In His Eyes(76)

The words stung. Westley glanced around the room, painfully aware of how much more Riverbend had suffered than Belmont. He forced a polite smile. “On the contrary, ma’am, it seems only fair that I make a trade of some kind…?”

Mrs. Martin pressed her lips together, but Miss Martin gave her mother’s arm an obvious squeeze. She beamed up at Westley. “Well, Mama and I could use a few staples.”

Westley bowed. “A list, Miss Martin, if you will, and I shall see that it is fulfilled when I return the horse. I will need to go to town today, and will return the animal to you on the morrow.”

Mrs. Martin seemed about to object, but her daughter stepped forward. “Thank you, sir. This will be mutually beneficial for us both.” She looked over her shoulder at her scowling mother. “Don’t you agree, Mama?”

The older woman stretched her lips into what could be called a smile. “Of course, dear.”

After receiving a short list of flour, sugar, rice and other such necessary items from Miss Martin, Westley received the horse from a young stable boy and swung into the saddle grateful he could mount it.

He tipped his hat to the women watching from the porch. “Good day, ladies. I shall return tomorrow.”

Miss Martin lifted her hand, but the older remained stoic. Westley turned the nag and urged it into a reluctant canter, feeling their eyes on him until he made it to the river road and out of sight.

Once free of their stares, he allowed the poor beast to slow to a walk. The ride gave Westley time to sort through his thoughts, but not through the strange emotions that warred within him. He could not deny that he felt an urge to protect the little dragon living in his home, and though he was somewhat unnerved by the lengths he was willing to go to see her safe, he wasn’t entirely surprised by it either.

Westley reined in at the old bank and tied the horse to a hitching post. Inside, Lieutenant Colonel Larson agreed to see him.

“Major Remington!” Colonel Larson said, waving Westley inside his small office that still smelled of wet ash.

Westley stepped inside, snapping his feet together and standing at attention.

“At ease, Major.”

Westley relaxed and placed his hands behind his back.

“I was going to send a man out to your residence this very day. How very convenient that you thought to save me the trouble.”

Westley shifted his stance. “You have news for me, I take it, sir?”

The man gestured to a chair by his desk. “Indeed. It seems that the majority of the overdue taxes are to be waived, given your dedicated service to your country.”

Westley accepted the chair and kept his face passive though relief swirled through him. “That is welcomed news, sir.”

“In fact….” He leaned closer, as though his words shouldn’t be overheard. “I have received word that implies loyalists who are intent on helping reestablish the cotton industry may even receive some aid for their efforts.”

Westley lifted his brows.

“Hearsay, mind you,” the colonel said, leaning back, “but pleasant tidings nonetheless, I’m certain.”

Westley nodded, though he wasn’t so sure. He needed to return to duty. Who would prepare fields and produce the crops? Perhaps he could hire some men….

“So, you see, Major,” the officer said, interrupting Westley’s contemplations, “it is quite favorable news.” He fished a file from his desk and offered it to Westley. “Only a quarter of the original amount is required. Aid for the war effort, you know.”

Westley wanted to argue the legality of the taxes as a whole, but he did not wish to antagonize the man. Besides, the amount was within his means, and it would keep things simple. And keep him from seeming insubordinate. Westley placed the folded document inside his breast pocket and rose from his chair. “This is most welcome, sir. I thank you.”

The officer rose with him, seeming pleased, and stepped toward the door.

“Sir, I am afraid,” Westley said with a grimace, “that the funds I brought with me on furlough are dwindling. I will need to secure this balance from my bank in Washington.”

Colonel Larson waved his hand, his manner a bit too friendly. “Understandable. Have it within a few weeks, and all should be well.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” He turned toward the door and then stopped. “Pardon me, sir, but do you happen to have a telegraph nearby?”

The colonel followed him from the office and out into the warm day. “We have one we use for official correspondence. Why do you ask?”

Westley rubbed the back of his neck, then set his shoulders. “I have an important message I must get off to General Sheridan.”

The colonel’s lips turned up into a sly grin. “So long as it’s official army correspondence, then.” He turned on his heel. “Corporal!”

A young man jogged out from around the side of the building. Westley held back a chuckle as the young man he had discovered in his house widened his eyes. He came to a halt, gave Westley a nervous glance, and threw up a salute. “Yes, sir?”

“Take Major Remington to the telegraph.”

“Yes, sir.” He turned to Westley with an expressionless face. “Right this way, sir.”

After bidding Colonel Larson a good day and following the fidgety corporal to the telegram, Westley sent one message to the general and another to his banker, rationalizing that securing funds to cover the taxes the army had presented him with would have to count as official business as well.