His Heart's Revenge (The Marshall Brothers Series, Book 2) by Jo Goodman Read Free Book Online

Yankees said they were well-clothed and belly full. Logan Marshall looked neither. More to the point, he looked like he was starving. It had been so easy to hate the man he had been, the man she remembered him being. She searched her heart for that emotion and discovered it had already been replaced by pity. Even as she wondered why she should spare him, Mary Catherine found herself looking away so Logan wouldn't guess what was in her heart.
    "I didn't mean to frighten you," he told her. "I wouldn't have hurt you."
    Mary Catherine shot him a disbelieving glance, but said nothing. He had seemed terribly desperate to her a short time ago.
    Logan picked up one of the horse blankets and pulled it around his shoulders. Outside the sun was shining, but it was a cold winter sun. Although Mary Catherine seemed unaffected, Logan felt the chill all the way to his bones. Thin streamers of light filtered through the cracks in the wood planking. Dust motes danced in the yellow rays. A sunbeam touched Mary Catherine's hair, and her face was caressed by a halo of light. "How old are you, Katy?" It wasn't what he meant to say, yet somehow the words came tripping out.
    Surprised by the question, Mary Catherine heard herself answering. "I was fifteen in September."
    "Fifteen," he repeated softly. "It's odd, but when I thought of you these past long months, I never thought of you growing older. In my mind I always saw little Katy McCleary."
    Mary Catherine sat up. She smoothed her dress and drew up her legs so the ruffled edge of her pantalets wouldn't show. "Don't call me that."
    Logan was taken aback. "Call you what? Katy, you mean?"
    "Yes. No one calls me that. It's a baby name."
    "I agree you're not a baby, but I like the name Katy."
    "Well, I don't."
    "All right," he said, making no real promise. "Where's your mother? And Megan? This farm belongs to one of your relatives, doesn't it? A cousin, I think."
    Did he remember everything? Katy found Logan's memory, and the memory it stirred in her, frightening. "Yes. It belongs to Aunt Peggy."
    "And what will Aunt Peggy have to say about a Yankee on her Rebel property?"
    "She won't say anything. Once she knows you're here, she'll show you the wrong end of her shotgun."
    "Is she a good shot?"
    "Very good."
    "I was afraid you'd tell me that."
    "I'm not lying," Mary Catherine said.
    "I didn't think you were. I don't suppose it will help my cause that your mother would speak well of me?"
    "That's not possible."
    Logan pulled the blanket more tightly around his chest as a shiver coursed through him. "What do you mean?" he asked, puzzled. His teeth chattered, making it difficult to speak. "Rose knows I'm no threat to any of you. Why wouldn't she help me?"
    "Would you like to see Mama and ask her for yourself?"
    "You can bring her here?"
    "No. You'll have to come with me." Mary Catherine got to her feet. "Don't worry about Aunt Peggy. She's working in the kitchen at the back of the house. She won't see us."
    "I don't understand... what about Megan?"
    "Oh, she's with Mama as well." She extended her hand and helped Logan to his feet. She had to steady him once he was standing. It was probably good that she was making him walk, she decided. He needed to move around before he was frozen through. Her brief contact with him was enough to let her know that his skin was unnaturally cold.
    Mary Catherine led the way down the ladder. "This is Brutus," she said, introducing the dog to Logan. "We would have known about you last night, but a trio of scalawags came though here a while back and one of them damaged Brutus's barking box." She didn't wait for Logan's comment. What could he say? These were dangerous times. "Come on, boy. We're talking Mr. Marshall for a little walk."
    Logan expected to go in the direction of the farmhouse, so when Mary Catherine set off across the pasture, he hesitated. She didn't wait for him, or even turn to acknowledge that he had fallen behind. He berated himself for his suspicions. He