Susan Phillips - Just Imagine aka Risen Glory

Dora's need to be alone with him finally overcame her aversion to exercise, and she asked him to walk to the lake. There, the scene that he had hoped to avoid was played out with tiresome predictability. It was his fault. He had let sex overcome good judgment.

It was a relief to get back to the carriage where Kit had struck up a conversation with the man who rented the canoes and two brightly painted ladies of the night out for a stroll before they went to work.

The kid sure could talk.

That evening after dinner Kit sprawled in her favorite spot outside the stable door, her arm propped on Merlin's warm back. She found herself remembering something strange Magnus had told her earlier when she'd been admiring Apollo.

"The Major won't keep him long."

"Why not?" she'd said. "Apollo's a real beauty."

"He sure is. But the Major doesn't let himself get tied to things he likes."

"What do you mean?"

"He gives away his horses and his books before he can get too attached to them. It's just the way he is."

Kit couldn't imagine it. Those were the things that kept you anchored to life. But maybe the major didn't want to be anchored.

She scratched her scalp under her hat, and an image of Dora Van Ness's pink-and-white bonnet flashed through her mind. It was foolish. The bonnet wasn't anything more than a few pieces of lace and a trail of ribbons. Yet she couldn't get it out of her mind. She kept imagining what she'd look like wearing it.

What was wrong with her? She pulled off her own battered hat and slammed it on the ground. Merlin looked up in surprise.

"Don't pay me no nevermind, Merlin. All these Yankees are makin' me queer in the head. As if I don't have enough distractin' me without thinkin' 'bout bonnets."

Merlin stared at her with soulful brown eyes. She didn't like admitting it, but she was going to miss him when she went home. She thought of Risen Glory waiting for her. By this time next year, she'd have that old plantation back on its feet.

Deciding that the mysterious human crisis was over, Merlin put his head back down on her thigh. Idly, Kit fingered one of his long, silky ears. She hated this city. She was sick of Yankees and the sound of traffic even at night. She was sick of her old felt hat, and most of all, she was sick of people calling her "boy."

It was ironic. All her life she'd hated everything that had to do with being female, but now that everybody thought she was a boy, she hated that, too. Maybe she was some kind of mutation.

She tugged absentmindedly at a dirty spike of hair. Every time that Yankee bastard had called her "boy" today, she'd gotten a sick, queasy feeling. He was so arrogant, so sure of himself. She'd seen Dora's watery eyes after they'd come back from their walk to the lake. The woman was a fool, but Kit had felt a moment of sympathy for her. In different ways, they were both suffering because of him.

She trailed her fingers over the dog's back and reviewed her plan. It wasn't foolproof, but all in all, she was satisfied. And determined. She'd get only one chance to kill that Yankee devil, and she didn't intend to miss.

The next morning, Cain tossed a copy of Walt Whitman's Leave? of Grass at her.

"Keep it."

Hamilton Woodward stood as Cain walked through the mahogany doors of his private law office. So this was the Hero of Missionary Ridge, the man who was emptying the pockets of New York's wealthiest financiers. Not a flashy dresser, that much was in his favor. His pinstriped waistcoat and dark maroon cravat were expensive but conservative, and his pearl-gray frock coat was superbly tailored. Still, there was something not quite respectable about the man. It was more than his reputation, although that was damning enough. Perhaps it was the way he walked, as if he owned the room he'd just entered.

The attorney came around the side of his desk and extended his hand. "How do you do, Mr. Cain. I'm Hamilton Woodward."

"Mr. Woodward." As Cain shook hands, he made an assessment of his own. The man was middle-aged and portly. Competent. Pompous. Probably a lousy poker player.

Woodward indicated a leather armchair drawn up in front of his desk. "I apologize for asking you to see me on such short notice, but this matter has been delayed long enough. Through no fault of my own, I might add. I only learned of it yesterday. I assure you, no one associated with this firm would be so cavalier about something this important. Especially when it concerns a man to whom we all owe so great a debt. Your courage during-"

"Your letter said only that you wanted to speak with me on a matter of great importance," Cain cut in. He disliked people praising his wartime exploits, as if what he'd done were something to be unfurled like a flag and hung out for public display.

Woodward picked up a pair of spectacles and settled the wire stems over his ears. "You are the son of Rosemary Simpson Cain-later Rosemary Weston?"

Cain hadn't made his living at the poker tables by telegraphing his feelings, but it was difficult to hide the ugly emotions that sprang up inside him. "I wasn't aware she'd remarried, but yes, that's my mother's name."

"Was her name, don't you mean?" Woodward glanced at a paper in front of him.

"She's dead, then?" Cain felt nothing.

The attorney's plump jowls jiggled in distress. "I do apologize. I assumed you knew. She passed on nearly four months ago. Forgive me for having broken the news so abruptly."

"Don't trouble yourself with apologies. I haven't seen my mother since I was ten years old. Her death means nothing to me."

Woodward shuffled the papers before him, not appearing to know how to respond to a man who reacted so coldly to the death of his mother. "I, uh, have a letter sent to me by a Charleston attorney named W. D. Ritter, who represents your mother's estate." He cleared his throat. "Mr. Ritter's asked me to contact you so you can be advised of the terms of her will."

"I'm not interested."

"Yes, well, that remains to be seen. Ten years ago your mother married a man named Garrett Weston. He was the owner of Risen Glory, a cotton plantation not far from Charleston, and when he was killed at Shiloh, he left the plantation to your mother. Four months ago she died of influenza, and she seems to have left the plantation to you."

Cain didn't betray his surprise. "I haven't seen my mother in sixteen years. Why would she do that?"

"Mr. Ritter included a letter that she wrote to you shortly before her death. Perhaps it will explain her motives." Woodward withdrew a sealed letter from the folder in front of him and passed it across the desk.

Cain put it in the pocket of his coat without glancing at it. "What do you know about the plantation?"

"It was apparently quite prosperous, but the war took its toll. With work, it might be reclaimed. Unfortunately, there's no money attached to this bequest. And there's also the matter of Weston's daughter, Katharine Louise."

This time Cain didn't bother to hide his surprise. "Are you telling me I have a half sister?"

"No, no. She's a stepsister. You aren't related by blood. The girl is Weston's child from his previous marriage. She does, however, concern you."

"I can't imagine why."

"Her grandmother left her quite a lot of money, fortunately in a Northern bank. Fifteen thousand dollars, to be exact, to be held in trust until her twenty-third birthday or until she marries, whichever event occurs first. You've been appointed administrator of her trust and her guardian."

"Guardian!" Cain erupted from the deep seat of the leather chair.

Woodward shrank back in his own chair. "What else was your mother to do? The girl is barely eighteen. There's a substantial sum of money involved and no other relatives."