He kneed his horse and started south, despite the warnings in his head.
Soon the long drive shaded by the oaks stretched ahead of him. From this vantage point, the house was still beautiful. Graceful, built in the classic style, with a hall that ran front to back to facilitate the breeze wafted up from the river, bringing the cooler air. The wraparound porches on the first and second floors were still covered in ivy, and a hint of flowers could be seen. As a child, he had helped build this house. It was home, and the mere sight of it sent a river of bittersweet nostalgia sweeping through his system.
He didn’t ride up the front drive; he detoured through the surrounding grove, passing fields that were overgrown and neglected. There, Sloan left Pegasus tied to a tree, then made his way to the stables directly behind the house. Henry, their caretaker, was there, a lean man of mixed Choctaw, Haitian and probably German blood, a free man of color, and the real boss of the place for as long as Sloan could remember.
“Henry?” His voice was soft but urgent.
Henry, busy repairing a saddle, looked up with a smile, his features ageless and strong. “Sloan?”
Sloan slipped from behind a bale of hay.
Henry dropped his leather needle and rose, and the two men embraced. But Henry withdrew quickly, his features grim.
“There’s a couple of soldiers up to the house,” he warned Sloan quietly. “They just got here this morning.”
Sloan frowned. “Soldiers? Why?”
“Why?” Henry echoed bitterly. “Because they own the place now that New Orleans surrendered.”
Sloan frowned, refusing to let himself think about Beast Butler’s warning for the moment. “What about everyone else? Is anyone left in there? I heard the news about Ma. Brendan wrote me last summer, when she died.” Even if he’d known in time, he wouldn’t have been able to attend her funeral. He had been watching the soon-to-be-dead massing at Sharpsburg. “But what about Fiona and Missy and George? Are they still here?” Missy and George had been with the family as long as Henry had.
“Yeah. They’re all still there,” Henry said, looking uncomfortable. “But Miss Fiona, she told me to come out here and stay out of the way, ’less she calls for me.”
Sloan looked at Henry, and he knew, because he knew Fiona, why she had given the order. She was afraid it might not be the cream of the Federal troops who had come to the house. She didn’t know what they wanted, and she didn’t want Henry getting killed if she needed to defend herself.
Sloan looked off into the distance. Henry still seemed distinctly uncomfortable. What the hell was going on here?
“Henry, what is it? What the hell is it?” he demanded.
“Nothing. Nothing. It’s just…Well, it’s been a long time since you’ve been home. A year, almost.”
Sloan stared at him. “What does that have to do with anything?” he demanded.
“Brendan…he ain’t around right now, neither. He’s been away. When he’s here…well, this place belongs to his kin, so the troops, they leave it alone.”
“And?”
“I just said, ‘he ain’t been here for a while now.’” Henry drew a deep breath. “It ain’t good. It just ain’t good. The Yankees is one thing. They be good men, and they be bad men. But there’s bad men from right here, too. Bad men who don’t care for no cause, just for making money. I go into town when I can, and I try to listen, see what’s up.” Henry looked away for a minute. “There’s one local fella…he finds girls. Finds them for this officer. Then…they ain’t seen again. I try to trip him up. Sometimes I can. I hear things, like where folks is gonna be. And I try to keep us clear of it, since I can’t stop it. But there’s folks what like to let other folks know what’s going on, like when women are alone…. Miss Fiona, she don’t like to believe it, but she be gettin’ in trouble if she not careful.”
Sloan felt his heart trip. Good old Henry, trying to keep Fiona out of harm’s way. But she was apparently convinced she could deal with the enemy soldiers on her own. Fear cascaded in icy rivulets through his blood.
He turned and headed out of the stables, but Henry tried to stop him.
And Henry was one big son of a gun, so Sloan turned and landed a hard punch to the other man’s jaw. He felt bad when Henry went down with an audible groan, but this was one battle he had to fight on his own. He wasn’t about to drag Henry into it.
Sloan drew his gun, a repeating rifle taken off a dead man at Sharpsburg, and headed for the house. As he did, he heard the scream. And then, there she was, racing out to the upper level balcony from the master bedroom.
Fiona.
Her beautiful deep red hair was streaming out behind her, her features contorted into a mask of fear, her slim body tense with desperation.
Hard on her heels, a man was chasing her. Laughing at her obvious distress.
Raising his gun to his shoulder, Sloan started to run.
The Flynn Plantation
Present Day