Little Love Affair (Southern Romance 1)

Even here and now, his body tiring from the constant swinging of the scythe, the sunlight on the grain and wind in his hair, Jasper felt as though he might be two men: one in the world as it was, working honestly for his dinner; the other still lying on the battlefield where Horace had rescued him all those months ago. Pain...so much pain searing in his leg and the stink of death and wanting nothing more than to leave the world that had been so cruelly different from the one he thought he knew. When the smoke cleared and the men you had slaughtered were only boys like yourself, and you knew neither their names nor their families nor even why they had marched, you began to wonder if any of it mattered.

Perhaps that was why Jasper had remained at Horace’s side. Why he was so insistent now that Horace heal and survive and return to his family, when Jasper had seen a dozen of his friends die. Horace believed where the rest of them doubted. Horace reminded them that there was something worth fighting for.

Jasper turned, shading his eyes to pick out the abandoned cottage on the hill. Horace had been sleeping peacefully when Jasper left for the fields, a cup of water at his side and a bit of bread and bacon saved from Jasper’s dinner. The man was delirious and moody by turns, with enough sense to see that they’d been here far longer than he had wanted. Still, Jasper suspected that Horace tried to force himself out of bed when he was alone. It would explain why he did not insist that they go. He knew he could barely make it one step farther.

The supper bell rang, and Jasper tried not to sigh with relief. He was desperate for a cup of water and for a rest as he listened to the men talking. They no longer tried to draw him into conversation. He had affected a disinterested demeanor, for he dared not even spark conversation with the other hired workers to pass the time. No, that would not be wise, not when he had no answers for them about where he lived, how he had come to be employed, and why he had the accent that Clara had so easily marked. But he was lonely.

Clara. Jasper felt his mouth curve and tried to keep the smile from his lips. She had barely spoken to him in the past days, and yet sometimes when he looked up at dinner, he thought he saw her eyes resting on him, almost curiously. What was she thinking behind those blue eyes? Did he dare hope that he occupied her thoughts as she occupied his? He had very nearly driven the scythe into his foot while he daydreamed of her smile.

He wondered what her laugh sounded like.

As he walked over the fields to the farmhouse, the glint of movement caught his eye: a horse and buggy, with a lone man in a dark coat. He drew up at the wagon hitch as the laborers passed by, and Jasper felt a flicker of fear when he saw the man’s eyes catch on him. New. The other laborers nodded respectfully, and Jasper copied the movement.

“Cyrus!” Clara’s mother came out of the house with a smile on her face. She held out plates to the laborers, a hearty spread of beans and bacon, sliced tomatoes, and a hunk of bread.

“Misses Dalton.” The man inclined his head gracefully, now hardly sparing a look for the men who filed past him. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his golden-brown hair swept neatly to one side, and his clothes were well made, better even than Jasper had worn before the war. “Dare I hope that Clara is here?”

The familiarity in his tone made Jasper sick. He forced himself to sit in the shade of the chestnut tree nearby, looking determinedly down at his food, aware of the sudden flush in his face. He knew that tone, desire barely restrained by politeness. Why should she not have a suitor? She was a beautiful woman, the eldest daughter, with a farm for a dowry.

It did not stop him from stabbing his food with rather more force than was necessary.

“She’s inside, at work on the books.” Millicent’s tone was warm and Jasper, looking up, saw her turn to call in the open kitchen door. “Clara! Mister Dupont is here.”

It took longer than Jasper would have expected before Clara appeared at the kitchen door. Her face appeared composed, but blank. Was it too hopeful to think that there was reluctance in the set of her shoulders?

“Cyrus.” Her voice, if reserved, was familiar. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“It’s been too long since I checked in on all of you,” the man said warmly. “I wanted to make sure you were well and to see if there was any help you needed.”

“Good of you,” Clara said. There was the very faintest edge to her voice. “As you can see, all is well.”

“What a fine job you’ve done with the farm,” Cyrus said. His smile was open and broad. “The harvest looks good this year—enough for you to hire another hand.” His eyes flicked sideways to Jasper and narrowed when he saw the man watching.

Jasper looked down hastily at his food. The last thing he could afford was for this man to take notice of him.

“Indeed.” Clara’s face might have been made of stone.

The silence stretched, and Jasper tried to keep from smiling into his food. At his side, the other laborers were oblivious to the conversation. Either they did not care at all for the goings-on in the house, or this scene had been repeated often enough that they were now numb to it. He hoped it was the latter.

“Perhaps you could show Cyrus the improvements that have been made to the farm,” Millicent suggested finally.

“Of course.” Clara’s hesitation was minute.

“Perhaps we could discuss some future improvements to the orchard,” Cyrus suggested, and Jasper saw Clara’s face go stony.

“Oh?” Her voice was dangerous, but Cyrus did not seem to notice.

“Of course,” he said jovially. He smiled down at Clara, who had walked slowly down the steps.

“Then let us go.” She turned before he could proffer his arm and made her way for the barn.

Jasper, walking to bring his plate into the kitchen, bit back a laugh at the man’s expression. He regretted it as soon as Cyrus looked over, scanning the fields. Their eyes met, and what Cyrus saw there, Jasper could not be sure. What he was sure of was the man’s face turned dangerous, darkness clouding his features.

“What’re you staring at?”

Jasper got to his feet slowly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the other laborers making hastily for the kitchen, before they could get caught in whatever this was, and Jasper knew he should duck his head, mutter an apology, and follow them. He most certainly shouldn’t answer, but the blood was roaring in his ears and he could not bear the thought of Clara shackled to this man. A man who talked over her words, who looked at the farm she maintained and could only tell her what she was doing wrong.

“Clara’s quite competent,” he said, keeping his speech as neutral as he could. He had been listening to the other laborers as they spoke amongst themselves during the days. He tried to mimic the accent now.