Flora's Wish (46 page)

“Oh, no you don't. You're not escaping that easily.” He caught up to her and wrapped one arm around her waist to stop her progress.

“I'm not escaping. Remember, I'm amending my ways.”

“Right. I'd almost forgotten. So where is it you think you're going?”

“We're both going.” Flora nodded toward the end of the path, a destination hidden by the cottonwoods and gardens. “You'll just have to trust me.”

He hauled her close, his palm pressing against her spine. “No tricks,” he whispered.

“No tricks.”

The moonlight filtered through the leaves of the cottonwood tree and splashed his features with silver. He dipped his head to kiss her again, and after his lips at last left hers and she looked up at him, she saw that the errant lock of hair she'd noticed yesterday had fallen onto his forehead again. When she reached to slip it back into place, he wrapped her hand in his.

“Flora,” he said softly, “developing any sort of feelings for you is the worst thing I could do as a lawman. You do understand that.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“All right. Lead on.”

A
gainst his better judgment, Lucas followed Flora down the path that wound through the garden and around the cottonwoods. Not that he had much left in the way of judgment. He'd abandoned that as well as any measure of good sense when he went looking for Flora and found her alone under the stars.

Somehow, admiring her had turned to conversing, and conversing had turned to kissing. And somewhere in between he'd admitted to feeling moonstruck and hog-tied. Lucas shook his head. How had she managed it, this blue-eyed belle? It made no sense.

Yet all he could think of was the feel of her in his arms, the touch of her hand in his, and the sweetness of her kiss. And lilacs. As long as he lived, the sweet scent of lilacs would forever be associated with Miss Flora Brimm of Natchez, Mississippi.

Flora Tucker, unless he managed to keep that from happening.

The sound of something akin to a loud explosion of gunfire caused Lucas to turn around. Yanking Flora against him, he scanned the perimeter. Shouts from the main house indicated the direction from which the shooter had fired.

Or, more likely, the direction the gun had been aimed.

He reached into his pocket and took out a weapon he'd designed for situations such as this and then pulled Flora beneath the low-hanging limbs of an ancient magnolia tree. He put the device in her hand.

“What is it? It looks like a comb.” She turned her head to the house, her face stricken. “Lucas, what do you think just happened?”

“I'll let you know when I come back for you. Until I do, you stay right here.” He put his hand under her chin and brought her eyes back to his. “And do not try my patience by ignoring my order. There could be a gunman loose, do you understand?” When she nodded, he continued. “The comb in your hand is a knife. If you press that little button at the end, a very sharp blade will come out. Keep your fingers free of that area at all times.” He paused. He didn't want to leave her there alone. “Are you going to be all right?”

“Yes. And I promise to stay here. I don't want to be the cause of your distraction.”

He gave her one last look and then kissed her quickly before heading toward the main house, his pulse beating staccato as he ran. As he passed the edge of the formal gardens and emerged into the clearing between the woods and the Brimm home, Lucas kept to the shadows.

A few partygoers were still racing down the back stairs to join those already gathered in clusters on the lawn. Spying Mr. Brimm comforting a matron who appeared near fainting, Lucas jogged toward him with his revolver at the ready.

“What happened?” he asked the older man.

“No idea. One minute we were dancing and the next there was an explosion that sounded as if it was right there in the ballroom with us. We all evacuated as quickly as we could.”

“I thought the Yankees had come back for us,” the older woman said as Mr. Brimm continued to fan her with his handkerchief.

“Sir, I need to ask you to keep everyone out here and away from the ballroom and any windows. Do not under any circumstances come inside until I release you to do so. Do you understand?”

“I do, Mr. McMinn. Thank you for taking care of this matter.”

“I'll do my best.” Lucas made his way as quickly as he could manage through the crowd and then took the steps two at a time to arrive on the balcony. A quick glance at the perimeter told him if the shooter was hidden, he could strike again at any moment, such was the depth of darkness there.

Pressing his back to the wall, he held his revolver at the ready. Inching toward the edge of the first window, he took a deep breath, offered up a quick prayer for safety, and then leaned over to glance inside the empty ballroom. He repeated the process each time he passed an open window until he arrived at the last one.

There he paused only a moment before bursting inside. A preliminary sweep of the perimeter told him the room was empty.

Then a sound behind him caused Lucas to whirl around, his gun drawn. Mr. Brimm's valet was standing in the doorway.

“I'm sorry for the trouble, sir.” The valet raised his hands, one holding a cleaning cloth and the other a small brush.

“Did you see where the shooter went?” Lucas demanded as he lowered his weapon.

“Shooter?” The valet's eyes went wide as he dropped his hands back down by his side. “Oh, no! Was someone shooting too?”

Lucas gave the perimeter another sweeping glance before returning his attention to the valet. “Too?”

“Yes, well Mrs. Brimm's favorite Italian mirror is irreplaceable. It's thirteenth century, from the palazzo on Lake Como where she and Colonel Brimm spent their honeymoon. Thank goodness she had already retired for the night so she was spared seeing it broken.” He paused. “But to think that on top of such a tragedy someone would resort to gunfire?”

The odd thought that Millicent Brimm might indeed consider breaking her favorite Italian mirror occurred but he quickly discarded it. Another idea, much more plausible, came to mind.

“Show me the mirror.”

“Of course, sir. What's left of it, that is.”

Lucas followed the man, his weapon still at the ready. Through the open doors he could hear the hushed sounds of the people outside. Somewhere down below the property, likely aboard a river vessel, a bell clanged.

“That one.” The valet gestured to the far end of the room, where the remains of a mirror glittered under the chandeliers' light, its ornate gold frame suspended the full length between the ebony floor and the gilt ceiling. Pieces of the mirror covered a fussy-looking table similar to the one in his mother's formal parlor and stuck out in odd angles from the remains of the candles that had been burning there.

He moved closer, shards of glass crunching beneath his feet. The valet carefully picked his way around the debris.

Lucas nodded to the cleaning cloth and brush in the valet's hands. “Did you see this happen?”

“I did, sir.” The valet ran his hands over the edge of the gold-leaf on the frame. “During the course of the ball, the candelabra on the table was accidentally pushed directly up against the mirror. I saw that from a distance away, and I suspected that the flame from the candles, which are quite large and specially made for Mrs. Brimm here on the property, might generate enough heat to cause trouble with the glass, which is somewhat fragile. It is hundreds of years old.”

“Indeed. Go on.”

“I immediately walked over to remedy the situation, but I wasn't able to move the candelabra in time.”

Lucas nodded thoughtfully. A mirror this large—at least fifteen feet in length—would have broken with great force and greater noise. The loud explosion would certainly have sounded like gunfire.

But he needed to be sure. “Except for the loss of Mrs. Brimm's favorite mirror, there have been no casualties or injuries here tonight?”

“No, sir.”

After one last sweeping glance around the room, Lucas nodded again. “All right. Carry on. I'll inform Mr. Brimm that his merrymaking can continue.”

He left the valet sweeping up the mess. Flora's father met him on the lawn. From the look of the number of people still milling about, curiosity had won out over concern to keep them waiting for any sort of news.

“Did you catch the man who did this?” Mr. Brimm demanded.

“There was no gunman, sir. Just a candelabra set too close to a mirror.”

Mr. Brimm shook his head, his expression shifting from relief to concern. “Oh, no! Not Mother's favorite Italian mirror. She brought it back from her honeymoon at Lake Como. It's quite old and very precious to her.”

“The good news is the frame is still intact.”

Mr. Brimm gave a weary nod and then ascended to the third step of the balcony stairs to address his guests. His voice chased Lucas down the path and into the cottonwoods.

“Flora?” he called when he reached the tree where he'd left her.

No response.

How Will Tucker had found her, Flora could only imagine. That he'd risked detection to slip up beside her while she hid behind the tree was proof he'd gone to great lengths to achieve a meeting. What he hadn't expected was to find her armed with a comb—that was also a knife.

Knowing Lucas could return any minute, Flora had marched her prisoner some distance from the magnolia tree to back him up against the little white cottage at the edge of the property.

“I want some answers from you. Understand?”

He nodded but said nothing. A good sign she had him properly frightened for his well-being.

“All right. First and foremost, I want you to tell me who your employer is, Will Tucker, and I want the truth.”

In an instant any fear or respect was gone. In its place was the charming, rakish grin of the man she'd met on the steamboat weeks ago.

“Sweet Flora,” he said as he leaned against the cottage and affected a casual pose. “I've told you more than once that I am a detective in the employ of the Frisco Railroad. What brings you cause to ask again?” He nodded toward the knife. “And to accost me in such an unfriendly way? If I were a less understanding man, I would take serious offence.”