuffs of his shirt and began rolling them up.

Kit watched the tanned, muscular forearms emerging as he turned up his sleeves. She took a quick step backward, her eyes glued to his arms. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I told you to take a bath."

Dry-mouthed, she drew her eyes away. It was hard enough facing down Baron Cain when she was fully clothed. Now, with only a towel wrapped around her, she'd never felt so vulnerable. If he hadn't locked away her gun, she could have pulled the trigger without a second thought.

She licked her lips. "You'd… you'd better stop that right now."

His eyes drilled into hers. "I told you to take a bath, and that's what you're going to do."

She raised the tortoiseshell mirror. "Don't come any closer. I mean it. When I threw that witch hazel bottle at Mrs. Simmons, I intended to miss. This time I won't!"

"It's time you grew up," he said too quietly.

Her heart pounded. "I mean it, Yankee! Not a step farther."

"You're eighteen-old enough to act like a woman. It's one thing to go after me, but you went after someone who never did you any harm."

"She took my clothes away when I wasn't paying attention! And… and then she dragged me in here."

Kit still didn't know how Mrs. Simmons had managed to get her to the bathroom, except that after Cain announced that he was selling Risen Glory, she'd gone numb. It was only when the old lady started pulling away her clothes that Kit had come to her senses.

He spoke again, using the calm voice she found more frightening than his roar. "You should have remembered your manners. Since you didn't, I'll put you in that tub."

She flung the mirror against the wall as a distraction and darted past him.

He caught her before she'd gone three steps. "You don't want to learn, do you?"

"Let me go!"

Glass crunched under the soles of his shoes as he snatched her up in his arms and dropped her in the tub, towel and all.

"You filthy, stinkin'-"

That was as far as she got before he caught the top of her head and pushed her under the water.

She came up sputtering. "You dirty-"

He pushed her back under.

"You-"

He did it again.

Kit couldn't believe what was happening. He didn't keep her under long enough to drown her, but that didn't matter. It was the indignity. And if she couldn't hold her tongue, she'd be going under again. She glared at him as she came up, but she somehow managed to keep silent.

"Had enough yet?" he asked mildly.

She wiped her eyes and mustered her dignity. "Your behavior is puerile."

He began to smile, only to stop as he gazed into the tub.

That was when she realized that she'd lost her towel.

She drew up her knees to hide her body. "You get out of here right now!" Water splashed over the rim as she tried to retrieve the towel from the bottom of the tub.

He took a quick backward step toward the door, then stopped.

She hovered over her knees and struggled with the sodden towel.

He cleared his throat. "Can you, uh, take it from here?"

She thought she detected a flush spreading over those hard cheekbones. She nodded and yanked at the heavy towel.

"I'll get one of my shirts for you to put on. But if I find a speck of dirt when you're finished, we'll start all over again."

He disappeared without closing the door. She gritted her teeth and imagined buzzards eating his eyeballs.

She washed herself twice, dislodging grime that had been comfortably residing in the nooks and crannies of her body for some time. Then she scrubbed her hair. When she was finally satisfied that even Jesus's Mother couldn't find any dirt on her, she stood to grab a dry towel but saw that the tub was surrounded with broken glass like a moat around a medieval castle.

This was what came of taking baths.

She cussed as she wrapped the sodden towel around herself, then shouted toward the open door. "Listen up, Yankee! I need you to throw me a dry towel, but you'd better keep your eyes shut, or I swear I'll murder you in your sleep, then cut you open and eat your liver for breakfast."

"It's nice to know that soap and water haven't spoiled your sweet disposition." He reappeared in the doorway, eyes wide open. "I was worried about that."

"Yeah, well, you just worry about holdin' onto your internal organs."

He grabbed a towel from the shelf across the bathroom, but instead of handing it to her like a decent person, he gazed down at the broken glass. "Every faculty which is a receiver of pleasure has an equal penalty for its abuse. Ralph Waldo Emerson, in case you don't recognize the quote."

Only after he'd passed over the towel did she feel safe in responding. "Mr. Emerson also wrote, Every hero becomes a bore at last. If I didn't know better, I'd think you inspired those very words."

Cain chuckled, somehow glad to see she still had her spirit. She was thin as a filly, all bony arms and long, skinny legs. Even the hint of dark fleece he'd glimpsed when her towel had fallen off in the tub had been somehow childlike.

As he turned away, he remembered her small, coral-tipped breasts. They'd seemed less innocent. The image made him uncomfortable, and he spoke more gruffly than he intended. "Are you dry yet?"

"Dry as I'm goin' to get with you standin' there."

"Wrap up. I'm turning around."

"And here I was just thinkin' how nice it is not having to look at your ugly face."

Aggravated, he stalked over to the tub. "I should make you walk through this glass in your bare feet."

"Couldn't be any more painful than enduring your bumptious company."

He snatched her from the tub, carried her out into the hall, and set her hard on her feet. "I put a shirt in your bedroom. Tomorrow Mrs. Simmons will take you shopping for some decent clothes."

She regarded him suspiciously, "just what do you consider decent clothes?"

He knew what was coming next, and he braced himself. "Dresses, Kit."

"Have you lost your mind?"

She looked so outraged that he nearly smiled, but he wasn't that stupid. Time to draw in the reins. "You heard me. And while I'm gone, you'll do exactly what Mrs. Simmons tells you. If you give her any trouble, I'm leaving orders with Magnus to lock you in your room and throw away the key. I mean it, Kit. When I get back I'd better hear that you behaved yourself. I intend to turn you over to your new guardian clean and respectably dressed."

The emotions that played over her face ranged from indignation to anger, then settled into something that looked uncomfortably like despair. Water from the dripping ends of her hair splashed like tears onto her thin shoulders, and her voice was no longer its normal bellow. "Are you really gonna do it?"

"Of course I'll find another guardian for you. You should be happy about that."

Her knuckles turned white as she clutched the towel. "That's not what I mean. Are you really goin' to sell Risen Glory?"

Cain hardened himself against the suffering in that small face. He had no intention of being burdened with a run-down cotton plantation, but she wouldn't understand that. "I'm not keeping the money, Kit. It'll go into your trust fund."

"I don't care about that money! You can't sell Risen Glory."

"I have to. Someday maybe you'll understand."

Kit's eyes darkened into killing pools. "The biggest mistake I made was not blowin' your head off."

Her small, towel-draped figure was strangely dignified as she walked away from him and shut her bedroom door.

4

"Do you mean to tell me there isn't anyone in this entire community who'd be willing to take over the guardianship of Miss Weston? Not even if I pay her expenses?" Cain studied the Reverend Rawlins Ames Cogdell of Rutherford, South Carolina, who studied him in return.

"You must understand, Mr. Cain. We've all known Katharine Louise a good deal longer than you have."

Rawlins Cogdell prayed that God would forgive him for the satisfaction he was taking in putting a spoke in this Yankee's wheel. The Hero of Missionary Ridge, indeed! How galling it was to be forced to entertain such a man. But what else was he to do? These days blue-uniformed occupation troops were everywhere, and even a man of God had to be careful not to offend.

His wife, Mary, appeared in the doorway with a plate holding four tiny finger sandwiches, each one spread with a thin glaze of strawberry preserves. "Am I interrupting?"

"No, no. Come in, my dear. Mr. Cain, you do have a treat in store for you. My wife is famous for her strawberry preserves."

The preserves were from the bottom of the last jar his wife had put up two springs ago when there was still sugar, and the bread was sliced from a loaf that had to last them the rest of the week. Still, Rawlins was pleased she was offering it. He would sooner starve than let this man know how poor they all were.

"None for me, my dear. I'll save my appetite for dinner. Please, Mr. Cain, take two."

Cain wasn't nearly as obtuse as Cogdell believed. He knew what a sacrifice the offering on the chipped blue willowware plate was. He took a sandwich even though there was nothing he wanted less and made the required compliments. Damn all Southerners. Six hundred thousand lives had been lost because of their stiff-necked pride.

Cain believed their arrogance was a product of the disease of the slave system. The planters had lived like omnipotent kings on isolated plantations, where they held absolute authority over hundreds of slaves. It had given them a terrible conceit. They'd believed they were all-powerful, and defeat had changed them only superficially. A Southern family might be starving, but tea sandwiches would still be offered to a guest, even a despised one.

The Reverend Cogdell turned to his wife. "Please sit down, my dear. Perhaps you can help us. Mr. Cain finds himself on the horns of a dilemma."

She did as her husband requested and listened as he outlined Cain's connection with Rosemary Weston and the fact that he wanted to transfer his guardianship of Kit. When her husband was finished, she shook her head.

"I'm afraid what you want is impossible, Mr. Cain. There are a number of families who would have been only too happy to take Katharine Louise in during her formative years. But it's too late for that. My goodness, she's eighteen now."

"Hardly a Methuselah," Cain said dryly.

"Standards of behavior are different in South Carolina than they are in the North." Her rebuke was softly spoken. "Girls of good family are raised from birth in the gracious traditions of Southern womanhood. Not only has Katharine Louise never shown any inclination to conform to these traditions, but she mocks them. The families of our community would be concerned about the influence Katharine would have on their own daughters."

Cain felt a spark of pity for Kit. It couldn't have been easy growing up with a stepmother who hated her, a father who ignored her, and a community that disapproved of her. "Isn't there anyone in this town who feels affection for her?"

Mary's small hands fluttered in her lap. "Gracious, Mr. Cain, you misunderstand. We're all deeply fond of her. Katharine Louise is a generous and warmhearted person. Her hunting skills have put food in the mouths of our poorest families, and she never fails to cheer us up. But that doesn't alter the fact that she conducts herself outside even the most liberally defined boundaries of acceptable behavior."

Cain had played too much poker not to know when he was beaten. Willard Ritter had given him letters of introduction to four families in Rutherford, and he'd been rejected by all of them. He finished his cursed jelly sandwich and took his leave.

As he rode back to Risen Glory on the bony mare he'd hired at a livery stable in Charleston, he faced the unpleasant truth. Like it or not, he was stuck with Kit.

The plantation house came into view. It was a handsome, two-story structure of stucco-covered brick that sat at the end of a twisting overgrown drive. Despite the general air of neglect from peeling paint and broken shutters, the place was sturdy. The house had weathered to a warm shade of cream with bricks and mortar visible beneath the stucco. Live oaks heavy with Spanish moss shaded each end and draped the tiled roof. Azaleas, smilax, and holly spilled from overgrown beds, while magnolias scattered their waxy leaves across the knee-high grass of the front yard.

But it wasn't the house that had caught Cain's interest when he'd arrived two days ago. Instead, he'd spent the afternoon inspecting the ruins of the burned outbuildings, crawling over broken machinery, setting aside rusted tools, and occasionally stopping in an empty field to pick up a handful of rich soil. It trickled through his fingers like warm silk. Once again he found himself thinking about New York City and how it had begun to suffocate him.

Cain turned his horse over to Eli, the bent old man and former slave who'd met him with a shotgun the day Cain had arrived at Risen Glory.

"That's far enough," he'd said. "Miz Kit told me to shoot anybody steps foot on Risen Glory."

"Miss Kit needs to have her britches tanned," Cain had replied, not adding that he'd already done the job.

"You sure enough right 'bout that. But I still have to shoot you if you come any closer."

Cain could have disarmed the old man without difficulty, but he'd wanted his cooperation, so he'd taken the time to explain his relationship to Kit and Rosemary Weston. When Eli understood that Cain wasn't one of the fancy scalawags who'd been preying on the countryside, he'd put down his shotgun and welcomed him to Risen Glory.

The middle of the house curved in a graceful bow. Cain stepped into the wide center hallway that had been designed to carry a breeze. Parlors, a music room, and a library opened off it, everything shabby and dust-shrouded. The handsome teak table in the dining room bore fresh gouges. Sherman's troops had carted it outside and used it to butcher the plantation's remaining livestock.

Cain caught the scent of fried chicken. Eli couldn't cook, and as far as he knew, there was no one else in the house. The former slaves, enticed by the promise of forty acres and a mule, had gone off after the Union army. He wondered if the mysterious Sophronia had returned. Eli had made several references to Risen Glory's cook, but Cain hadn't yet seen her.

"Evenin', Major."

Cain stopped in his tracks as a small, much-too-familiar figure appeared at the end of the hallway. Then he began to curse.

Kit's hands twisted nervously at her sides. She wasn't moving any closer until he'd had a chance to adjust.

She'd left Cain's house in New York the same way she'd entered it. Over the back wall. She'd taken her bundle with her, along with The Sybaritic Life of Louis XV, which was the inspiration for the desperate plan she'd conceived the day after Cain left.

Now she plastered a smile on her face that was so big and fat it made her cheeks ache. "I sure hope you're hungry, Major. I got some fried chicken and hot buttermilk biscuits just beggin' for somebody with an appetite. I even scrubbed down the table in the dining room so we could eat there. 'Course, it's kinda scratched up, but it's a gen-u-wine Sheraton. You ever heard of Sheraton, Major? He was a Englishman and a Baptist to boot. Doesn't that seem strange to you? Seems like only Southerners should be Baptists. I-"

"What in the hell are you doing here?"

She'd known he'd be mad, but she'd hoped he wouldn't be quite this mad. Frankly, she wasn't sure she was up to it. She'd endured the train trip back to Charleston, a bone-jarring wagon ride, and, just today, a fifteen-mile hike that had left her with blisters and a sunburn. The last of her money had gone to buy food for tonight's dinner. She'd even taken a bath in the kitchen and changed into a clean shirt and britches so she didn't smell. She was surprised to discover that she liked being clean. Taking baths hadn't turned out to be such a bad idea after all, even if it did mean she had to look at her naked breasts.

She attempted a simper even though it about curdled her stomach. "Cookin' dinner for you, Major. That's what I'm doin'."

He clenched his teeth. "No. What you're doing is getting ready to die. Because I'm going to kill you!"

She didn't exactly believe him, but she didn't entirely disbelieve him, either. "Don't you yell at me! You'd of done the same thing!"

"What are you talking about?"

"You wouldn't have stayed up there in New York City while somebody was takin' away the only thing in your life you ever cared about! You wouldn't have sat in that fancy bedroom readin' books and tryin' on ugly dresses while it all slipped away. You'd of got yourself back to South Carolina as fast as you could, just like me. And then you'd have done anything you had to so you could keep what was yours."

"And I'm getting a pretty good idea what you've decided to do." In two long strides, he closed the distance between them. Before she could jump back, he began to rake his hands over her body.

"Stop that!"

"Not till you're disarmed."

She gasped as he touched her breasts. A tingle of sensation shot through her, but he didn't seem affected. He moved on to her waist and her hips.

"Stop it!"

He found the knife strapped to her calf. "Were you planning to use this on me when I was asleep?"

"If I didn't have the guts to kill you with a gun, I'd hardly do it with a knife, now, would I?"

"I suppose you were carrying it to open cans?"

"You took my gun. I couldn't travel without some kind of protection."

"I see." He set the knife out of her reach. "Then if you're not planning to kill me, what do you have in mind?"

This wasn't going the way Kit had hoped. She wanted to tell him to stop towering over her, but she wasn't that much of a fool. "Why don't we eat dinner first, and then I'll tell you? Food's hard to come by. No sense in lettin' everything get all dried out."

He took a moment making up his mind. "All right, we'll eat. But afterward we're having a serious talk."

She hurried toward the kitchen. "Supper'll be on the table in a minute."

Cain should have confronted her right away, but he was hungry, damn it. He hadn't eaten a decent meal since he'd left New York.

He disposed of her knife, then stalked back into the dining room. Kit appeared with a platter of fried chicken she placed on the table, and he finally noticed what had escaped him earlier. Everything about her was clean. From her cropped hair to the plaid shirt with a button missing at the neck to the dark brown britches that hung loosely on her small hips, she was scrubbed up as shiny as a new penny. He hadn't imagined anything short of force convincing her to bathe voluntarily. She was obviously prepared to go to drastic lengths to please him.

Not that she was going to have any success. He still couldn't believe she'd done this. But then, why not? She didn't understand the meaning of caution.

"Sit down and eat, Major. I sure hope you're hungry."

Cain had to admit it was a great meal. The chicken was fried a gold brown and steam rose from the buttermilk biscuits when he split them open. Even the dandelion greens were richly flavored.

When he'd eaten his fill, he leaned back in the chair. "You didn't do this by yourself."

"'Course I did. Normally Sophronia would have helped, but she's not here."

"Sophronia's the cook?"

"She also looked after me when I was growing up."

"She didn't do a very good job of it."

Those violet eyes narrowed. "I've got half a mind to comment on your upbringing, too."

The food had mellowed him, so this time she didn't get his dander up. "Everything was delicious."

She rose to fetch a bottle of brandy she'd put on the sideboard earlier. "Rosemary hid this before the Yankees came. Thought you might like to have a glass to celebrate your arrival at Risen Glory."

"Trust my mother to take better care of the liquor than she did of her stepdaughter." He took the bottle and began prying out the cork. "How did Risen Glory get its name? It's unusual."

"It happened not long after my granddaddy built the house." Kit leaned against the sideboard. "A Baptist preacher man came to the door askin' for a meal, and even though my grandma was strict Methodist, she fed him. They got to talkin', and when he heard the plantation didn't have a name yet, he said they should call it Risen Glory on account of it was almost Easter Sunday. It's been Risen Glory ever since."

"I see." He fished a piece of cork from his glass of brandy. "I think it's time you tell me what you're doing here."

Her stomach lurched. She watched him take a sip, his eyes staying on her the whole time. He never missed anything.

She moved toward the open doors that led from the dining room to the overgrown garden. It was dark and quiet outside, and she could smell honeysuckle in the night breeze. She loved it all so much. The trees and brooks, the sights and smells. Best of all, she loved watching the fields dance white with cotton. Soon, they'd be that way again.

Slowly she turned back to him. Everything depended on the next few minutes, and she had to do it right. "I came here to make a proposal to you, Major."

"I resigned my commission. Why don't you just call me Baron?"

"If it's all the same, I'll just go on callin' you 'Major'."

"I suppose it's better than some of the other things you've called me." He kicked back in the chair. Unlike a proper Southern gentleman, he'd hadn't worn a cravat to the table, and his collar was open. For a moment she found herself staring at the strong muscles in his neck. She forced herself to look away.

"Tell me about this proposal of yours."

"Weil…" She tried to suck in some air. "As you might of guessed, your part of the bargain would be to hang onto Risen Glory until I can buy it back from you."

"I figured that."

"You wouldn't be stuck with it forever," she hastened to add. "just for five years, until I can get to the money in my trust fund."

He studied her. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. This was going to be the hardest part. "I realize you'd expect somethin' in return."

"Of course."

She hated the flicker of amusement in his eyes. "What I'm preparin' to offer is a little unorthodox. But if you think about it, I know you'll see that it's fair," She gulped.

"Go on."

She squeezed her eyes shut, took a deep breath and let it out. "I'm offerin' to be your mistress."

He choked.

She got the rest out in a rush. "Now, I know this might be taking you by surprise, but even you've got to admit I'm a lot better company than those sorry excuses for females in New York City. I don't giggle and bat my eyes. I couldn't flirt even if I wanted to, and you sure won't ever hear me talkin' about pugs. Best part is, you wouldn't have to worry about goin' to all those balls and stuffy dinner parties most women like. Instead, we could spend our time hunting and fishing and riding horses. We could have a real good time."

Cain started to laugh.

Kit yearned to have her knife back. "You mind tellin' me what you think is so damn humorous?"

He finally managed to control himself. He set down his glass and rose from the table. "Kit, do you know why men keep mistresses?"

"Of course I do. I read The Sybaritic Life of Louis XV."

He regarded her quizzically.

"Madame de Pompadour," she explained. "She was Louis XV's mistress. I got the idea from readin' 'bout her."

She didn't tell him Madame de Pompadour had also been the most powerful woman in France. She'd managed to control the king and the country just by using her wits. Kit could surely manage to control the fate of Risen Glory if she was the major's mistress. Besides, she didn't have anything but herself to bargain with.

Cain started to say something, stopped, shook his head, then downed what was left of his brandy. When he was done, he looked like he was starting to get mad all over again. "Being a man's mistress involves more than hunting and fishing. Do you have any idea what I'm talking about?"

Kit felt herself flush. This was the part she hadn't let herself dwell on, the part the book hadn't covered at all.

Being raised on a plantation had exposed her to the rudimentary facts of animal reproduction, but it had also left her with a lot of questions that Sophronia refused to answer. Kit suspected she didn't have all the details right, but she knew enough to understand the whole process was disgusting. Still, it would have to be part of the bargain. For some reason, mating was important to men, and women were expected to put up with it, although she couldn't imagine Mrs. Cogdell letting the reverend climb up on her back like that.

"I know what you're talkin' about. And I'm prepared to let you mate with me." She glowered. "Even though I'm gonna hate it!"

Cain laughed; then his expression clouded as if he might be thinking about that damn spanking again. He yanked a cheroot from his pocket and stalked out the garden doors to light it.

She followed him outside and found him standing by an old rusty bench, gazing out toward the orchard. She waited for him to say something. When he didn't, she spoke. "Well, what about it?"

"It's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."

The glow from his cheroot cast a flickering shadow over his face, and panic welled inside her. This was her only chance to keep Risen Glory. She had to convince him. "Why is it so ridiculous?"

"Because it is."

"You tell me why!"

"I'm your stepbrother."

"Bein' my stepbrother doesn't mean a damn thing. It's purely a legal relationship."

"I'm also your guardian. I couldn't find a single person in this county who was willing to take you off my hands, and judging by your recent behavior, I guess that's no surprise."

"I'll do better! And I'm a real good shot. I can put all the meat on the table you want."

That started him cussing again. "Men aren't looking for somebody who can put meat on the table when they're choosing a mistress, damn it! They want a woman who looks and acts and smells like a woman."

"I smell real good! Go on. Smell me!" She lifted her arm so he could get a good whiff, but all he cared about was being mad.

"They want a woman who knows how to smile, and say pretty things, and make love. Now, that leaves you out!"

Kit swallowed her last morsel of pride. "I could learn."

"Oh, for God's sake!" He stalked to the other side of the overgrown gravel path. "I've made up my mind."

"Please! Don't-"

"I'm not selling Risen Glory."

"Not sellin'…" Kit couldn't seem to find her breath, and then a great wave of happiness washed over her. "Oh, Major! That's… that's the most wonderful thing I ever heard!"

"Hold on. There's one condition."

Kit felt a sharp prickle of warning. "No conditions! We don't need any conditions."

He stepped into the amber pool of light spilling out from the dining room. "You have to return to New York and go to school."

"School!" Kit was incredulous. "I'm eighteen years old. I'm too old for school. Besides, I'm already self-educated."

"Not that kind of school. A finishing school. A place that teaches deportment and etiquette and all those other female accomplishments you don't know a damn thing about."

"Finishing school?" She was horrified. "Now, that's the stupidest, most puerile-" She saw the storm clouds gathering in his expression and changed tack. "Let me stay here. Please. I won't be any trouble. Swear to Jesus. I can sleep out back, and you won't even know I'm around. I can make myself useful all kinds of ways. I know this plantation better than anyone. Please let me stay."

"You're going to do as I say."

"No, I-"

"If you don't cooperate, I'll sell Risen Glory so fast you won't know what happened. Then you won't have a prayer of ever getting your hands on it."

She felt sick. Her hatred of him coalesced into a hard, tight ball. "How… how long would I have to go to this school?"

"Until you can behave like a lady, so I guess that's up to you."

"You could keep me there forever."

"All right. Let's say three years."

"That's way too long. I'll be twenty-one by then."

"You've got a lot to learn. Take it or leave it."

She regarded him bitterly. "And then what happens? Will I be able to buy Risen Glory back from you with the money in my trust fund?"

"We'll discuss that when the time comes."

He could keep her away from Risen Glory for years, exiled from everything she loved. She turned away and rushed back into the dining room. She remembered how she'd humiliated herself by offering to be his mistress, and her hatred choked her. When her exile was over and Risen Glory was safe, he was going to pay for this.

"What'll it be, Kit?" he said from behind her.

She could barely force out the words. "You don't give me much choice, do you, Yankee?"

"Well, well, well." A woman's voice, throaty and seductive, rippled in from the hallway. "Will you jes' look at what that child brought back with her from New York City."

"Sophronia!" Kit pitched herself across the dining room and into the arms of the woman who stood in the doorway. "Where you been?"

"Rutherford. Jackson Baker took sick."

Cain stared at the newcomer with surprise. So this was Kit's Sophronia. She was hardly what he'd envisioned.

He'd imagined someone much older, but she looked as if she were in her early twenties, and she was one of the most exotically beautiful women he'd ever seen. Slim and tall, she towered over Kit. She had high, chiseled cheekbones, pale caramel skin, and slanted golden eyes that slowly lifted as he studied her.

Their gazes met and held over the top of Kit's head. Sophronia untangled herself and walked toward him, moving with a languid sensuality that made her simple blue cotton dress seem like a gown of the finest silk. When she was directly in front of him, she stopped and held out her slim hand.

"Welcome to Risen Glory, Boss Man."

Sophronia acted hateful all the way back north on the train. Everything was "yes, sir" and "no, sir" to Cain, smiling at him and taking his side against Kit.

"That's because he's right," Sophronia said when Kit confronted her about it. "It's time you started to act like the woman you were born to be."

"And it's time you started remembering whose side you're supposed to be on."

Sophronia and Kit loved each other more than anyone else on earth, despite being black and white. Which didn't mean they didn't argue. And those arguments only accelerated after they reached New York.

The minute Magnus laid eyes on Sophronia, he started walking around in a daze, and Mrs. Simmons wouldn't stop talking about Sophronia being so wonderful. After three days, Kit was sick of it. Then her already bad mood plummeted even further.

"I look like a jackass!" The dun-colored felt hat sat like a squashed gravy boat on Kit's ragged hair. The material of her ocher jacket was of good quality, but cut too big in the shoulders, and the ugly brown serge dress dragged on the carpet. She looked like she'd dressed up in a spinster aunt's clothes.

Sophronia splayed her long fingers on her hips. "What d'you expect? I told you those clothes Mrs. Simmons bought for you was too big, but you wouldn't pay me no nevermind. You ask me, this is what you get for thinkin' you know so much more than everybody else."

"just because you're three years older than me and we're in New York City doesn't mean you can act like some kind of queen."

Sophronia's elegant nostrils quivered. "You think you can say anything you want to me. Well, I'm not your slave no more, Kit Weston. You understand me? I don't belong to you. I don't belong to anybody 'cept Jesus!"

Kit didn't like hurting Sophronia's feelings, but sometimes she could be pigheaded. "It's just that you don't ever show any gratitude. I taught you your sums. I taught you how to read and write, even though it was against the law. I hid you from Jesse Overturf that night he wanted to lie with you. And now you're taking that Yankee's side against mine every chance you get."

"Don't you talk to me 'bout gratitude. I spent years keepin' you out of Miz Weston's sight. And every time she caught you and locked you in that closet, it was me who let you out. I took a whippin' for you. So I don't want to hear anything about gratitude. You're a noose around my neck. Suffocating me. Cutting off my life's breath. If it wasn't for you-"

Abruptly Sophronia broke off as she heard footsteps approaching outside the door. Mrs. Simmons appeared and announced that Cain was waiting below to take Kit to the school he'd chosen.

Just like that, the two combatants found themselves locked in each other's arms. Finally Kit pulled away, picked up her ugly, gravy-boat hat, and walked to the door. "You be careful, hear?" she whispered.

"You mind yourself at that fancy school," Sophronia whispered back.

"I will."

Sophronia's eyes clouded with tears. "We'll be seeing each other again before you know it."