Flora's Wish (36 page)

Wrapped in a simple clapboard siding painted a stark white, the little home appeared far too domestic to belong to hired help. And the purple wisteria climbing the porches front and back made the cottage look more like a hideaway for an aging relative than any sort of service building.

He reached into his pocket for his extra-vision spectacles. While he could see almost every leaf on the indigo plants, the closed white lace curtains of the cottage revealed nothing of what might be inside. Lucas set the glasses aside. Unless he wanted to read the names of the vessels plying the river from where he stood, there was no need to wear them.

A knock on the door announced the return of the valet, who carried a silver tray with a telegram on it. “Where would you like this, sir?”

Lucas gestured to the writing desk fitted beneath the eastern-facing windows and waited until the man had left to retrieve it. The telegram was from Kyle.
WT seen exiting steamboat. Staking out docks for possible sighting. Making progress on calling this investigation official. Hope to advise soon. KR

If Will Tucker showed up anywhere near the Natchez docks, he would be taken into custody. Let the Brimm ladies enjoy their dinner plans. He had more important things to do tonight.

Lucas folded the telegram, slid it into his jacket pocket, and then went to open his travel case. He'd packed a few items especially handy for nighttime surveillance.

“This is the end of the line, Tucker.”

H
is pockets now packed with all he needed for a night's outing, Lucas went in search of Flora. He found her on a bench in the garden, her paints and easel laid out nearby.

The May afternoon had grown warm, the breeze so wet with humidity that the very air felt thick. Lucas jerked at the fresh collar he'd just donned and wished, not for the first time, that this investigation didn't require him to dress as a gentleman.

It was his least favorite occupation. One he'd managed to avoid except for visits home and in times like these.

And yet for all his discomfort, one glance at her told him she was right at home in this garden. In the not yet blistering heat. She looked as fresh as a summer blossom in an afternoon gown trimmed in cornflower blue that he would bet matched her eyes. Her flame-colored curls had been tucked up under a little hat that was more ribbon and fluff than substance, and from where he stood he could see she was studying a paintbrush she weighed in her palm.

His boots crunched on the path, but she seemed oblivious. The temptation to stand and just observe bore hard, but there was a case to solve and a criminal who must be caught. Maybe the Lord would grant other times to spend with her—unless she was right and his search had led him to the wrong man. Then she would be married and he would be…gone.

That was all he could predict. Life as a Pinkerton man meant you were more gone than home, but it was a noble calling and he'd taken it on willingly.

Perhaps not the whole truth, but it was the truth he told himself.

“You were painting the first time I spoke to you,” he said as he walked up to the beautiful woman, who was obviously deep in thought.

When she turned to face him, Lucas could see the remnant of tears on her cheeks. “At least I actually made an attempt at painting something, though I will admit my efforts are poor at best. Right now it's just a pretense so I can be left alone out here.”

Lucas sat down beside her. “Didn't work.”

A wobbly smile. “No, I suppose not.”

He paused to choose his words carefully. “Your conversation with your grandmother did not go well.”

A statement, not a question. Something Flora apparently felt no compunction to answer.

“Well, then,” he said as he leaned forward to rest his palms on his knees. “I'll be going. I just wanted to remind you—”

“Not to leave Brimmfield,” she supplied as she swung her gaze up to meet his. “Yes, I know. Personal custody and all that.”

“Right.” He paused a moment and then stood. “Well, my errand may take some time, so please don't hold dinner for me.”

“Lucas, wait.” She placed the paintbrush on the bench and rose. “This is about Will, isn't it?”

“I can't say.” That was the most truthful response he could manage.

She reached out to grasp his sleeve. “Take me with you.”

Lucas's breath caught as he realized the hint of lilacs he smelled did not come from the garden. That if he were to lean just a little closer, the scent of those lilacs would be every bit as intoxicating as the taste of alcohol once had been.

But he'd given up spirits at the same time he'd given up any right to have feelings for a subject in a Pinkerton investigation.

“No,” he managed, as much to quell his racing thoughts as to indicate the Natchez belle would not be accompanying him on tonight's adventure. “I can't,” he added as an additional response to both issues.

“Of course you can. I would be of great help to you. I know the city well.”

“Not the part where I'm headed.” He paused to allow his gaze to wash over her lovely features one more time. “At least I hope not.”

Before he could change his mind, he placed his hand over hers. A diversion in the conversation was in order for both of them. “Be nice to your grandmother. I'm sure she loves you no matter what your differences might be.”

The beginnings of a smile lifted her lips. “What makes you think I've had differences with my grandmother?”

He shrugged. “I don't know.” Lucas lifted his hand to allow his knuckle to brush her cheek. “Maybe the tears you've been shedding out here while you tried to pretend you were painting.”

“Is it possible those were tears of joy at my triumphant return to Natchez?” She shook her head. “I'm sorry. The deportment instructor at Dillingham was adamant that we learn sarcasm is never attractive.”

Lucas inclined his head toward her. “Your instructor was wrong. You still look lovely despite the sarcasm. Perhaps you're not trying hard enough.”

She smiled. “And yet I'm not feeling so lovely. I assume you received your stack of invitations after you settled in.”

“I did.”

Her soft chuckle held no humor. “Those are for parties being held in my honor.” Her wavering gaze landed on him. “Grandmama mustered her friends to begin the round of parties celebrating me. Thank goodness she wasn't specific in what was to be celebrated, because it would be awfully uncomfortable to attend a wedding reception without a groom. That's an exceptionally poor time to not have a date, you know.”

“Well, done,” Lucas said as he defied logic to inch closer to her. “That was a good attempt at sarcasm. You're looking lovelier by the minute, however, so I'm still going to have to press my argument that your manners instructor was wrong.”

“Deportment,” she corrected. “But thank you.”

“And for the record, I don't have a date either.”

She lifted one brow. “Mr. McMinn, are you asking me to accompany you?”

He wasn't, but the idea was a sound one. “Why not? If your grandmother's friends don't know what they're celebrating, maybe we'll come up with something.”

“Grandmama told me she hadn't breathed a word about the marriage. Or rather the marriage she thought I'd gone through with.” A shrug. “I'm hoping by the time the day of the first party comes around, everything will be sorted out and Will and I can announce our nuptials.”

“Yes, well, for your sake, I hope you're right.”

Her smile vanished. “So we're back to that.”

“If you mean my doubts about your fiancé, then yes, we're back to that.”

A steamboat's horn sounded down at the river, its booming sound muffled by the distance it traveled over the indigo fields. And though the Mississippi was close enough to walk to in a quarter hour or less, the distance between Brimmfield and the place he was going was miles—and worlds—apart.

Lucas allowed the river and its late afternoon activities to hold his attention just long enough to brave himself for another look at Flora Brimm. When he returned his attention to her, he realized she was no longer standing nearby. Instead, she'd wandered back to the bench, where she'd once again taken up the paintbrush.

“All right,” he said. “You know the rules.”

She waved away his comment with a sweep of her hand. After another moment of studying the would-be artist, Lucas turned his back on her and began the walk toward the main gate. He'd barely rounded the bend to follow the path into a copse of cottonwoods when he heard her footsteps behind him.

“Flora, I told you that you cannot go with me,” he said as he turned around to face her. “And nothing you say will change my mind.”

Likely her deportment instructor would claim that the way she hurried toward him was most undignified, and yet he'd never seen her look more beautiful.

She threw herself into his arms, and as he wrapped her close in a reluctant embrace, Lucas once again smelled lilacs. “Don't hurt him,” she said, her cheek pressed against his chest. “Promise me that.”

Surprised, he held her out at arm's length. “What are you talking about?”

“He's not guilty until a judge says so. If you harm him in pursuit of your revenge, I will…”

A lone tear slid down her cheek, and with it any chance of his getting away from her without some measure of penance. Of all the things he'd become immune to over his years with the Pinkertons, why was it that a woman's tears took him down quicker than a bolt of lightning or the bullet from a man's revolver?

“Hey, now. I've had plenty of chances to harm your Mr. Tucker. So far I've exercised restraint. I want his guilt to come from a judge and jury. That's going to be my ultimate revenge.”

Another tear slid down the same path, and so did Lucas's resolve to keep this woman at arm's length. Time to go. He couldn't miss his meeting with Kyle.

And yet he couldn't resist just one more attempt at getting the remainder of the truth out of her—if there was any truth to the reason she was such a staunch supporter of Will Tucker's innocence.

“Just tell me what you know, Flora. I want to know why you're so adamant that he's innocent.”

Another tear and Lucas felt his knees getting weak. Behind her the sun had dipped nearly to the tree line, casting Flora's face in shadow and lighting her curls with touches of spun gold.

Despite all good sense, Lucas reached to touch a lovely curl. To wrap it around his finger.

The steamboat's horn once again blared down at the river, and the moment was broken. Lucas released her curl and took a step backward to offer his handkerchief.

“It's clean. Relatively,” he said with a wink that drew a grin from her.

Around them the leaves of the cottonwoods shimmered as the breeze kicked up. Lucas looked up at the darkening sky through a canopy of green to spy the first star of the evening.

“I used to make a wish on the first star,” she said wistfully as she swiped his handkerchief across her cheekbone. “I always wished the same thing.”