The Wicked North (Hearts Touched By Fire Book 1) (34 page)

We must destroy this army of Grant’s before it gets to the James River. If he gets there it will become a siege, and then it will be a mere question of time.

—General Robert E. Lee, CSA, conversation with Lieutenant General Jubal A. Early,
Spring 1864

Chapter Thirty-Two

St. Francisville, Louisiana

April 1863

Union control of the Mississippi River north of Vicksburg, Mississippi and south to the Gulf of Mexico had made the last part of Jack’s return home a nightmare. Not that the beginning of his journey through southern Tennessee and northern Mississippi had been any better. He had to avoid being discovered by both armies and was glad he was responsible only for himself and Goliath. Although losing Goliath would slow his progress considerably, it wouldn’t prevent Jack from continuing to make his way to Bellefountaine.

Despite Jack’s painful chest wound, he had made relatively good time until the spring rains came when he was in the middle of Mississippi. Torrents drenched the countryside, turning abandoned former farm fields into mud. Many times, Goliath could barely proceed because of the way the mud sucked at his hooves. The most valuable tool Jack had was a hoof pick. One day, the downpour was so bad that it brought both man and horse to a complete halt.

Emma was constantly on Jack’s mind. He knew Van Dorn’s rank would ensure her safe passage to his parents’ home, but how quickly? And once there, would she stay? Especially after she discovered the dark secret of his past? He should have told her, forewarned her, but how? His desire to make sure she and Nathan were safe had overruled everything else. One thing was sure–Pierre Fontaine would do anything to protect his family. Anything. And his father owned enough land and wielded enough influence in politics, with many connections both in the United States and Europe, to do so.

It was the legacy Jack should have inherited but one he had adamantly refused. The rift between him and his father could never be mended, not by Jack’s standards. But he had counted on his father to take Nathan and Emma under his protection until he could get to them.

But what of Emma? Would she reject him? Could she ever forgive him? For most of the journey home Jack cursed and berated himself. Poor Goliath had heard it all but continued to plod onward. The horse’s fortitude helped Jack keep one foot in the real world.

He sneezed.
Hell and damnation, this illness would never leave him!
As if the rain and the armies hadn’t been a big enough impediment, along with the stinging chest wound, he had come down ill two weeks ago. He had figured it was from being wet all the time, spring temperatures dipping occasionally, and insufficient food. Two days of hovering on a hillside, burning with fever, had cost him more than a week of travel. As his strength had waned, he fell asleep in the saddle, only to waken when he fell off Goliath.

It was pre-dawn when the boat pulled up to the dock at St. Francisville.

“Thanks.” He slid his Union dollars into the boat captain’s hand and tugged on Goliath’s reins.

The horse’s hooves made a loud clacking sound when he walked up the planking to solid ground. The sky was a muted pink as the sun rose. Jack stepped onto the main street and when he saw his reflection in store windows, he cringed. He knew he was filthy but he looked worse than he thought. His stubble had grown into a short straggly beard, his hair matted against his head. The sack coat was covered in mud and mold. His face was chapped and scratched from making his way through wilderness, and his hands also were raw. No doubt he reeked to high heaven, too.

As though his appearance wasn’t awful enough, Goliath looked equally unkempt, with a dull coat, his mane and tail windblown and tangled with burrs, and his legs were marked and bloody. The saddle blanket was dirty and worn, the bridle frayed. Frankly, Jack figured if anyone had been up and seen them, they would have reached for a rifle. Thank God no one was. But he couldn’t go to Emma looking as he did.

He turned down the road toward Delilah’s. At the two story-clapboard house, one lone light shined on the second floor. Jack picked up a rock and threw it at the window just hard enough to tap it. The curtain was moved aside and a familiar face looked out. Through the closed door, Jack heard the creak in the stairs–a creak he had hit every time he had been there.

The door cracked open. He smiled apologetically. “Good Morning, Del.”

#

“Oh, yes, right there. Oh God, woman, that’s the spot.” Jack sank deeper into the tub.

Delilah laughed, dropping the wash rag and picking up the pitcher. Standing above Jack, she dumped the warm water over his head. He sputtered as he ran his fingers through his hair.

“So, tell me how you’re alive, Jack.” She handed him a linen sheet as he stood. “Last I heard, you were before a firing squad for desertion. Or was it betrayal?” She eyed him, her gaze stopping at his chest. “That be lookin’ like something tried to kill you for wearing the wrong color down here.” 

He dried himself, squinting at her through the material as he rubbed his head. “There’s a war, Del. Most folks are scattered, men off fighting. Too few left to gossip, so where did you hear that?”

She laughed. “A Fontaine? Darlin’, you are more than the common folk. News travels fast, maybe more so now.”

He grabbed her wrist hard. “And my father? Does he know?”

“Of course,” she winced.

“Sorry,” he apologized, releasing his hold. “It’s been,” he paused, “difficult.”

Rubbing her wrist, she looked at him narrowly. “So why are you here?”

He didn’t answer. Reaching for a pair of pants, he stepped into them, listening to her tap her foot. “Thought you’d have a companion tonight.”

She didn’t answer. “You be back for Fran’s weddin’?”

He shrugged his shirt on. “My brother’s marrying? Thought he’d be out winnin’ for the cause.”

She laughed as she went to him. He looked at her as he buttoned his cuffs. Delilah was a lithe, sultry, ebony-haired beauty. The parish’s most expensive whore, she knew how to excite and satisfy any man. Her cream-colored skin held barely a hint of her slave heritage from some relative way back many generations. It gave her an exotic lure that made her the money and gave her the independence no other job would. Her slave blood made her unacceptable to white society. His memories of her, his escape valve from his father before the Point, had drawn him there again. She was his refuge before the storm to come.

As she traced his jaw with the tip of her finger, she shook her head. “No, he did but came home injured. A war hero. Now, he runs Bellefountaine because Pierre’s representing Lou’s’ana in the Confeder’cy.” She leaned in to kiss him.

He hadn’t been her only client back then. His father had visited Delilah as well. The repugnant thought made him step away from her to grab the glass of whiskey she’d poured for him. “Hmm,” he gulped the contents. “Francois marrying…”

She tilted her head and her brows furrowed. “Yes, tomorrow. You probabl’ know her, mon cher. ‘Tis the lady who brought your son here. What is her name? Ah, wait, I remember. Emeline, Emma, no, yes, Emma. The widow.”

The news stunned him. His ears buzzed and he didn’t hear another word. Francois was marrying Emma? His blood boiled. Over his dead body!

#

Bellefountaine

Emma rolled her head as the morning breeze blew through the open French window and into her room, the gauzy curtains waving gently. She sighed. Comfort. She finally felt at home. She rolled over, refusing to wake completely when she hit something hard. She gasped and her eyes flew open.

“Good morning, my love,” Francois murmured as he bent to kiss her.

She leapt beyond his reach and out of bed. Her floor-length nightgown flowed, exposing only her ankles and bare feet. By the look in his eyes, the sun’s rays penetrated the sheer fabric. She felt self-conscious and unattractive with her growing stomach and enlarged breasts.

Francois lay across her bed, fully dressed in cream trousers, bronze waistcoat, white ruffled shirt and deep navy jacket. His eyes glowed as he grinned at her. Such a devilish smile, accented by a wayward lock of dark hair falling across his forehead. He was so handsome, she almost forgave him. Almost.

“You, sir, take too many liberties,” she said, trying to control her tone.

“Ah, m’aime, please.” He got up and went to her. “Tomorrow, you’ll be my wife.” He bent to kiss her. She turned.

“Please, Francois,” she tried to twist away from him but he caught her at the waist. She grimaced. “I’m too fat—”

He chuckled. “You are with child.” He nuzzled her neck. “You are beautiful.”

She closed her eyes. The heat from his hands burned through the gown, imprinting on her. His hands wandered up her back and he drew her closer. One hand brushed across her slight bulge, up her rib cage and lightly across her breast, across her hard, sensitive nipple. She shuddered underneath his touch, ashamed that her body responded to him so quickly. He had tried only once to seduce her and but she had refused him. Therefore, she wasn’t surprised when he tried again. They were engaged, after all, the wedding tomorrow. Tears threatened.

This was wrong. Her gut clenched.
Jack
.

“Oh, m’aime,” he whispered, his fingers wiping the tear from her cheek. “Don’t cry, s’il vous plait. I will wait until we are married.”

She blinked and focused. Francois’ sympathetic eyes reached her soul. He obviously adored and cared about her. He’d never said he loved her, but, then again, she didn’t love him. Not with her heart. She never would and he knew that. She swallowed her tears and reached for his hand at her cheek.

“It’ll be better,” he said softly. “I promise you.” He took her lips gently.

He was so much like Jack and so very different as well. Why did God torture her so?

#

Clean and fed, Jack mounted his rested horse and continued on home, the place he once swore he’d never return to. One thing he knew for certain. Because he couldn’t live without Emma and Nathan, he would use Pierre Fontaine’s money and power to protect them, even if it meant groveling to the old man. But considering Emma’s changed circumstances, his claim to her would not be as straightforward as he’d thought.

He gazed at sprawling Bellefountaine from the hilltop just outside the gates. Gates to Hell. Momentarily, his thoughts turned to Fanny. Was she still alive? Anger flared through him. He shut his eyes tight. It would do no good to ride into home looking for blood. His son was there. And Emma.

Francois planned to marry the woman he loved. Like hell he would! Gritting his teeth, Jack adjusted his hat and kneed Goliath. The stallion snorted as he bunched his withers and took off. He barreled into the stable yard, scattering the slaves hither and yon. Jack pulled the reins back, balancing his weight on Goliath’s flanks, stopping the horse without words. Throwing his leg over, he slid off the horse and dropped the reins. He inhaled the warm scent of horse manure, leather and magnolias. Home. Straightening his hat and his waistcoat and jacket, he marched toward the house. But at the last moment, he turned and walked down slave row. He had to know, had to face his demon before he saw Emma.

The one-room shanty on the right, close to the end, belonged to Fanny. His jaw ticked and a wave of nausea came over him as he drew closer. How much did she hate him?

The door was wide open like the rest of the hovels. The tiny window on the far side held no glass, but, with the door shut, no breeze could cool off the inside, so they left the doors open. The last step took every bit of strength he had.

“Why, Massa Jack, good Lord, son, we’s be tole you be dead!” The large round black woman squealed, taking him into her arms and squeezing him tight.

“Jenny,” he muttered, barely able to talk. The old matron of Bellefountaine’s slave community released him but held onto his arms. Her searching eyes roved up and down.

“Yous sure be lookin’ far from death.” She grinned.

He snorted. Jenny had always made him feel warm and comfortable, except for now, as his tension remained.

The woman tilted her head, her eyes puddles of sadness. “Massa Jack, Fanny’s gone.”

“Gone? Father sold her?” That made no sense. Fanny, delicate as a flower, with skin an appealing copper tone and curves designed for a man’s hands, was a valuable commodity. Those were things Jack had never realized until his last days at home. Her beauty had attracted the attention of his father, which made his selling her seem especially odd.

“She died,” Jenny stated quietly. “Long time ago.”

The news startled Jack. “How long?”

“’nigh on ten, twelve years, I reckon’.”

Jack was crushed. “How?” But he knew the answer or thought he did. How could she continue to live after that night?

Two young girls darted past him, past Jenny, and into the cabin, giggling. He barely noticed them, but Jenny did.