The Seduction Of Shay Devereaux

“I’m here to help,” he said. “Carl Pennington sent me.”

A visible shiver went through the shortest of the three men, and he turned quickly to the eldest of the group. “Pa?”

Noah stepped forward. “You knew Mr. Carl? In the army?”

Shay nodded. “I was with him when he died.”

Noah looked him over well, his shoulders straightening, his head erect. “Took you long enough to get here, I’d say, mister.”

Shay nodded his agreement. There was no arguing that point. “I’m here now.”

“You wanta use the scythe or start rakin’?” Noah asked.

Shay held out his hand. “I’ll give you a break. You can rake, if that’s all right.”

Hand outstretched, he waited as the older man scrutinized him, and then, with a nod at his two helpers, walked the few steps it took to face Shay.

“These here are my boys, Caleb and Joseph. Miss Isabelle’s my woman.” He held out the scythe and Shay took it from the callused hand.

“I’ll just tie my horse,” he said. A glade of trees edged the hayfield on three sides, telling wordlessly how the field had been wrenched from the woods surrounding it. Shay led his horse into the shade and slid the bridle from his mouth and over his head, then reached into his saddlebag for a halter. He put it in place, adding a long lead line before he loosened the saddle cinch.

“You can work at keepin’ the grass mowed,” he murmured to his stallion, leaving the animal knee-deep in lush greenery. The scythe fit his hand as if he’d only yesterday laid it down, and in moments he was adjusting his swing to the momentum of the other men. The sun beat down through his dark shirt and sweat beaded his brow, burning his eyes as it dripped from his forehead. Tying his kerchief around his brow relieved that situation, and he moved forward, enjoying the flex of muscles unused to the physical labor of harvest.

For a while the singing stopped, and then Noah took it up again, timing his rake to the rhythm he set, his sons following suit. The scythe sliced hay smoothly, and Shay silently thanked whoever had spent long moments with a stone, sharpening its blade. The men surrounding him worked as a team, apparently accepting his presence.

Shay thought of those he’d known, worked with, played poker with, then ridden away from during the past years. All the while heading back to where he’d lived as a boy. The ranch in Kansas had been the latest stopping place. Until circumstances had sent him on his way, and he was once more traveling. Finally with purpose.

It was time, he’d decided. Time to face the past, time to find the woman and child Carl Pennington had spoken of. Maybe time to finally heed Carl’s plea. He’d never agreed to his friend’s request, but those dying words had haunted him for too long.

Now, whatever he could do to help Carl’s wife, whether it be by the sweat of his brow, or the gold in his pocket, he’d do his best. The thought of Jenny, copper hair shimmering in the sunlight, brown eyes soft against his scarred face, was enough to make him eager for suppertime to arrive. And that thought caught him up short.

He was here to help Carl’s widow, not take advantage of her. It would be easy to look on her as an available woman. Honesty nudged him to admit he already had. She might be available, but not to a man like Shay. He’d soiled his hands beyond redemption, and touching Jenny Pennington…His body hardened at the thought, and he swung the scythe with a jerk, spoiling the rhythm he’d set. It hit the ground and vibrated in his hand, and he halted, lifting his face to the sun, closing his eyes against the radiance.

She was there, burned into his memory, waving locks of hair tempting his fingers, gentle eyes melting his defenses. And scattered across the fabric of her dress, luring his gaze to the curves defining her breasts, were tears she’d shed for Carl Pennington.

Chapter Two

Giving the man run of her house was not wise. Even as Jenny heard his boots on the curving staircase, she knew she’d probably made a mistake. True, his chosen room was on the second floor, and her own was the old library near the front door. Also true was the fact he’d offered to sleep in the barn.

To which she’d demurred. It was not proper to send a gentleman to sleep in the hayloft when perfectly good rooms were standing empty in the house. Even if those rooms were stripped bare of furnishings and cold during the short months of winter. He wouldn’t be here that long anyway, she comforted herself.

Standing at the foot of the curved staircase, she cocked her head to listen as his footsteps moved on down the uncarpeted hallway upstairs, and stopped. Not the master suite, she decided, with a sitting room attached. She backed up a bit, peering past the balcony, seeking a glimpse of his tall figure. The only rooms that far down the corridor were the smaller bedchambers, designed for children, yet it seemed he’d chosen one of them for his own.

“Miss Jenny? What’re you doing?” Isabelle’s soft voice from behind her had Jenny rounding about quickly, her cheeks flaming.

“Just looking after our guest,” she muttered.

“Looking at him, is more like it,” Isabelle said, her own gaze following the path Jenny’s had taken. “And ain’t he a fine one to watch.”

“He’s chosen to stay in one of the smaller rooms, I believe. I can’t think that he’ll be comfortable with just a bedroll, but he insisted.”

“There’s a couple of mattresses in the attic, if you want Noah to bring one down for him,” Isabelle offered. “He’d might as well be as comfortable as we can make him.”

Jenny nodded, walking toward the back of the house. The kitchen was warm, the stove throwing off an abundance of heat, and she opened the back door, allowing air to flow through the room. “For someone who didn’t take to him…” Her words slowed, and then she turned to face her friend. “I thought you didn’t like him,” she said quietly.

“Haven’t decided about that yet,” Isabelle told her. “But I decreed right off the bat he was a prime specimen.”

“He looks a bit the worse for wear, I think,” Jenny said, her words mumbled into the apron she pulled over her head. “And he probably won’t be here long enough for me to change my mind.”

Isabelle nodded wisely. “We’ll see.” She handed Jenny plates and silverware, then turned back to the stove. “Noah says the man’s a hard worker.”

Finished with setting the table, Jenny walked to the back door. Her hands lifted to her forehead, brushing back tendrils of hair that defied her best efforts at tidiness. “He’ll soon tire of working long hours and getting nothing in return.”

“Beg your pardon, ma’am. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I think you’ve got it all wrong.” From behind her, Shay’s deep tones denied her theory, and she spun to face him, one hand rising to cover her mouth.

“I didn’t hear you, sir. You startled me.” It seemed the man called Shay could move silently when the mood struck him.

He was quiet for a moment, watching her from beneath lowered brows. “Maybe I should have knocked. But then, the door wasn’t shut,” he said finally. “As to what I overheard, I beg to differ with you.” His hands folded into fists, then rose to rest against his hips. “I’m here to fulfill an obligation to a friend. Receiving a reward doesn’t enter into it.”

“It’s a good thing,” Jenny returned starkly. “A floor to sleep on and three meals a day will be the limit of your pay.” Her words sounded harsh to her ears and she bit at her lip, ashamed of herself.

“Miss Jenny, don’t forget the mattress,” Isabelle reminded helpfully.

Jenny cast her a grateful look, softening her tone. “I’ll have Noah help you bring a mattress out of the attic for your room,” she said. “Isabelle reminded me that we put a couple of them up there.”

Shay nodded, relaxing his stance, one hand sliding into his pocket, the other flexing open against his thigh. “I’ll take care of it later on. For now, I’ll just need a container for water, so I can wash in the morning, ma’am.”

Buckets were in short supply, the two in best condition being used for milking the cow. Jenny thought of the rough wooden ones in the barn and dismissed the idea. There was no choice, she decided. A guest must receive preference.

“I’ll give you the pitcher from my room,” she told him. “There’s a basin with it.”

“I won’t take yours,” he said sharply. “Surely you have a kettle I can use.”

She shook her head. “Most everything is gone, sold piece by piece. We only have enough to cook in, nothing extra.”

His eyes narrowed, taking in her dress, the scuffed toes of her shoes and the worn apron she’d slipped into only moments past. “You haven’t spent much on yourself, have you?”

A flush climbed her cheeks and she felt her jaw tauten as he took inventory of her clothing. “I’m not complaining. We’re getting along.”

“For how long?” he asked bluntly. “You need something besides a field of corn and a couple of cuttings of hay to get you through the year. Where’s your cash crop?”

“They’re still buying cotton,” she told him proudly. “And ours has always been some of the best in the parish. We’ll be planting ten acres pretty soon.”

“Not enough of it to support you,” he said, and the truth of his judgment pierced her to the quick.

“There’s no sense in planting more than we can harvest,” she told him. “And with only the five of us to pick…”

“There’ll be four men this year, and the boy can help out,” he told her, amending her words.