Just Imagine aka Risen Glory

a substantial sum of money involved and no other relatives.'

Cain leaned forward over the gleaming mahogany surface of the desk. 'I'm not going to take responsibility for an eighteen-year-old girl or a run-down cotton plantation.'

Woodward's pitch rose a notch. 'That's up to you, of course, although I do agree that giving a man as-as worldly as yourself guardianship over a young woman is somewhat irregular. Still, the decision is yours. When you go to Charleston to inspect the plantation, you can speak with Mr. Ritter and advise him of your decision.'

'There is no decision,' Cain said flatly. 'I didn't ask for this inheritance, and I don't want it. Write your Mr. Ritter and tell him to find another patsy.'

Cain was in a black mood by the time he arrived home, and his mood wasn't improved when his stable boy failed to appear to take the carriage.

'Kit? Where the hell are you?' He called twice before the boy raced out. 'Damn it! If you're working for me, I expect you to be here when I need you. Don't keep me waiting again!'

'And howdy to you, too,' Kit grumbled.

Ignoring her, he leaped from the carriage and strode across the open yard to the house. Once inside, he went straight to the library and splashed some whiskey into a glass. Only after he'd drained it did he pull out the letter Woodward had given him and break the red wax seal.

Inside was a single sheet of paper covered with small, nearly indecipherable handwriting.

March 6, 1865

Dear Baron,

I can imagine your surprise at receiving a letter from me after so many years, even if it is a letter from the grave. A morbid thought. I am not resigned to dying. Still, my fever will not break, and I fear the worst. While I have strength, I will dispose of those few responsibilities I have left.

If you expect apologies from me, you will receive none. Life with your father was exceptionally tedious. I am also not a maternal woman, and you were a most unruly child. It was all very tiresome. Still, I must admit to having followed the newspaper stories of your military exploits with some interest. It pleased me to learn you are considered a handsome man.

None of this, however, concerns my purpose in writing. I was very attached to my second husband, Garrett Weston, who made life pleasant for me, and it is for him that I write this letter. Although I've never been able to abide his hoydenish daughter, Katharine, I realize she must have someone to watch out for her until she comes of age. Therefore, I have left Risen Glory to you with the hope that you will act as her guardian. Perhaps you will decline. Although the plantation was once the finest in the area, the war has done it no good.

Whatever your decision, I have discharged my duty.

Your mother,

Rosemary Weston

After sixteen years, that was all.

Kit heard the clock on the Methodist church in the next block chime two as she knelt in front of the open window and stared toward the dark house. Baron Cain wasn't going to live to see the dawn.

The predawn air was heavy and metallic, warning of a storm, and even though her room was still warm from the afternoon's heat, she shivered. She hated thunderstorms, especially those that broke at night. Maybe if she'd had a parent to run to for comfort when she'd been a child, her fear would have passed. Instead, she'd huddled in her cabin near the slave quarters, alone and terrified, certain that the earth was going to split open at any minute and gobble her up.

Cain had finally gotten home half an hour ago. Mrs. Simmons, the maids, and Magnus were gone for the night, so he was in the house alone, and as soon as he'd had time to fall asleep, the way would be clear.

The distant rumble of thunder jangled her. She tried to convince herself that the weather would make her work easier. It would hide any noise she might make when she slipped into the house through the pantry window she'd unlocked earlier. But the thought didn't comfort her. Instead, she imagined herself as she'd be in an hour or so, running through the dark streets with a thunderstorm crashing around her. And the earth splitting open to gobble her up.

She jumped as lightning flashed. To distract herself, she tried to concentrate on her plan. She'd cleaned and oiled her daddy's revolver and reread Mr. Emerson's essay 'Self-Reliance' to bolster her courage. Then she'd bundled her possessions and hidden them in the back of the carriage house so she could grab them quickly.

After she killed Cain, she'd make her way to the docks off Cortlandt Street, where she'd catch the first ferry for Jersey City. There she'd find the train station and begin her journey back to Charleston, knowing the long nightmare that had begun when that Charleston lawyer had come to her was finally over. With Cain dead, Rosemary's will would become meaningless and Risen Glory would be hers. All she had to do was find his bedroom, aim her gun, and pull the trigger.

She shivered. She'd never actually killed a man, but she could think of no better place to start than with Baron Cain.

He should be asleep by now. It was time. She picked up her loaded revolver and crept down the stairs, being careful not to disturb Merlin as she left the stable. A clap of thunder made her shrink against the door. She reminded herself she wasn't a child and shot across the yard to the house, then scrambled through the shrubbery to get to the pantry window.

She tucked the revolver into the waistband of her breeches and tried to open the window. It didn't budge.

She pushed again, harder this time, but nothing happened. The window was locked.

Stunned, she leaned against the house. She'd known her plan wasn't foolproof, but she hadn't expected to be thwarted so soon. Mrs. Simmons must have discovered the unfastened latch before she left.

The first drops of rain began to fall. Kit wanted to run back to her room and hide under the covers until the storm passed, but she summoned her courage and circled the house, looking for another way inside. The rain fell harder, striking her through her shirt. A maple tree thrashed in the wind. Near its branches she spotted an open second-story window.

Her heart pounded. The storm roared above her, and her breath came in short, panicky gasps. She forced herself to grab the lowest branch of the tree and pull herself up.

A bolt of lightning split the skies, and the tree quivered. She clung to the branch, terrified by the force of the storm and cursing herself for being so lily-livered. Setting her teeth, she forced herself higher into trie tree. Finally, she began edging out onto the branch that seemed to grow closest to the house, although the driving rain made it impossible to see how far it went.

She whimpered as another thunderclap left the stink of brimstone in the air. Don't swallow me up! She willed herself to move farther out. The limb pitched in the wind then began to sag under her weight.

The skies lit with another lightning bolt. Right then, she saw that the branch didn't grow close enough for her to reach the window. Despair washed over her.

She blinked her eyes, wiped her nose on her sleeve, and worked her way back down the tree.

As she reached the bottom, lightning struck so close that her ears rang. Trembling, she pressed her spine against the trunk. Her clothes stuck to her skin, and the brim of her hat hung like a sodden pancake around her head. Tears she refused to shed burned hot behind her lids. Was this the way it would end? Risen Glory taken from her because she was too weak, too chick-enhearted, too girly to get into a house?

She jumped as something brushed her legs. Merlin stared up at her, his head cocked to the side. She sank to her knees and buried her face in his wet, musty fur. 'You no-account dog…' Her arms trembled as she drew the animal closer. 'I'm as worthless as you.'

He scraped her wet cheek with his rough tongue. Another blast of lightning struck. He howled, and Kit jumped to her feet, fear igniting her determination. Risen Glory was hers! If she couldn't get into the house through a window, she'd get in through the door!

Half crazed from the storm and her own desperation, she raced toward the back door, fighting the wind and rain, too desperate to pay attention to the tiny voice that told her to give up and try again another day. She threw herself against the door, and when the lock didn't give, she began pounding it with her fists.

Tears of fury and frustration choked her. 'Let me in! Let me in, you Yankee son of a