He’d be happy to run along after he’d pummeled that popinjay’s face to a pulp. “You’re sitting next to the real snake.” How could this be the same woman he held close today? He ground his teeth.
His feet thundered as he went up the steps and into the house. Should he keep on going down the hall and out the back door? He had no clue what she was up to or how much she’d told. Did she somehow think she could get Frieda in trouble and spare him?
Who was he kidding? She had every reason to strike at him. He’d been the one to steal her from her home and Comanche family. What had he been thinking, trusting her? The safest bet would be to head to the stables, grab his horse, and be shed of this place.
He glanced up the stairs.
Lucy leaned over the banister and put a finger to her lips. Her purple hand-me-down dress hung limp around her as shecrept down a few stairs. She glanced over her shoulder with every step, a deep frown crinkling her forehead. “Miss Beth says to meet her later tonight, in the spot you talked about.”
“Did she say anything el?—”
A door opened somewhere on the second floor. Lucy flew up the stairs, and Devon moved out of view of the banister.
“What are you doing sneaking around, girl?” Mrs. LeBeau asked.
“Nothing, ma’am. Just going down to see if Miss Beth was coming in soon so I could help her get ready for bed.”
“What was all that stomping about?”
“Lieutenant Reynolds, ma’am.”
A grumble, and the voices faded.
Meet Morning Fawn in the garden. That had to be what the message meant. So she could explain herself, gloat over her revenge, or have him arrested as a Yankee?
Murmurs echoed in from the front porch. What he wouldn’t give to drag that man off that swing and wring his neck.
His muscles hardening like gun barrels, Devon headed for the back door. He’d meet her, all right.
An hour. Devon had paced enough to dig a trench halfway around Vicksburg by now.
Trimmed to green conical shapes, Leland cypress trees lined the center rows of Mrs. LeBeau’s garden, blocking Devon’s view of the discarded leavings in the vegetable plots and hiding him from sight of anyone at the house.
Was Morning Fawn still in that porch swing with Moyer, or had he gone home? Devon didn’t even want to think about how much a man like that would try to get away with in an hour, especially after a brandy or two. Was she letting him?
Devon kicked a fallen stake out of his path. A sliver of amoon hovered in the sky—all that remained of the globe that lit his path with Morning Fawn a few weeks before. A Great-Horned owl hooted,who-who-who. Its voice echoed across the garden. Golden eyes peered at Devon from a gnarled Osage orange tree in a corner.
He had half a mind to head for the stables and —
Leaves crunched behind him.
He swung around, hand on his holster.
Morning Fawn halted beneath a vined arch. A shawl flowed over her shoulders and the bodice of the shimmering gown she’d worn on the porch. Her hair hung loose. A beautiful deceiver.
She tugged her shawl tighter. “Please forgive me for having to say?—”
“Should I hold my hands out for the ropes now or later?” He strode toward her.
“What ropes?”
“The ones they’ll tie my hands with after you finish spilling everything I told you to that snake.”
“I didn’t tell him any?—”
“He knows about Frieda. And the way you were cozied up to him on the porch, probably couldn’t get a feather between you.” He flexed his hands at his sides. “I trusted you.”
“I’m trying to save your life.”
