Chapter 17
Morning Fawn wiped her damp palms on her skirt as she headed for the stables.
The last of the late fall’s red and yellow canopy of leaves lay scattered on the ground.
She had been waiting all afternoon for Devon to return.
He’d ridden out early this morning before breakfast. She hadn’t dared ask where he’d headed off to.
Ever since the incident with Lucy, Aunt Julia and Thea had acted like Devon was the worst sinner in the world.
Let them think what they liked. She knew better.
Was their disapproval the reason he’d avoided joining the family in the dining room for meals since the incident?
Or was it because he was disgusted with her over Ebony?
She had accepted the mustang as a loan, not a gift.
But the clarification had seemed to bounce off his ears the night he’d seen the horse.
He’d looked as if she deserved to be strung up on the council pole in her village.
Church Sunday morning had been a whole different story. But she hadn’t had a moment alone with him since.
Chickens clucked from the hen house. A couple of slave women stood in the shed near the smokehouse stirring two massive iron kettles over smoldering fires, singing as they worked.
The soap-making had started in earnest this morning.
Several days ago, they’d placed wood ash in straw-lined barrels.
A field hand had dumped gallons of water into the mix every few hours.
He’d poured the run-off from that into the kettles, mixed it with lime, and left the concoction to set.
Today, they’d added pounds of tallow and more water.
She would have gladly joined in the work in hopes of being able to add flowers or honey to the mixture, but Aunt Judith had given a definite no.
Murmurs carried on the breeze from the stables. Low, rich notes. Devon’s voice. Was he talking to a horse or a stable hand?
A twig crunched beneath her foot. She bent down and wrestled her shoes off.
Hard cow leather and bothersome lacings.
If she’d worn such troublesome blocks on her feet during her time with the Comanche, she would have starved.
Maybe if she asked, Devon would agree to take her hunting.
What she wouldn’t give to have a pair of moccasins.
But she had more important things to ask today.
Shoes in hand, she lifted her skirts and stepped quietly across the ground. Maybe she could catch a glimpse of Devon before he saw her. Holding her breath, she reached the half-open door and peeked in.
The smells of hay, horse, and manure greeted her nostrils. Shadows draped the stalls. Kneeling by a Morgan, George wedged a pick in the cracks of a hoof. Devon stood in the foreground with his back to the door. A beam of sunlight from the upper window danced on his scuffed cavalry boots.
“Good girl.” Devon wove the curry comb in circles across the mare’s shoulder, loosening dust and mud from the animal’s reddish-brown hide. Smooth, strong strokes, yet as gentle as a hair brushing, he took his time, care evident in his every movement.
His muscles flexed beneath the light blue work shirt. The ends of his thick dark-brown hair scraped against his collar.
Morning Fawn’s pulse quickened.
“Mays I help you, Miss Logan?” George dropped the Morgan’s hoof and straightened.
She startled and bumped the creaky door. Her shoes fell onto the dirt floor.
My goodness. How clumsy could she be? She knelt to pick them up.
Quick to the draw, Devon reached the second shoe before she did. “You’re barefoot?”
She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “No, I have my stockings.”
“In the dirt, with all the pebbles and prickly grasses?” His gaze fell into hers as he handed her the shoe, the depth of his lake-blue eye drawing her in.
Speak. Why couldn’t she get her mouth to move? “I need to talk to you alone,” she whispered.
His eyebrows shot up.
Why couldn’t she say anything right? No telling what she’d have him thinking. “About Lucy.”
“Oh.” He exhaled. “George, please leave us for a bit.”
“Yes, sir.” Swiping his sleeve across his forehead, he took the Morgan by the lead rope and ambled out the back to the corral.
Ebony poked her head over her stall door, her big brown eyes calling.
Shoes in hand, Morning Fawn ignored her horse and stood still. She wasn’t about to lift her skirts and put her shoes on in front of Devon. When had that happened? Eighteen months ago, she would have thought nothing of showing a man her bare feet, and she would have worn leggings and a short skirt.
“What about Lucy?” Devon frowned and returned to combing his horse, except he moved around to the other side of the mare, facing her with the horse between them.
Direct and to the point. No “how have you been,” almost as if he wanted to put distance between them.
She might have known she was being too forward on Sunday, sitting beside him uninvited.
But how else was she supposed to show him she understood and respected him for what he’d done?
And prove to him she wasn’t at Nicholas’s beck and call.
A couple stalls down, LeBeau’s quarter horse, Lightning, kicked against a board, acting as though he owned the place just like his owner. Ebony nickered.
Devon shot the mustang a glare that could freeze steam.
Morning Fawn’s tongue scraped against the roof of her mouth. She’d better get herself talking before he ordered her and the horse out of the stable. “I think we should help Lucy get married.”
“What?” Devon looked at her as if she were out of her mind. The comb stopped.
“It isn’t right, them… being together not married.” She fiddled with the shoelaces and dropped her gaze. A mouse scurried into a far corner. “She loves Ned, and he loves her.”
Devon swiped his brow with his neckerchief. “Morning Fawn, it’s not that simple. It’s not even up to them. And who is Ned, anyhow?”
“A slave on a neighboring plantation. Works as a carpenter. And it should be up to them. We could do it secretly.” She bit her lip and stepped closer to the mare.
Devon blew out a breath and tossed the comb on the tack shelf, rattling the other tools. A piece of straw clung to his sleeve. “From what I can tell, LeBeau would never agree to it.”
“If you noticed, I said ‘secret.’ I bet Ned’s master would be willing. He allows Ned to sneak over here occasionally.”
Devon laid his arms on the mare’s back. “LeBeau has the authority to marry her off to whomever he pleases, to whatever field hand or house servant he favors. It doesn’t matter how many ‘I do’s’ Lucy says in the dark. There wouldn’t be anything legal about it.”
A lock of rich brown hair dipped down to his eyepatch.
Morning Fawn exhaled. The hard-soled shoes clunked together as she moved her arms about. “I reckon we’d have to deal with that if the time came.”
He shook his head and lowered his voice to a mere breath. “Helping could land us all in a heap of trouble.”
“I’m willing to take that risk.”
His brow furrowed. “What does Lucy say about all of this?”
She shrugged. “She likes the idea, but she’s afraid. For all the reasons you said and then some.”
He shoved his fingers through his errant hair, sweeping it back off of his forehead.
“Just between you and me, LeBeau is mighty protective of her. Called me into his office Monday and berated me again for overstepping boundaries. Said I was welcome to avail myself of any of his other female slaves, but not her.”
She gaped at him.
A blush spread across his tanned cheeks. “I’d never ‘avail myself’ of anyone.”
“I don’t even want to know what that word means, but I can guess.”
“I just want you to know he’s not likely to tolerate her being married to anyone. Ned would be better off if he stayed away.”
She jabbed a hand to her hip. “Would you?”
“Would I what?”
“Stay away from the woman you loved because it was safer?”
“Maybe safer is better.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“You’ve been reading too many novels.”
“You never answered my question. What would you do if it was the woman you loved?” She winced. How could she dare such boldness?
His arms slipped from the back of the mare. A muscle twitched beneath his light layer of beard. He turned away. “Isabelle, my wife, was the daughter of our cook on our plantation. A hired Mexican. You don’t fall in love with the help.”
Morning Fawn bit her lip, then whispered, “What happened?”
The bay mare nickered.
Devon stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I didn’t stay away.” His voice trailed off. So did his gaze.
Morning Fawn shivered. He’d loved his wife. Still did. “I’m sorry you lost her.”
Devon startled as if he’d forgotten her presence.
“Long time ago.” He cleared his throat and stepped away, leading the mare to the feed sack.
A sigh rattled through him. “If Lucy is serious about this, I’ll help.
” His back still to her, he picked up the curry comb he’d tossed aside and hung it on a nail.
“Only, she should know, and probably already does, that it could bring her a world of heartache. We’d all face your uncle’s and the community’s wrath.
All she has to do is end up with child for LeBeau to get wise. ”
Morning Fawn clapped. “I’ll work with her and figure it out. Set it for Ned’s next visit if we can.”
He pivoted, a deep crease between his eyebrows. “I don’t know how much time I have here. Sooner or later, I need to head out to look for my regiment in Louisiana.”
Her hands dropped to her sides. “There’s no need to hurry to the frontline again and get yourself shot at.”
“I recall a conversation where you insinuated any warrior worth his snuff would return to the battle lines as soon as he could.”
“I don’t know what insinuated means, but I do know a warrior can take an extra month or two to heal and rest up.” Why did her stupid voice wobble?