Wild Star (Star Quartet 3)

“I’d rather wring his neck first. Does Paxton bank with you, sir?”

“No, he’s not stupid. Is your new wife a Southern lady?”

Nor am I stupid, Brent thought, realizing well what Mr. Milsom was getting at. “She spent her formative years in Boston, then returned to California last year.”

“Then she doesn’t understand our ways.”

“No, not at all. But as a matter of fact, sir, I don’t either, not anymore. To be perfectly frank, I don’t know what to do.”

“About Wakehurst?”

“Wakehurst and Laurel, as I mentioned.”

“I can certainly assist you to find a new overseer.”

“No, it’s not that. As I said, I think I’ve become something of an abolitionist. You know, of course, that California entered the union as a free state. I can no longer abide the way things are here.”

“You know as well as I, Brent, that there will be no real change until the economics of the situation shift completely. It’s really that simple. The South can’t exist economically without slavery.”

“I will not be a party to it.”

“This is a problem indeed. What do you intend to do with your inheritance?”

Brent shook his head, smiling a bit ruefully. “I can just see myself returning to California, leading five hundred freed Negroes.”

“It does present a problem. I don’t know what to advise you, son. As a banker, my assets aren’t directly tied to slavery, thus I won’t rant and rave about what you owe to your birthright and your fellow plantation owners. Perhaps if you sold the plantation?”

“The Negroes wouldn’t be any better off, would they?”

“Have you spoken to Laurel about this?”

Brent shook his head as he rose. “I have a lot of thinking to do. Thank you, sir, for seeing me.”

James Milsom shook the younger man’s hand warmly. “If you wish to speak to me again, Brent, I will be here.”

Brent rode thoughtfully out of the city, guiding his stallion closer to the high bluffs that overlooked the Mississippi. At a deserted spot he reined in and tied his stallion to the low branch of an oak tree. Slowly he walked to the edge of the bluffs and stared down into the swirling brown water. He sat down, his back against an ancient elm tree, and stretched out his legs.

What was he going to do?

He was so deep in thought that he didn’t notice the horse or the rider until they were upon him. He looked up to see the swirl of blue velvet riding habit and charmingly tousled auburn curls beneath a jaunty riding hat.

“Well,” he said lazily, not bothering to rise, “my dear Laurel. How ever did you find me?”

TWENTY-EIGHT

Laurel stared down at him from her mare’s back, and felt that same almost overpowering pull she’d experienced again the moment she’d seen him arrive at Wakehurst. No, she corrected herself, it wasn’t overpowering; she could control it this time. Still, she continued to look at him, saying nothing. His black boots, as glossy as his tousled hair, came nearly to his knees. He drew her like a magnet. Finally she met his eyes, and flinched at the amused sarcasm she read there. Slowly she dismounted, tying her mare beside Brent’s stallion.

Couldn’t he at least rise? All the gentlemen she knew would by this time have been filling her ears with pretty compliments. She walked gracefully to him, flicking her riding crop against her shirt.

“I don’t know if I’d tie the mare right next to him, Laurel,” he said lazily. “She’s a pretty filly, and he, well—”

“I saw your horse,” she said “And stopped. You went to Natchez?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He cocked a brow at her. “Is this an inquisition?”