His Heart's Revenge (The Marshall Brothers Series, Book 2) (6 page)

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The first and second nights of his escape Logan slept in the woods and covered himself with humus for warmth. On the third night he took shelter in a barn after the lights in the nearby farmhouse were extinguished. The animals that occupied the barn weren't at all disturbed by his presence. Although it was difficult to know for certain in the dark, he made out his companions to be one mule, one cow, a sway-backed nag, four cats, and a collie. Logan stopped the growling in his stomach with some dried fruit and oats from the nag's feed basket and half a cup of milk straight from the cow's udder. Taking two horse blankets into the loft, Logan settled down in a stack of sweet-smelling hay. He was asleep in minutes.

"Come here, Brutus. What are you doing? Hmm? Cornered something up in the loft, have you?"

Brutus jumped up and down, pawing at the loft ladder. He whined and whimpered, but never barked. Six months earlier, Union scavengers had come to King's Creek farm. The stock of a Yankee rifle hammered directly at the dog's throat silenced him forever.

"What is it, boy? Two-legged or four-legged?"

Brutus whimpered more energetically. He ran from the ladder and circled his mistress, licking her face when she hunkered down to scratch him behind the ears. It was ecstasy. He almost forgot about the intruder.

"Do I need a weapon?" she whispered. She wasn't really frightened. There hadn't been any fighting in the area for months. The last deserter went through King's Creek more than sixty days ago. It was far more likely Brutus had treed a raccoon or a squirrel. If she could trap the animal it would make a fine meal.

Logan heard the soft, melodious voice and the dog's anxious whining. It was apparent from the girl's conversation that she was coming up to the loft to investigate. He wanted to bury himself deeper in the hay but was afraid of any noise that would attract more attention. He reached for the black lacquered box under his head and opened it carefully. It contained a spool of blue thread, two needles, a handkerchief, a lice comb, one piece of chalk, a half-dozen marbles—including four prized aggies—a watch fob, and one spoon. It was the spoon he wanted. Honed to a fine razor edge, it was useless as an eating utensil now. But it made a superior weapon. Logan gripped the handle and waited.

"I don't see anything, boy," she called down. Brutus continued dancing, so she went over the top of the ladder and crawled into the loft on her hands and knees. Too late, just as she saw the intruder out of the corner of her eye, she realized she was in no position to protect herself.

Logan pounced. He grabbed the hem of the girl's gingham dress and began pulling her toward him. She screamed when she felt the tug and began kicking. Painful though it was, Logan withstood her blows in order to stop the real menace—her ear-piercing scream. She had opened her mouth to get a second lungful of air when Logan's hand clamped down hard, covering her nose and grinding her lips against her teeth. Her eyes were wide, dark, and terrified as she faced her assailant. Her lungs burned from lack of air. She felt something cool press against the hollow of her throat and fear paralyzed her.

He was a beast. His unkempt hair and beard made him seem more animal than man. He was breathing heavily, obviously tired from the battle for control but still much stronger than she. There were sharp edges to his face that the beard and mustache could only partially hide. The gray eyes, hard as bullets, cold as steel, were strangely familiar. Mary Catherine McCleary began to shake.

Logan studied the face below him. The eyes were brown and gold with an exotic almond shape. The brows were tawny, the lashes dark, and the hair was like honey. The last vestiges of childhood had been erased over the past nineteen months. The willowy, womanly shape pressed to his body was the least of the changes. There was something in the way she looked at him, mutinous in spite of her fear, that made him think she was old beyond her years.

"Katy? Oh, God. I prayed that I'd find... Is it really you?" Logan didn't lift his hand for an answer. He wasn't sure she wouldn't scream. He waited and finally was rewarded with a reluctant nod that seemed to have been dragged from her against her will. "Do you know me?" Again, the nod. He eased up on the spoon that had pressed against her throat. "You won't scream, will you?"

Mary Catherine hesitated. She did not want to make promises to this man. She hated him. His betrayal, the sharing of the secret she had vowed never to share, had changed her entire life. She found herself nodding again and in that moment wondered whom she despised more, Logan or herself. The urge to renege on her promise was strong when Logan removed his hand slowly, as if he didn't really trust her to keep her word.

"Thank God," he said softly. Aware that Mary Catherine was watching him carefully and that the fear had not left her eyes, Logan sat up and returned his weapon to the box. He tilted the box in her direction to show her she had nothing to fear from the contents, closed it, and set it behind him. There were bits of hay on his shoulders and chest. He brushed them off, suddenly seeing himself through Mary Catherine's eyes. As an afterthought he raked his fingers through his beard and hair, plucking out strands of hay there as well. He was feeling just human enough to be embarrassed by his appearance. If she had seen him last night when he crawled into the loft, he wouldn't have given it a second thought. "Sorry," he said, shrugging his shoulders uncomfortably. "I'm not dressed to receive visitors."

How could he make a joke? She wouldn't have used his clothing for rags. His jacket and trousers were fit for burning and nothing else. Where in God's name had he come from? Everything she'd heard about the Yankees said they were well-clothed and belly full. Logan Marshall looked neither. More to the point, he looked like he was starving. It had been so easy to hate the man he had been, the man she remembered him being. She searched her heart for that emotion and discovered it had already been replaced by pity. Even as she wondered why she should spare him, Mary Catherine found herself looking away so Logan wouldn't guess what was in her heart.

"I didn't mean to frighten you," he told her. "I wouldn't have hurt you."

Mary Catherine shot him a disbelieving glance, but said nothing. He had seemed terribly desperate to her a short time ago.

Logan picked up one of the horse blankets and pulled it around his shoulders. Outside the sun was shining, but it was a cold winter sun. Although Mary Catherine seemed unaffected, Logan felt the chill all the way to his bones. Thin streamers of light filtered through the cracks in the wood planking. Dust motes danced in the yellow rays. A sunbeam touched Mary Catherine's hair, and her face was caressed by a halo of light. "How old are you, Katy?" It wasn't what he meant to say, yet somehow the words came tripping out.

Surprised by the question, Mary Catherine heard herself answering. "I was fifteen in September."

"Fifteen," he repeated softly. "It's odd, but when I thought of you these past long months, I never thought of you growing older. In my mind I always saw little Katy McCleary."

Mary Catherine sat up. She smoothed her dress and drew up her legs so the ruffled edge of her pantalets wouldn't show. "Don't call me that."

Logan was taken aback. "Call you what? Katy, you mean?"

"Yes. No one calls me that. It's a baby name."

"I agree you're not a baby, but I like the name Katy."

"Well, I don't."

"All right," he said, making no real promise. "Where's your mother? And Megan? This farm belongs to one of your relatives, doesn't it? A cousin, I think."

Did he remember everything? Katy found Logan's memory, and the memory it stirred in her, frightening. "Yes. It belongs to Aunt Peggy."

"And what will Aunt Peggy have to say about a Yankee on her Rebel property?"

"She won't say anything. Once she knows you're here, she'll show you the wrong end of her shotgun."

"Is she a good shot?"

"Very good."

"I was afraid you'd tell me that."

"I'm not lying," Mary Catherine said.

"I didn't think you were. I don't suppose it will help my cause that your mother would speak well of me?"

"That's not possible."

Logan pulled the blanket more tightly around his chest as a shiver coursed through him. "What do you mean?" he asked, puzzled. His teeth chattered, making it difficult to speak. "Rose knows I'm no threat to any of you. Why wouldn't she help me?"

"Would you like to see Mama and ask her for yourself?"

"You can bring her here?"

"No. You'll have to come with me." Mary Catherine got to her feet. "Don't worry about Aunt Peggy. She's working in the kitchen at the back of the house. She won't see us."

"I don't understand... what about Megan?"

"Oh, she's with Mama as well." She extended her hand and helped Logan to his feet. She had to steady him once he was standing. It was probably good that she was making him walk, she decided. He needed to move around before he was frozen through. Her brief contact with him was enough to let her know that his skin was unnaturally cold.

Mary Catherine led the way down the ladder. "This is Brutus," she said, introducing the dog to Logan. "We would have known about you last night, but a trio of scalawags came though here a while back and one of them damaged Brutus's barking box." She didn't wait for Logan's comment. What could he say? These were dangerous times. "Come on, boy. We're talking Mr. Marshall for a little walk."

Logan expected to go in the direction of the farmhouse, so when Mary Catherine set off across the pasture, he hesitated. She didn't wait for him, or even turn to acknowledge that he had fallen behind. He berated himself for his suspicions. He had no reason not to trust her. Still, she was cold toward him and he couldn't understand it. It was hard to think clearly any more. The cold seemed to numb his brain. Finally he decided to follow, loping after her with an uneven stride and keeping the horse blanket close as a shield against the icy wind.

The breeze that wafted across the pasture and followed their tree-lined trail along King's Creek was warm to Mary Catherine. Tendrils of honey-colored hair, picked up by the wind, tickled her cheeks and temples. Behind her she heard Logan tramping on fallen leaves and moving noisily through the underbrush. Sunlight dotted their path. Occasionally she raised her face to feel the kiss of its heat.

At the point where the creek widened, she stopped. The rush of water over a dam of stones was a pleasant roar in her ears. In front of her was a half-moon clearing ringed by four holly trees. It was shady here, protected from the sun by the evergreen holly leaves. The ground was dotted with bright red berries. Some fell in the creek and were carried away on the white water. She heard Logan come up behind her. She had to force herself not to cringe when he placed his hand on her shoulder for support. His breathing was heavy, rasping. Looking at the graves of her mother and sister, Mary Catherine felt the familiar wash of hate and anger return. She took strength from it. Pity for Logan had made her feel helpless and she was glad that emotion was gone.

"What is this place?" asked Logan. But he knew. He knew. He stared at the twin mounds of stones stacked like a pyramid of cannonballs and made out the faint outline of the graves they marked. Brutus padded to the headstones and circled them several times. He sniffed at ground and finally lay down, whimpering.

"Mama's grave is the one on the left," Mary Catherine said. Her voice was calm, detached. The tone was so unemotional she could have been talking about someone she had never met. "She died last June."

"Last June? You mean a year ago?"

She nodded faintly. "Just a little over a month after we left Washington."

Logan was stunned. "Oh, God. I'm sorry."

"Why are you sorry?" It was your fault, she accused silently.

Her question confused him. Why shouldn't he be sorry? He liked Rose. She was a fine, brave woman. "I was honored to know your mother. Why shouldn't I regret her passing?"

Just as Mary Catherine expected, he wasn't apologizing for his part in her mother's death. She shrugged off his question and reined in her accusing glance. "It was consumption," she told him. "She was ill before we left and she knew it. The traveling wasn't good for her. She caught a cold on the journey and never really recovered. It all happened very swiftly."

"If only she had said something," Logan said, more to himself than to Mary Catherine. "I could have arranged for all of you to stay in Washington. I would have seen to it that you weren't bothered." He didn't have to mention by whom.

"Oh, but you had already done so much for us," she replied, skirting the edge of sarcasm with a voice that dripped honey.

Logan's hand had been resting on Mary Catherine's shoulder. It wasn't enough to keep him upright. He moved so that his forearm lay over her. Almost immediately there was a shiver from her. "You're cold," he said. "Here, take the blanket."

"No, I'm fine." The bodice of her gingham dress was lined with canvas for extra warmth. "Really. Keep it for yourself." A Yankee firing squad could not have forced her to tell him the real reason she had shivered. She wouldn't let him have that much power over her.

"And Megan?" he asked. "It doesn't seem possible." Even staring at the grave he couldn't believe redheaded, green-eyed Megan was gone. He remembered the kiss in the garden and Megan's off balance, sweet response. Would things have been any different if he had taken the colonel's suggestion and married her? "What happened to her?"