The Seduction Of Shay Devereaux. Carolyn Davidson
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what was goin’ on out here, Jenny. Marshall come runnin’ in and said a man was in the barn with you.” She walked a few steps closer. “You been cryin’?”
Jenny shook her head. “No, not really.” Carefully she stood, willing her legs not to buckle. “Mr. Shay has come here with a message from…my husband.”
Isabelle snorted unbelievingly. “Mr. Carl’s been dead a long time, Jenny. If this fella’s got word for you, what took him so long to bring it?”
“I don’t know.” Jenny took a step, steadying herself, one hand touching the wall beside her. “We hadn’t even gotten to the message part.”
She turned to Shay. “Do you want to put your horse up and stay for a bite to eat? We’re about to have our noon meal. I’m sure Isabelle has enough for you to join us.”
He nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Jenny walked past him. “We’ll talk in the house.” Her mind spinning, she followed Isabelle from the barn, trudging across the yard, aware of the curiosity that hung between them.
Isabelle opened the door and Jenny walked past her into the kitchen. “What you s’pose he wants with you?” Isabelle asked, reaching high to place the gun over the door. Two pegs held it in place and Isabelle, satisfied that it was secure, stepped back. “I never seen a man so hard lookin’, Miss Jenny. There’s no give to him, not one little bit, is there?” She slanted a look from dark eyes, and Jenny caught a glimpse of fear within their soft depths.
“I’m not afraid of him,” she said quietly. She found another plate and placed it on the table, then reached for silverware from the drawer. “I think he’s ridden a long way to get here, probably had other things to see to before he set out to find me.”
“I’d think carryin’ a message from a dead man to his wife would rate pretty high up on the scale,” Isabelle said darkly. “You think he’s tellin’ the truth?”
The sound of boots on the porch caught Jenny’s ear and she shook her head at Isabelle. “Later,” she whispered, stepping to the kitchen cupboard to draw forth cups for coffee.
A pot sat on the back of the stove, and Isabelle lifted it, a folded dish towel protecting her hand from the hot handle. “Let’s see how strong this is, first off,” she said, pouring the dark liquid slowly.
“A little cream will do wonders,” Jenny told her.
“There’s a whole pitcherful already rose to the top from this morning’s milking,” Isabelle said. “I’ll pour it off and set some aside for your coffee. Thought I’d make rice pudding for supper. We got eggs aplenty.”
Jenny turned to the door, where Shay waited admission. “Come in, Mr.—”
“Just Shay,” he reminded her, opening the screen door and stepping into the kitchen. One hand lifted his hat, then held it, as he glanced around the room.
“You can hang it on a hook next to the pantry, if you like,” Jenny said. She watched as he crossed the room, met his gaze as he turned back to face her. “Coffee?” she asked, motioning to the table where two cups stood, steam rising.
He nodded, pulling out a chair. “Y’all help yourselves to fresh bread,” Isabelle said, her dark eyes intent on the visitor. From beneath a dish towel, she produced a plate, placing it between Jenny and their visitor. A small bowl containing butter was beside it, and a knife lay across the edge of the dish.
Jenny nodded at Shay. “Go ahead.”
He glanced at the sink in the corner. “You mind if I wash up?” At Jenny’s nod of agreement, he rose, then stepped to the drain board where a bucket of water rested, pouring a small amount into the wash pan. Isabelle provided a bowl of soft soap and a towel, and in moments, Shay was back at the table. “Thanks,” he murmured, picking up the knife and spreading butter across a slice of bread.
“Isabelle baked this morning,” Jenny told him, pouring cream in her coffee, then adding a heaping teaspoon of sugar. A bowl of stew appeared in the middle of the table and Jenny reached for the serving ladle. Shay nodded as she cast him an inquiring glance, and she served a generous portion on his plate.
The steam rose and he inhaled it, then spoke his satisfaction. “This is much appreciated, ma’m. I haven’t had a hot meal in a couple of days.” Picking up his fork, he stabbed a bite of potato and began eating. His gaze scanned the room, settling on Isabelle, who watched from near the stove. “You’ve already eaten?” he asked.
“When I fed Marshall.” Her answer was curt, but he seemed uncaring, returning to his food, picking up his cup to drink. After a few moments, his first hunger apparently appeased, he leaned back in his chair. “You’re alone here?” he asked.
Isabelle glanced up at the shotgun over the door and Jenny shook her head, then brushed her mouth with a linen napkin. “No, there’s Isabelle’s husband and their two sons. They’re working in the hayfield. And you’ve seen my son.”
He nodded, chewing long and hard on the crust of bread he’d chosen, then bent to his dinner once more.
“Do you think my boy looks like Carl?” she asked after a moment. “His folks are gone, over three years now, but his mama said Marshall was the image of his daddy.”
“Hard to say,” Shay temporized.
“Carl had the same brown eyes. But then you know that. Having seen him more recently than I. Mine are blue.” She paused for a moment, but the words would not be halted, falling from her lips as if she must somehow reinforce Carl’s memory through the small child he’d left behind. “Marshall’s hair is streaked from the sunshine now, I know. But you should see it in the winter. It darkens up, without a trace of red in it like—” Jenny hesitated, aware of rambling on. She lifted her cup and sipped at the bitter stuff. Her heart was stuttering in her chest, and she felt her throat close as she asked the question she’d held within her heart for the past half hour.
“How did he die?” Her hands fluttered, then settled in her lap. “Did he suffer long? Was there a doctor in the camp?” She looked up at him and winced at the forbidding look he wore. “Please, Mr. Shay.”
The woman was trembling, her mouth twitching at the corner, her chin wobbling. Damn, she was about to cry again, and he didn’t know if he could stand it. Enough that he’d put this visit in limbo for so long, now he had to dredge up all the memories and break her heart all over again.
“There were a couple of doctors in camp, but we tried not to let the Union army know who they were. They’d have been taken out and put to work in the army hospital for the northern troops.” He shrugged, curling long fingers around his cup. “There wasn’t any medicine anyway, ma’am. We all just did the best we could.”
“You said you were with him?” she asked, biting at her lip. “He spoke of us?”
“Yes, ma’am. I told you he sent his love, to both you and the child.” That hadn’t been exactly how it happened, but instinct told him she would be soothed by the words. Her eyes filled with tears and they overflowed, dampening the bodice of her dress as they fell. His gaze rested there.
“Mr. Shay?” Her hand lay on the table now, reaching for him, yet even as he watched, her fingers curled into a fist. “Did he say anything else?”
He shook his head. Take care of them. The words that haunted his dreams had brought him here, on a roundabout route, to be sure. But here he was, and here he’d stay until he was sure she was safe, had enough to eat, and that the boy was taken care of, had some sort of future in the offing.
“Have you got any crops in, ma’am?” he asked. “Is there any livestock in the pastures?”
“The kitchen garden’s planted, of course, and it’s almost time to plant corn, maybe next week or the week after. After the hay gets put up. We’ve a cow in the barn, and a good flock of chickens. There’s three hens setting on nests.