Free River Magic by Martha Hix

brass.
    She took a gamble, bet a hand of threes and fives, jack high. “Surely would be a shame if the bonhomie of this place got stirred up, wouldn’t it, Major? It would look bad to the war hawks in Washington. No telling what kind of hell might pop.”
    Moments drifted by, heavy with the weight of her gamble.
    â€œI don’t like threats. But I don’t like trouble, either.” Teeth clenched, his features hard, the major didn’t surrender passively, at least in heart. “You can stay till Lawrence returns. Ask him to open the gates.”
    â€œHow long before he returns?”
    â€œCould be a month. Maybe longer.”
    â€œThank you.” She whirled around, leaving his room. Once she reached her own, she wilted onto the bed and prayed for strength to see her ambitions through. Anger and embarrassment burned through her.
    â€œI’ll eat a bucket of fishing worms before Connor O’Brien hears another seductive word from my lips.” Treat him like the despicable worm that he was, that was how she’d treat him.
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    For the longest, until the lantern died out, Connor sat in a chair in his room and pondered the path India had taken.
    War had found him. She had something important to do—albeit detrimental to his purposes, no doubt—but he had to admire her spirit. The challenge of India Marshall intrigued him, and the rascal in Connor looked forward to the tussle of getting her gone before Dimpled Darling returned.
    â€œGran’son,” he could almost hear Fitz O’Brien lecturing, “you be nice t’ the lasses.” Fitz had tried to rear decent grandsons, had tried to instill his own credo: Worship the ladies, and treat the women as if they were ladies.
    Congress may have made Connor a gentleman, but tonight he hadn’t been all that gentlemanly, shouldn’t have pointed out her inexperience, a state that usually brought men joy rather than censure, him being no exception. It had riled him, though, once he realized what she was willing to barter. A woman as strong as India Marshall shouldn’t dishonor herself.
    Strange. Connor had known his share of women, yet he couldn’t recall a time he’d wanted one as badly as he’d wanted India tonight. It took a store of strength to push her away.
    The urge to take Intrepid out for as good a ride as possible came over Connor. He didn’t. The sleek Arabian hadn’t yet become accustomed to the cold clime of Illinois, so why disturb his faithful steed at this dark hour? Connor’s was a lonely vigil, coming to grips with the latest turn in his life.
    To justify his attraction to India Marshall, he lined up her good qualities. She had the makings of a good soldier. Yet her soft heart for prisoners-of-war gave her character and depth. She had substance, certainly wasn’t selfish.
    But he was no closer to the truth about her. Why not send a telegram to the War Department, check on her? No. If what he suspected turned out to be fact, he’d have no choice but to arrest her, and that didn’t appeal to him.
    Time would give the true tale of India Marshall. During her brief stay at Rock Island, he’d keep her at arm’s length, and within arm’s reach.

Five
    Streaks of morning light were painting the breakfast room when Phoebe O’Brien sat down to a plate of ham and eggs. Already she’d seen to Fitz’s comforts, not that her father needed it. By the time she reached his room, a servant had beaten her to fresh clothes plus porridge, juice, and a Havana cigar.
    Fitz O’Brien, spry despite eighty-six years of crabbing about rheumatism, would soon be on his way to do damage at the establishment that had never had a name change, even after Daniel’s death: Fitz & Son, Factors.
    Phoebe forked a slice of ham. “Better it should be Fitz & Daughter, Factors,” she muttered, aggravated that neither Connor nor Burke had seen fit to serve