By Any Means Read online

  Coins scraped across the worn wooden tabletop as Brennen raked the pile of winnings toward him. His choice of betting: five card stud, the game birthed in the soldiers’ camps across Virginia.

  The well-dressed Dutchman sitting on his left mopped his brow after declaring the German word for poker was pochen -- to brag as to bluff. Brennen bit back a laugh. He’d built his entire existence now around doing just that…bluffing. At least, no one depended on him any longer, a fact that allowed him to sleep at night. The decision to remain alone suited him best, and another choice he had no plans to change.

  The portly gentleman seated across from him signaled the servant for another glass of whiskey. “Your winning streak continues to hold, Mister Benedict.”

  “Seems Lady Luck and I are bed partners.” Brennen lifted his cheroot from the cut-glass dish near his elbow, then pulled in a long draw of the Dunnington tobacco. Smoke swirled upward with his exhale, and he raised a brow. “I do believe the next deal is yours. That is, if you want another try at her ladyship.”

  A servant placed a full glass of liquor before the gent.

  Brennen tossed a coin toward the attendant. “Here.” He smiled. “My treat.”

  The waiter’s eyes widened. With an appreciative nod, he pocketed the payment, then moved off into the eddy of smoke.

  “You’re generous with your winnings, sir.” The portly man lifted his glass in silent salute. “Much obliged.” He sipped, then swallowed with a satisfied sigh. “Yes, let’s have another game. Surely, I’ll gain favor with the ruthless bitch this go-round.”

  “Well, I’m in,” the German on his left said.

  “Count me in, too,” added the heavy-set Englishman on Brennen’s right who busied himself with a recount of his dwindling stash. “If Queen Victoria has learned how to master this damned game, I’m inclined to endure.”

  In spite of the gent’s fortitude, the majority of his money had already claimed a spot atop Brennen’s shiny, stacked fortress. Once he’d finished his business in Owensborough, he’d deposit this trip’s hefty haul at the Shawneetown bank. Though built a year before his birth, the Bank of Illinois’ impressive four-columned façade always reminded him of the plantation homes that once graced the Virginian banks of the Rappahannock.

  Before the war…

  Shadows of several black-swathed heads passed on the outer side of the windows and caught his attention. His gaze followed as they rounded the corner. At the opened entrance to the gaming hall, the good sisters halted. Brave souls, these six, meeting the devil at his own game. He stifled a laugh as, one-by-one, with wooden buckets clutched in their hands, the nuns crossed the threshold into the room.

  Conversations in the chamber fell to silence. The nerve of the virtuous, forcing men to refocus on their sins. No doubt, a well-planned maneuver. He settled his attention on the petite nun whose smile had earlier intrigued him.

  The woman scanned the room, then stopped when her gaze met his. Startled by the shot of awareness, Brennan smothered any external sign. Although he always enjoyed a maiden warming his bed, he flat-out drew the line at those in service to his Maker.

  The sisters strode to the center of the room, hazy smoke swirling around them. With each of their determined steps through the miasma, the late-afternoon sunshine spilling through the open door followed them in great, slicing streaks. Brennen chuckled. The only thing missing was the angelic Host.

  The oldest nun, obviously the leader of the plucky group, spoke…in French, her words settling across the chamber in echoing tones.

  Patrons glanced at one another in confusion.

  The gaze of the angel with the resplendent smile broke away, and she immediately translated, her tones much softer, more engaging. “Bonjour, messieurs. We represent the Sisters of St. Joseph, sent to Kentucky on a mission from God. Mother Mary Agnes requests donations for our soon-to-be-built orphanage outside Owensborough.”

  The silence around Brennen thickened.

  “Come now messieurs,” she scolded, a frown creasing her comely face, “surely some of you can aid us as we care for the little ones left homeless by your recent war?”

  This pint-sized pistol knew just where to hit below the belt, plucking most every gambler’s accountability string.

  “After all, ’twas man’s doing…not the children,” she added in that sultry-as-hell voice that made a man’s mouth water and his mind spin to thoughts far from pious. “While you sit here basking in your transgressions, they do continue to suffer.”

  “You’re not allowed in here,” a man from the opposite side of the room hollered.

  “Get out of here, this ain’t no church,” another gambler bellowed.

  Laughter filled the room.

  Guilt…and something more, something he refused to interpret, swept through Brennen.

  With a muttered curse, he scooped up his winnings and stood. Fine. Surely, they’d leave if someone paid…something.

  “A most worthy cause,” he shouted above the rumblings.

  Three strides took him across the room. He paused before her, his heart hammering as he burrowed his gaze deep into springtime-green eyes. He damned the attraction, more so since a nun was one of the few things off limits. He slid the handful of gold eagles into her bucket. The chink sounded as each coin piled atop the other. “I’m hoping this’ll make amends for my heathen ways.”

  She dipped her chin, peered into her bucket, and with a whisper of a smile reconnected her gaze. “Monsieur, for the amount of forgiveness you seek, I do believe more coins are in order.”

  What the hell…

  Over the years he’d met those of faith in service to God, but never one so brazen. Nor did he linger on that sleek mouth that lured a man to sin. With immoral thoughts spinning through him, Brennen swept back his cutaway and jammed his hand into his pocket, withdrawing more coins.

  Heat touched his face with the chink of each additional…gift.

  Unsettled by the feelings she inspired, Brennen faced the room. “Gentlemen, who else will match my more-than-generous donation? And remember, the sooner they’re paid, the sooner they’ll leave.”

  Grumbles of agreement sifted through the room. More men rose. A line soon formed as the gamblers dropped their winnings into outstretched buckets. The other nuns averted their eyes in humble appreciation, but the bold-as-brass sœur smiled at every man, acknowledging their generosities. “Monsieur, we are most grateful.” As well… “Bless you for your kindness, sacré.” And on occasion, even a simple, “Merci beaucoup.”

  Organized religion specialized in blame and shame…and yet, the more Brennen studied this saintly entrepreneur, the more baffled he became. He stepped to the bar and leaned against the sturdy mahogany.

  He took in how the golden rays draped the sprite’s shoulders, brightening her features inside their translucent glow. Repeatedly, her vibrant gaze darted to his, then danced away. With each connection, flashes of awareness shimmered from their mossy depths.

  The elderly abbess leaned toward the pixie and whispered. Nodding, the angelic half-pint curtsied. “Mère supérieure, Mother Superior, appreciates your générosité, messieurs…as do I.”

  The haze of smoke swirled around the good sisters as they vacated the game room, their buckets filled to the brim with Beelzebub’s coins. On occasion he’d seen the New Orleans Ursulines helping the less fortunate, but never had he seen such an odd spectacle as what had just transpired today.

  Brennen signaled for a whiskey, pushed a seated Liberty to the barkeep, and then lifted his drink. He’d worked the entire afternoon to win the money he’d just donated to their worthy cause.

  Worthy? He’d hardly go that far. Rather more like he’d been bamboozled by a nun. He made a living judging others, and however the black-and-white get-up might suggest her selflessness, something didn’t quite add up. Or, maybe his discomfort was due to the twinkle in the saucy minx’s eyes. Either way, the bonne sœur with the dancing green eyes had gained his respect.


  On a disgruntled snort, he drained the tumbler of Devil’s brew, then headed back to his gaming table.

  * * * *

  Early the next morning Brennen disembarked the riverboat in Owensborough, glancing at the river’s edge as he crossed the gangplank. Oldsters in this region called the area Yellow Banks due to the color of the soil. He only saw black and green, so another tall tale put to rest.

  Stepping from the footbridge landed him smack in the middle of another forgettable river town like so many others he’d seen en route. Small pier, no trade ships, nothing that would draw the rich folks to visit, much less invest.

  A flurry of activity broke out on his right. He spotted the now wealthier, much-too-crafty Sisters of St. Joseph climbing into a wagon.

  A smirk tugged his mouth.

  His generosity to their bucket brigade yesterday had forced him to play well into the night to recoup the money he’d donated. On the other hand, he would sure miss the sprite’s bright smile. The nuns headed westward out of town, and Brennen waited for her backward glance…

  As they rolled from view, all six faces remained forward.

  Squelching his odd disappointment, Brennen tightened his grasp around his valise and headed down Main Street. The town was clean but small, and the expected businesses straddled both sides of a generous corridor.

  At the livery, he rented a horse and headed for the courthouse in the center of the none-too-busy burg. As he stepped inside, a bright, high-ceilinged chamber greeted him. Brennen removed his hat, raked a hand through his overly long hair, and then glanced around the room.

  A couple of closed doors along the twelve-foot-high wall to his left fronted the judicial offices, while along the opposite side and back, large casement windows framed with blue velvet graced the walls. Portraits of George Washington and Abraham Lincoln, as well as the outspoken senator, Henry Clay, peered back at Brennen. Even a few oversized paintings of apparent Kentucky landmarks and current government officials festooned the place.

  He paused before a mahogany counter.

  A bespectacled clerk looked up. “Mornin’, sir. May I help you?”

  Brennen nodded, pulling the deed from his pocket. “Need to locate some land. Are you the gent to help me with that task?”

  “Yes. I can help you with that,” he replied, pulling out a large dusty volume from beneath the counter. “We’ve plenty of old plot maps of this area on file.”

  A half-hour later, with the location of his newly-acquired homestead pinpointed, Brennen stowed the deed and then shook hands with the clerk. “’Preciate your fine help, sir.”

  Pushing his thick-lens spectacles higher up his nose, the man smiled. “Glad somebody’s claimed ownership. Taxes haven’t been paid for a couple of years. I believe there’s also some kind of lien on the place, but I’m not sure what.”

  Lien? Shit. That’d require a lawyer to help settle up. “Well, I’ll be glad to pay what’s owed, but, first, I’d like to take a look at the place.”

  “Fine by me. I’ll be here.” The clerk stashed his paperwork, then pointed westward. “Your place lies about ten miles that a‘way along Knoblick Creek.”

  “Excellent. I’ll be back later.” Brennen pushed a two-bit coin toward him. “In the meantime, where can I find the best breakfast in town?”

  The clerk tucked the quarter in the pocket of his tweed vest. “That one’s easy, mister. Straight across the street at Cleo’s. She cooks great and knows everything. So, if it’s information you’re looking for, she’ll likely share her thoughts, too.”

  Another quick handshake and Brennen strode from the building. His shadow wavered before him across the bricked road and up onto the weathered boardwalk. The café was tucked smartly between the bank and a milliner’s shop, and the bountiful meal he enjoyed did not disappoint…nor did the proprietor’s enlightening chatter. He discovered the location of the closest lawyer, became educated on the who’s who in town, and found out a weekly newspaper, The Monitor, appeared on the café’s doorstep every Friday morning at six. As Brennen forked in the final bite of his omelet, he even learned mutton reigned supreme in this part of the country.

  After a generous tip and a promise to Miss Cleo that he’d return soon, Brennen swung into his saddle and headed the gelding west. Pastures rolled by in lush swaths of green, droves of sheep and an errant horse or cow grazing the fertile grounds.

  By mid-afternoon, Brennen rounded a bend in the well-worn wagon trail, and a whitewashed wood plank fence came into view.

  The Chiswell Place…or rather, mine.

  All 600 acres of it.

  He halted the horse between a pair of gateposts that flanked the property’s entrance. A row of ancient chestnuts hugged both sides of a red-bricked lane. Thick, intertwining branches arched upward, allowing fragmented sunlight to dapple the generous passageway below.

  Bricks? Impressive…and expensive. The cost alone to haul them here must’ve been staggering.

  A pleasant warmth bubbled through Brennen.

  Twisting in his saddle, he scanned the area. From horizon-to-horizon, elms, oaks, and yellow poplar stood as firm, staunch sentinels carving out their spots against the azure sky. Quality timber meant money, and this tract of land held mouthwatering promise. Even the white-barked sycamores were looming giants, their plate-sized leaves dancing in the afternoon breeze. Gurgling water drew his attention past a copse of scrappy sassafras to where sunlight shimmered on a rippling current.

  Knoblick Creek.

  He assessed the thicket of firs lining the banks, and then beyond the fast-moving creek to the pockets of pastureland that rolled as far as the eye could see. Dollars and cents rolled through Brennen’s mind as he calculated the revenue from the livestock an industrious soul could raise here.

  For a moment the tinkle of coins fell away to the soft rush of wind, how the tall grass swayed in the breeze, and if only for a moment, a sense of peace touched him, carried upward from a heart that beat strong with hope.

  As beautiful as Virginia.

  Almost.

  He sharply exhaled and again eyed the entrance. Closer inspection revealed the fencing’s chipped paint and weather-damaged boards. And all along the railing, tangled undergrowth choked the ground.

  His gaze narrowed. Splotches of light down the lane illuminated a multitude of uneven bricks. Those would be easy to reset, but in order to sell the homestead, he might need to purchase just a few sheep to nibble away the weeds.

  The saddle creaked as he straightened.

  Buy sheep? Brennen snorted at the idiotic thought. What the hell am I thinking?

  He was here for one reason, and one reason only: to assess the house and surrounding land. Nothing more. And in spite of their popularity, he sure as hell didn’t want any sheep.

  He squared his shoulders.

  All right…let’s finish this damned thing.

  He gigged the gelding into a canter and headed toward the obvious shambles that awaited him at the far end of the lane.

  Chapter Three

  A fine spray of dust settled over the aged bricks as Brennen drew the horse to a stop before a ramshackle building. The manor appeared sound, but a curved, two-story veranda that fronted the house, as well as the multitude of white window shutters and trim, greeted him in a skewed mishmash that begged for paint and repair.

  “Damnit,” he muttered as the flickering flame of hope sputtered out. His pulse kicked faster. Although the red-bricked mansion held a smidge of comparison to his sister’s plantation back east, and as lush as Kentucky seemed, nothing could ever compare to the beauty of a pre-war Virginia.

  He scowled. Chiswell had obviously used his losing card game to unload this eyesore and had no doubt laughed at Brennen as he’d scooped up his win. At the first opportunity, he’d dump this heap into someone else’s lap.

  Maybe even in a losing hand tonight back in town.

  A breeze swept around the corner of the house and rustled the sunny yellow faces of a clust
er of flowers peeping at him from beside the rickety front steps.

  Daffodils. His sister’s favorite springtime bloom. More of Emaline’s wise words from his past rushed through his mind. Brennen Benedict! It’s my duty as your older sister to remind you that you’ve never been a cheater. Do not even think to start being one now.

  On a sigh, all thoughts of disposing this monstrosity in a card game faded. Still, no person in their right mind would purchase the place as-is…

  The damnable truth burned raw. This homestead required not only his money…but also his time. He resented spending both on something that mattered squat to him.

  “What business you got trompin’ ‘round dis here place, mista’?”

  At the rough voice filled with grumbling discontent, Brennen twisted in the saddle. Narrowed eyes glared at him from an ebony face carved deep with lines. The tall, muscular man strode toward him, the span of his slightly stooped shoulders a testament to hard years bent beneath labor.

  He reminded Brennen of an ill-tempered grizzly.

  A one-time slave of Chiswell’s?

  Or…perhaps a squatter.

  Until he knew which identity, Brennen would approach with caution. He dismounted, then turned toward the towering colossus. “I’ve come to look is all…name’s Brennen Benedict. I now own the place.”

  Disbelief tightened the man’s furrowed brow. He stepped closer, his shadow falling over Brennen with all the weight of the timeworn estate he so stanchly protected. “Where’s Mista’ Chiswell?”

  So…not a squatter.

  On a tempered smile, Brennen withdrew the land deed from inside his coat, doubtful the guardsman could read. Most unskilled laborers didn’t, not even years after their emancipation.

  Regardless, he unfolded the crisp vellum and presented his proof. “Won this homestead in a card game last fall. Chiswell offered the place as payment to cover a losing hand. I accepted.” Brennen took in a cabin and several outbuildings on his far right. Near them stretched a patchy vegetable garden, several dozen wandering chickens, and a clothesline that drooped with the morning’s wash. He met the man’s gaze. “Not that I need to explain myself, but this paper bears your former owner’s signature. Everything’s legal.”