He watched as an owl spread wide wings, swooping soundlessly across the span of sky between barn and trees. Dangling prey hung from sharp talons, and Shay felt a strange affinity for the hapless creature. His low chuckle was without amusement, holding instead dark shreds of bitter remembrance. He knew only too well the feeling of being captured, of the torment endured as soul and body were torn asunder, until all that remained was a shell of manhood, its essence swept up in hours and days of misery. He closed his eyes and saw another glimpse of that place called Elmira.
Another name for Hell.
Men with little to live for had been freed at the end of the conflict. He counted himself among that number. Some, with wives and children awaiting their return, had been buried beneath the northern soil. One of them, Carl Pennington, had been his friend, his commanding officer. During the time they served together, they’d discovered their families lived less than a hundred miles apart. Taken prisoners during the same battle, Shay had survived. Carl had not lived to be released.
He’d given Shay his last bits of food, aware that his own life was fast ebbing, yet grimly determined that Shay should survive. And survive he had, kept alive by another man’s sacrifice.
“Promise me, Gaeton.” Death molded Carl’s features, yet he’d struggled to breathe. The same fever had killed many, perhaps hundreds, in this camp. But Carl’s strength lay in his love for the wife and child he’d left behind.
“Promise me, Gaeton.” Again he’d demanded the pledge, and Shay’s heart plunged within him as he recalled the answer he’d given.
“Gaeton Devereaux died the day he walked into this prison,” he’d muttered. “I’m not sure there’s enough of him left to make a promise.”
“Take care of them.” Carl had gasped the words with his last breath, and Shay’s hand had closed the staring eyes. Shay looked out upon the darkness, reliving once more that hellish day. Remembering the promise he’d refused to make. It had haunted him for four years. As had the man who’d trusted him.
“Damn you, Carl.” The curse breathed softly upon the humid air and Shay bent his head in surrender.
For four years he’d sought peace, making his way from one town to another, one ranch to the next, regretting the words he’d swallowed, the promise he’d refused to give. He’d managed to win more hands of poker than any man had a right to claim, and found his ease with less than a handful of women. And all the wandering had brought him back to where he’d begun. Louisiana…where his family lived and worked the home place. Louisana…where Carl Pennington’s wife and child lived from hand to mouth, or so he’d heard only yesterday.
Here where Shay’s name had been Gaeton Devereaux.
The curse he’d spoken was beyond recall. Ahead of him waited the task he would undertake, the promise he would finally speak aloud, and honor.
“Rest in peace, Carl,” he whispered. “I promise you. I’ll do what I can.”
Chapter One
March, 1869
Four years. She’d given herself four years, measuring the days since the letter had come, telling her of Carl’s death. At first, when his horse had carried him away, she’d been hopeful. Sure he would return, the battle won. Soon, he’d come back to her and the long days and nights would be in the past.
Her laughter was bitter as she recalled her youthful optimism. For close to six years now, she’d struggled. Struggled against impossible odds, enough to scatter every lovely dream to the four winds. At first, in those early days, she’d been optimistic, vowing to put her shoulder to the wheel, as her father used to say, and make a success of the plantation. And then the awful letter had come, and that day she’d stiffened her spine and vowed to give herself four more years to make a profit and gain a foothold on that elusive thing called success.
No more. She’d run out of time. Jenny Pennington lifted a hand to her brow, her gaze seeking the horizon. The field before her was the brilliant green of early hay, ready for reaping. Three men worked in tandem, swinging scythes in a rhythm that seemed to depend on the song they sang, a mournful tune that tugged at her emotions.
She turned away, her strides long as she headed for the wagon, anxious to flee from the harmony, that minor key that spoke of betrayal and sorrow. Her skirt caught on the wagon wheel and she muttered a word beneath her breath as she tugged it free.
“That’s one of those words you told me not to say, Mama.” From behind the wagon seat, the voice of her son admonished her.
“You’ll get soap on your tongue if you try it,” she warned him. “I won’t have you using vile language, Marshall Pennington.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured agreeably.
Jenny picked up the reins and glanced over her shoulder. He was tall for a boy just a few months past his fifth birthday, and his grin met her gaze. “I won’t say it again, either,” she told the boy. The leathers cracked over the broad backs of her team and the wagon jolted into motion.
Behind her the sound faded, muffled by the trees surrounding her, carried by the breeze toward the east. “Are we gonna eat dinner pretty soon?” Marshall asked. On his knees now, he leaned against the back of the wagon seat, one hand clutching her shoulder.
“As soon as we get back to the house,” she told him. “Isabelle will have it ready for us.” And for that she could be grateful. Three men and one woman remained of the workers that had kept the Pennington Plantation in order.
No wonder the crops shrank every year, the house sat empty, but for the four rooms they used. The entire top floor was vacant, the furniture long since sold at auction, and for a pittance at that. Bare spots on the wallpaper bore silent witness to pieces of art she’d sacrificed for seed and wages. Using what little of value she had available, she’d bartered and bargained, until this spring, when her favorite portrait had purchased cotton seed for planting, and food staples enough to last through the summer.
She’d cried that night, sobbed into her pillow, stifling the sound so that Isabelle would not hear. For too long, she’d struggled. For too many days she’d worked in the fields. For too many nights she’d held Carl’s pillow against her barren body, yearning for the warmth of his embrace.
And for what? Her long years of work and sacrifice had earned her but a respite from the inevitable end. For whatever it was worth, Pennington Plantation would be sold. Once the crops were harvested this year, once the cotton was weighed and sold, the plantation house and the acres surrounding it would be put up for auction to the highest bidder.
I’m sorry, Carl. She’d whispered those words more times than she could count. And now, for the last time, she repeated them aloud. “I’m sorry, Carl.”
“Are you talkin’ to my papa?” Marshall asked in her ear.
A smile teased at Jenny’s lips. “You’ll think your mama is daft, sweetheart. And yes, I was talkin’ to your papa.”
“What are you sorry for, Mama?” The boy climbed over the wagon seat, teetering precariously atop the backboard until he gained his balance and plopped beside his mother.
“You wouldn’t understand,” she told him. “Matter of fact, I don’t understand it myself.” And wasn’t that the truth. It seemed that hard work should somehow be rewarded in this life, but thus far, she hadn’t found the end of her particular rainbow. Maybe her reward was to be in the rearing of this small boy, the best part of her inheritance.
The house loomed before them, windows gleaming in the sunlight. Isabelle was a great believer in cleanliness. Windows and floors got a weekly going-over, and one expense Jenny was not allowed to scrimp on was the purchase of vinegar for window washing and the preserving of pickles,