Chapter 32
Eyes puffy and swollen, Devon peered through a narrow slit in his right eye.
Bars. He groaned and rolled over to his side.
His whole body ached, and the cold stone floor didn’t help.
There was no good side to lie on. A bullet had passed through his left bicep’s outer muscle, and his right hip throbbed, badly bruised from the impact of the tree.
They’d taken away the cot, given him two blankets—one to lie on and one to cover up with—and nothing else but a tin cup and a bucket to do his business in. He was filthy from head to toe.
He’d already be dead if it weren’t for the fact that Moyer and the quartermaster wanted a public execution. That was the only reason they’d allowed a doctor to treat his wounds.
The quartermaster took pleasure in telling him that Gunter and Dr. Schramm had died at the hands of Confederate troops.
No one escaped the cotton warehouse. Troops had entered, there’d been firing, then the explosion.
As far as Devon knew, they hadn’t caught Frieda or Frederick.
Otherwise, the Rebs would have bragged about it, and the other cell wouldn’t be empty.
Thank God, Frieda had escaped, but she shouldn’t have been there at the river in the first place. If she hadn’t shown up, would he have escaped, or would his fate have been the same?
Moyer said the explosion had hardly touched the cotton. Devon didn’t believe it. When the trial came, he’d hear a different story of the horrendous damage he’d done. The truth probably lay somewhere in between.
The quartermaster’s depot was another matter. They couldn’t cover up that damage. The boy who swept the cells spoke of the gaping hole in the roof and the blackened walls. The only thing they could hide was the amount of supplies lost.
He shifted his foot, and a chain rattled—leg irons. As if the bars weren’t enough to hold him.
Morning Fawn. Four days and so far he hadn’t heard any female voices in the jail.
Dear God, please let her be all right. Would they bring her here or take her someplace else?
What did they do with female prisoners? The Federal government wasn’t shy about sticking lady spies like Rosie Greenhow and Belle Boyd in prison until they figured out what to do with them.
But at least the women had been imprisoned or exiled, not executed.
From what he’d heard, Reb authorities under General Bragg threatened to execute Federal spy Pauline Cushman, but thankfully, her falling ill delayed the action, and U.S. cavalry rescued her.
He should have stayed away from Morning Fawn.
He raked his hand over his face and drove his fingers through his disheveled hair.
Stupid of him to smile at her and welcome her company.
That night he went to her room to check on her after her uncle and Owens had forced poison down her throat?
She’d been better off living through the poison than becoming entangled with him.
He’d known his mission was dangerous. He’d tried to keep her out of it.
But then she’d gone and dressed up in George’s clothes and followed him.
He was already too far gone by then, hopelessly in love, afraid to admit it.
In the end he’d done more harm to her than anyone else since the raid on her family’s wagon train.
If he’d had any sense, he’d have ignored her protest and shipped her off to the coast with Jeremy, bound and gagged if he had to, regardless of whatever effect that had on the mission. Her life was at stake.
Just as Isabelle’s had been.
An hour later—or was it five? —he awakened to his stomach gnawing on itself. Four days and nothing to eat but a pan of gruel yesterday and a slice of stale bread the day before. A clank. He glanced toward the bars. His dry lips curled.
Moyer stood there dressed in a fine wool suit as if he’d never seen a fire. Unmarred, except for a bruise under one eye and four scratch marks on his other cheek. Were the marks new, or had he been too out of it to notice the first time the scum had showed up to taunt him?
Devon winced and pushed up to a seated position.
“Thought you might be hungry.” Moyer jabbed his thumb, and the jailor stepped forward with a metal tray.
The grubby man with his overhung belly bent and shoved the food through a slit near the bottom of the door. A chunk of bread and a small piece of cheese.
Devon’s mouth watered. But he would not dive in like a dog at the feet of this man. “Say what you got to say.” His words came out thick through still-swollen lips.
Moyer smirked. “I’ve been to see Beth.”
Devon’s hand shook.
Moyer dismissed the jailor, and the man trudged down the hall toward the main door and steps.
“Not hungry?” Moyer nudged his boot toe toward the tray.
“Not with you around.”
Moyer chuckled. “Might as well eat while you still have a throat that can swallow.” He puffed out his chest. “I’m mighty grateful for Beth alerting us to the danger the other night and hurrying us off to Alleyton. Otherwise, we might have wasted the rest of the night whipping slaves.”
“She didn’t tell you a thing.” Devon jumped to his feet, wobbling for a moment before gaining his balance. “She didn’t have any idea what I was up to, and if she had, she’d held on to the information with her last breath.”
Moyer strummed his knuckles against the bars. “I beg to differ. She hopped on a horse ready to lead us here. That’s why she’s not in jail and isn’t going to be.”
Devon ground his teeth. “You’re a liar.” He spit on the ground with what little spit he could muster. “What are those claw marks on your face? They didn’t come from me. If you hurt her—”
“If I did hurt her, what would you do about it?” Self-satisfaction dripped from his tongue like venom. “But you don’t have to worry about that. I plan to take good care of her. She and I are to be married.”
“She would never touch your mangy hide.” Devon’s throat constricted.
“On the contrary. We’ll be married within the month. I’m taking her to England with me to work on securing more cotton contracts. If you’re still alive then, I’ll consider getting you an armed guard and allowing you to come to the wedding.”
“You’re full of stories tonight.” But his voice faltered.
Morning Fawn would never agree to marry this man.
And why would Moyer even consider her? Surely, he knew she’d played him for a fool.
She wouldn’t have warned them about the attack even if her life were at risk.
Would she? Could she somehow have thought she was helping by telling?
Moyer laughed.
Devon picked up the tray and threw it at him.
“Your loss.” Moyer shrugged and ambled toward the entrance and freedom.
The bread rolled back toward the bars. Maybe within reach if Devon laid down and stretched to his utmost limit from chain to fingertips.
He sank to his knees instead. Morning Fawn would not betray him.
She would not marry this man of her own free will.
Maybe they were lying to her too. But if it saved her life…
Dear God, help us. I know You can make a way where there is no way.
Please deliver her from harm. Let her know that I love her.
And that You do too. If there could somehow be a way in Your infinite grace and purpose, let there be a future for us.
A life here on this earth. A way for me to escape this fate.
Morning Fawn pressed her nose to her bedroom windowpane.
Five days since Christmas. A roughened man in a captain’s uniform dismounted from a quarter horse and sauntered to the hitching post. A stranger.
Dirty, dusty, he’d come far. And there was something different about his uniform. Not standard issue. He glanced upward.
“Are you listening to me?” Her uncle rapped his cane against the floor behind her.
“I heard you.” She hugged herself, trying to stave the leakage of all hope. “But I can’t understand why Mr. Moyer would have any interest in marrying me. I’d think he’d never want to lay eyes on me again.”
“Well, there’s a pretty dollar or two at stake, let me tell you.
It’s costing me all of your Aunt Judith’s land in Brazoria County given to her as her dowry upon our marriage.
” His voice ground like two stones rubbing together.
“Acres of prime cotton land. But I have no choice, thanks to you. Not if I’m to keep our name from the spittoon and save any hopes of Thea marrying well.
It’ll cost you the land in Parker County.
It’ll be in his name, not yours. And he’s going to ship you off to England until after the war.
See if that will keep you out of trouble. ”
She turned back to the window. The horse hovered at the post, but the stranger wasn’t in sight. Maybe he was here with news of Devon’s trial.
“You will cooperate.” Her uncle stomped closer. “I expect you to look at me when I talk with you.”
“Or what?” She pivoted. Five days of groveling, and it’d done her no good. “If I had some assurance it’d save Devon from a death sentence, I’d marry a toad.”
“You ungrateful hussy.” He grabbed her jaw and forced her gaze up to his face.
His fingers dug into her skin. Ice-blue eyes sizzled beneath a brow furrowed so deep he could plant cotton in it.
“I’m saving you from jail, maybe even the gallows, and this is how you repay me?
I’ve taken you in, fed you, clothed you—”
“Stole me from my home.”
“You should pray to God I don’t throw you back to the savages.”
If only he would. A better fate than marriage to a man she detested. What happened to her didn’t matter.
A knock on the door.
“What is it?” Her uncle’s hand fell away from her.
“Excuse me, sir.” George poked his head in. “There’s an officer downstairs to see you.”
“He can wait. I’m busy.”
“Yes, sir.” George bowed out.
Her uncle threw back his shoulders. “As I was getting ready to say, you will accept the engagement. Publicly. As if you adore Nick Moyer and have eyes for no one else. The ball at Robson’s castle has been rescheduled for a week from today.”
She jabbed her arms together.
“Your cooperation will buy one thing.”
“What?”
“A better home for Lucy. Your actions will determine whether she’s sold downriver to a sugar cane plantation or to a home in Marshall as a house servant.”
“Don’t lay this on my shoulders. If you care anything for her, you won’t sell her.”
“What are you implying?” His shoulders rose like a bull getting ready to charge.
“She’s a slave—a rebellious one, at that.
Property. And that supposed marriage of hers had as much legality as an outhouse leaf.
You and Reynolds could have saved yourselves the trouble.
Maybe he’d have burned a couple more bales of cotton if he hadn’t been distracted by such nonsense. ”
Another stone thrown into the heap, weighing her down in an ocean of despair. Would Devon have struck sooner and had more success if she hadn’t burdened him with helping with the wedding and then planning Lucy and Ned’s escape?
They were going to kill Devon, and she didn’t know how to stop them. “Can’t you leave me alone?” She picked up an unlit candle from the nearby desk. Her hand shook.
LeBeau’s eyes widened.
She’d like nothing better than to smash his face. Instead, she slammed the candle on the desk, breaking off a chunk of wax.
LeBeau’s eyebrows hovered low. “The day you strike me, that’s the day I’ll have you hauled off to the asylum. No marriage. No England. Nothing.” His words struck cool and hard like iron.
No hope.
Unacceptable. She turned back to the window. If he said anything else, she didn’t heed it. Instead, she stared at the windowsill with its two fresh nails. Locked tight again, enough to stifle her and break a sweat on the back of her neck. But she would, could not panic.
Tension ebbed from her shoulders as LeBeau retreated and closed the door behind him.
“‘Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…’” She whispered the psalm she’d memorized.
There were so many of them—David and others crying out to the Lord, trusting Him when all seemed lost. She’d spent hours upon hours reading these last few days.
Devon had marked Psalms and Luke and Romans.
And she’d read of the grace her mother had often spoken of.
Grace enough for her and all her shortcomings.
Her untrusting heart, her words spoken too quickly, her jealousies…
And what of the lies she’d told to protect Devon?
How did the Lord look upon that? Maybe the Lord had not forgotten her.
Maybe He’d been reaching out to her all along.
Waiting for her to turn her heart to Him.
She went down on her knees, praying.
Minutes later, a thought came to her. If she agreed to the public announcement of the engagement, her uncle would let her out of the attic.
They’d watch her like vultures, but she’d get to go to the ball.
She’d only be two or three miles from the Colorado County Jail.
What she could do with that, she had no idea.
She couldn’t ask Flora or any of the slaves to help her.
They’d be whipped and sold if caught. Devon would be locked away and heavily guarded. But still…
Trembling with hope, she pulled herself up to stand in front of the window.
The stranger was there again. He stuck his boot in the stirrup and mounted.
A deep frown had settled above his scraggly brown beard.
He picked up his reins, but just when she thought he’d turn the horse and ride off, he looked up, his gaze scanning the upper floors.
Did he see her staring at him through the bare branches of the cottonwood?
She waved for some foolish reason.
He paused, tipped his hat to her, and rode off.
He had seen her? But what could it possibly matter?