Yet it had been because of Brandon’s determination to send a shipment of gold to Emperor Maximilian during his brief rule in Mexico that she had met Steve Morgan in San Antonio. It was so long ago, yet she could recall that moment as if it were only an hour before, how the gunslinger calling himself Whitaker had stood in the arid dust of the street below her hotel room, facing a man bent on killing him. The duel had been brief and shocking, seared into her memory as if with a hot iron. Whitaker—Steve Morgan—had been as cool then as he was now in an elegant restaurant with snowy linen tablecloths and crab bisque.
Could William Brandon have forgotten that? Could he have forgotten how dangerous and lethal Steve could be when he chose?
It would not have made Ginny feel a bit better to know that Brandon was fully aware of Morgan’s penchant for danger and survival. It was that very nature that had prompted him to hire the man to guard wagonloads of gold—only to have them stolen, along with Ginny.
Ah, it may all be behind them, and he may wear this polite mask now, but he had not forgotten for an instant how Morgan worked, and he knew instinctively why he was here in New Orleans, though the pretense of returning to ready their home for their children was the prevailing story of the moment. Nor had he forgotten that when New Orleans was occupied by Union soldiers, then Union Captain Steve Morgan had seduced Sonya into his bed. It was not a thing a man was likely to forget, especially when Sonya became a shivering wreck in Morgan’s presence.
But politicians were adept at hiding their true feelings, and even now he could smile blandly as he said, “Mexico still enjoys peace with Spain, though relatively precarious. Díaz would threaten that peace, and send the entire country spiraling into chaos and revolution.”
“Spain is not the greatest enemy to Mexico, sir.” Steve lifted a dark brow, his smile just as prosaic. “At the moment, American politicians are the greatest threat.”
Damn the smiling bastard, did he really believe what he was saying? But what could one expect from a man so ruthless as to abandon his own wife to the riffraff life of the Juaristas, after all?
Schooling his tone, he said, “The United States has only Mexico’s best interest at heart, while her own citizens would destroy the country with greed.”
“And that has nothing at all to do with the fact that you, personally, stand to gain a fortune with your railroad interests, I presume.”
Brandon’s mouth tightened. “If I recall correctly, you own quite a few shares of Union Pacific and Central Pacific railroad stock yourself, Morgan.”
“True. But I have no intention of exploiting Mexico to increase the value. More wine, Senator?”
A waiter clad in spotless linen hovered at the table, solicitous and yet not overly so as befitted a well-trained sommelier. Wine, a crisp white Reisling, sparkled in crystal glasses. Taking his cue, Brandon turned the conversation to more mundane topics though he made a mental note to do some more investigation into Steve Morgan’s presence in New Orleans.
“Sonya, dear,” he said lightly to his wife, noting her pallor and quick, startled glance, “have you told Virginia about our new house yet?”
Looking almost guilty, Sonya shook her head. “No, I have not had—we have been so busy catching up on all that has happened since last we were together, that I have not mentioned it. You tell her about it, William, since it is all your work.”
Watching Ginny over the rim of his glass, Brandon caught the slight frown that puckered her brow; candlelight gleamed in her green eyes, exotic eyes that had been inherited from another man. It had been painful to realize that he was not her real father, had not been the love of her mother’s life, as Genevieve had been of his. But he could not change that, could not change the fact that most of the world knew Ginny as his daughter. He had been too long in the habit of considering her as his child to stop it now.
Twisting the stem of the wineglass between his thumb and fingers, he smiled faintly. “I purchased the old Delery plantation, out on the River Road. It has been neglected for far too long, but was in surprisingly good condition. I’ve been restoring it as best I can, though it is difficult for me to personally supervise the workmen as much as I would like.”
It was an oblique reference to the limp that still dogged his every step, and though he should thank God that he could walk at all, for the rest of his life he would struggle with pain because of the bullet still lodged in his back. An assassin’s bullet, meant for another man, perhaps, though for a long time he’d had his doubts.
But that, too, was behind him, and he had resumed his seat in Congress, reelected by voters grateful and relieved that he blunted as much of the effects of Reconstruction for them as possible, while still promoting the New South of the post-Civil War. As a native Virginian, he walked a tightrope between North and South, both factions believing him to be in their corner. It was a delicate balance, held on to with grim tenacity at times, and at any moment capable of being wrested away from him by a careless decision.
“Andre Delery?” Ginny’s face was pale, gemmed eyes like brilliant emeralds wide and shocked as she stared at him.
“Yes, the old Delery mansion. Since Andre’s death, it has been vacant, and went for taxes this past year. I bought it for a paltry amount. The craftsmanship is exquisite, and there are few like it left now.
