In His Eyes(65)

“Miss Ella!”

She paused and looked back at Basil. “Yes?”

Her shoulders drooped. “All right.”

“All right what?”

Basil glared at her, and for a moment Ella wanted to forget the entire thing. But she couldn’t do that. If something were going on that could put Lee in danger, she needed to know.

“I’s goin’ to tell Sibby you was sneekin’ around.”

Ella shrugged. “She’s the one who sent me to find you. That’s all I was doing…looking for you.”

Basil put her hands on her hips. “Well, go on then. Best we done get this over with.”

Ella smiled, though she felt no satisfaction in it, and headed up the stairs with Basil on her heels.





Colonel Larson sat back in his seat and took his time looking over the papers Westley handed him: the tax forms, his commission papers, and the signed medical furlough from General Sheridan.

He squinted closely-set eyes at the tax forms, and Westley instructed himself to remain at ease. He’d remained awake most of the night contemplating the taxes that put Belmont at risk while simultaneously forcing himself not to trespass into Ella’s room.

The temptation nearly proved too much when, during the night, he’d heard her singing a hymn while the child’s coughing fits grew worse. How he’d wanted to console her….

What about the woman tempted his thoughts to stray to such things? Why did she stoke something in him to want to shield her from all manner of pain? Perhaps it was that underneath her dragon’s fire he’d glimpsed a tender soul—a playful nymph with sparkling eyes full of life and beauty. In her he saw someone unique, intelligent, and captivating. He was attracted to her—undeniably so. But mere attraction had never caused such stirrings in him before. He’d wanted to pummel that soldier when he’d seen him standing over his Ella.

His Ella?

He clenched his jaw. What would possess him to think such things? It must be the soldier in him, wanting to protect the weak and the innocent. Anything more did not bear consideration, as it would only cause more difficulties when his furlough ended.

Westley forcefully snapped his attention back to the matter at hand. Late morning sunlight drifted through lazy dust motes dancing on the warm spring air. They swirled around what had once been a banker’s office and made little circles around the colonel’s bowed head.

The place smelled of damp ash and rotting wood, and he could guess that the man across from him was less than pleased with the conditions he found himself in. The sentiment to leave the South and return home permeated the disposition of every man in federal blues whom Westley had spoken to upon his arrival at this post. Occupation was hardly a palatable affair.

The colonel folded the papers and snapped his amber gaze up to Westley. “Well, Major Remington, it seems you have quite the tale. Word is you were supposed to be dead.” He gestured toward a chair near the oak desk.

Relieved to be off his leg, Westley took a seat. “I don’t know about supposed to be, sir, but I assuredly am not.” He rubbed his leg. “Though I’ve been told I came rather close.”

The man leaned forward and laced long fingers together on top of his desk. “A relief, I’m sure, for your family.”

“What remains of it,” Westley replied carefully.

“My corporal says your wife is a Southern sympathizer, as were your parents.”

He gave a nod.

The man arched an eyebrow. “A rather difficult complication for a man in your position, I dare say.”

Westley pressed his knuckles into his thigh. “My family and I remained in good standing, even though we differed over the war. I would not go against the vows I’d made upon graduation from West Point, and my father could not go against the state that he so loved. We spoke little, but affection remained.”

Colonel Lawson stroked an auburn beard. “Are you aware, then, that your father ignored all Federal taxes during the course of the Rebellion?”

“Since all Southern states did the same, no sir, it doesn’t come as a surprise.”

Larson’s chair squeaked as he leaned back again. “It seems there is some discord among those in Washington concerning what is to be done with seized lands and accumulated taxes.”

“I have heard the same.”

The colonel held Westley’s gaze for a moment, as though contemplating something. “Tell me, Major. Do you intend to return the plantation back to cotton production?”

He tilted his head. “I am a career military man, sir. I intend to return to duty after my medical furlough.” Something flickered on the man’s face that gave Westley pause. “But why do you ask?”

“Well, as you know, cotton is in high demand, and there are certain…allowances, I believe, for loyal citizens able to return some stability to the market.” He shrugged. “This is not my area of expertise, mind you, but as I am sympathetic to your circumstances, I thought it might be worth mentioning.”

Westley kept his features passive, though uneasiness began to squirm in his gut. Something shifted in the colonel’s words, as though he hid some kind of agenda. Westley chose his words carefully. “Unfortunately, sir, with as much as my father owes, I am doubtful I can even cover the debt, let alone afford the planting.”