The Heart of Home by Stephenia H. McGee

Author:Stephenia H. McGee
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Romance
Publisher: By The Vine Press
Published: 2019-10-28T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

Tristan swung the axe again, hoping his emotions would flow out of his hands and splinter with the crack of the wood. How had he let himself become this tangle of useless frustrations? Sweat slipped down the nape of his neck and soured the fine shirt he had no business wearing. He lifted the blade over his head and sent it down with all the force of his anger, the snap of the log sending tremors up his arms.

First it had been worrying about Miss Martin’s well-being with the inevitable loss of her home, then it had been memories of Millie, and then that infuriating codfish aristocrat with his condescension. The axe hit again, and more of his fury went out with the next log. Why had he gotten so mad in the first place? Mr. Weir held the same opinion that many men, north and south of the divide, held. If he were honest, at the start of the war he’d been just as bent on keeping slaves as the rest of them. He’d joined the army to defend his lands from invasion, but he truly believed the government had no right to tell them what they could and could not do on their own land. That had included owning people.

But all of that had changed a year ago. Everything had changed a year ago. He tossed the split log aside and reached for another from the stack. What had happened with Millie and Pat had brought long-buried childhood convictions to light. Thoughts he had tried to bury and ignore.

As a boy, he never could understand how skin made one man better than the other, he’d just been glad he’d been born the right color. His life had been one of comforts and privilege, and theirs had been one of toil and restraint. But anyone who questioned the system received firm reprimand, so he’d learned to bury those concerns as he grew into a man.

Movement drew his attention and he caught sight of Mrs. Martin hurrying down the rear steps. Tristan paused with the axe over his head and let it come to a rest on his shoulder.

“Mr. Weir is finished with his visit already?”

Mrs. Martin paused and eyed him. “No. He is sitting with Opal.”

Tristan took a step forward, his eyes darting to the closed door on the back of the house. “Alone?”

Mrs. Martin bristled and lifted her nose to look down it, but he held a height advantage over her, and she still had to raise her eyes. “Yes, but they are not entirely without a chaperone. The parlor door is open, and I am home.” She flapped a bony hand at him. “It has not been so long that I have forgotten proper etiquette, Mr. Stuart.”

The muscles in his jaw worked, and he hefted the axe once more. What business was it of his who these women entertained? He positioned another log on the splitting stump.

“How much longer do you intend to stay?”

He glanced up at her, unable to read the meaning behind her words.

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