Lover for Ransom

Lover for Ransom

Everly Ryan

Ransom Byrne has been ravaged by guilt since an illness rendered his little sister blind. The former Confederate cavalry officer has resolved to make amends by hiring a Yankee tutor who’ll hopefully restore order to his sister s life. Once that’s accomplished, he’ll be free to leave Byrne’s End.

From the moment she steps off the train in Tennessee, Cathleen O’Brien makes a startling first impression. With her feminist ideas, the irrepressible Bostonian quickly outrages everyone especially Ransom. He deems the bespectacled teacher too uptight and prim for his tastes. Appearances, however, are deceiving. She tenders decadent proposals that shock and intrigue him, and sultry nights spent submitting to his every illicit request offer them both love and redemption. But when her steadfast convictions attract the attention of dangerous men, Cathleen risks losing her chance of becoming more than just a lover for Ransom.

Lover for Ransom

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Lover for Ransom Copyright © 2017 Everly Ryan

Edited by Kelli Collins

Cover art by Debra Glass

Electronic book publication February 2017

With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from Everly Ryan.

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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

LOVER FOR RANSOM

Everly Ryan

Acknowledgements

Of course this book couldn’t have been written without the amazing help of prolific author A.J. Llewellyn, with whom I consulted regarding teaching the blind and the many challenges the blind and their families face. Special thanks to my friend Laura Thrasher, who supplied me with her vast library on all things horses, and to Megan Williams, the ultimate feminist, who helped give my heroine moxie. As always, I’m indebted to my friends and colleagues, Civil War military historian Heath Mathews, and plantation life and slave historian Amy Batton. And last but never least, the world’s best editor (who fully realizes this, by the way), Kelli Collins; and my friends and expert critique partners, fellow plotters and insightful readers Stormy Pate and Naima Simone. Each person on this list has enriched my life in myriad ways. Thank you for brightening my world.

The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched. They must be felt within the heart. ~Helen Keller

Chapter One

Thompson’s Station, Tennessee

1866

Even though violet twilight blanketed the gently undulating hills of Middle Tennessee, Cathleen O’Brien squinted behind her black-lensed glasses. Two surgeries had improved her vision enough that she could read, but bright light still hurt her eyes.

Tennessee was a long way from where she’d been born in Boston, Massachusetts—and her dark, dismal childhood. After her mother died and her father turned to liquor, she’d been sent to the state poorhouse in Tewksbury. The matrons there had recognized how bright she was despite her blindness and had sent her to Perkins School for the Blind, where she’d flourished. It was there she’d garnered connections to supporters of equality for women, and though she’d mingled with wealthy suffragettes, she’d never seen anything the likes of the grand southern mansions that had dotted the rolling, rich farmland since her train had crossed the Kentucky state line.

Cathleen sneered. The Northern papers bragged about how the South had been brought to its knees. If this was ruin, she hated to think about how opulent this place must have been before the War Between the States.

She hadn’t wanted to come south. She’d argued vehemently with Mrs. Stanton about the matter but in the end, Mrs. Stanton had convinced her that the Southern women needed her to show them the way out of the shackles of male oppression. Why, Southern women are no better than the slaves we just fought to free! Mrs. Stanton had been adamant that Southern women should band with Northern suffragettes to secure the vote before black men were given the right. If they are given the right before we women, then I fear the voting men of both races will band against us, Mrs. Stanton had said.

But what had really swayed Cathleen was the fact she’d been recommended by her former teacher at Perkins to come and educate a teenaged girl who’d recently lost her sight.

Cathleen knew all too well the horrors of having so vital a sense suddenly ripped away.

She pushed her glasses up higher on her nose and gazed through the drawn curtains at the depot. The engine hissed as the train lurched to a stop. Northern railroad stations boasted throngs of men and women dressed in the garb of their homelands, immigrants who barely spoke a word of English, a mish-mash of people who went about their business with their heads down.

These Southern faces consisted of a sparse sea of black and white. Cathleen bit her bottom lip as she studied a little boy whose face was every inch the color of India ink. Clad in a pair of dungarees rolled up at the cuffs, the child stood barefoot. A ragged straw hat sat perched on his head, the brim pushed up. As soon as people stepped off the train, the child approached, offering to carry bags for money.

One lady in a wide hoop skirt bent to press a pair of coins in his palm before she handed him her valise.

Cathleen stood, her back and knees aching from the long hours of sitting. She stooped to pick up her carpetbag, straightened and took a deep breath. How would the Southern family receive her? What would they think of her, an outspoken, half-blind Yankee girl?

A conductor reached to take her hand as she descended the steps onto the platform. I can manage, she said, gripping the railing instead.

He eyed her black attire and, obviously summing up her accent, he reached out and took her hand anyway. I’ll not have you falling on your face on my account, missy.

Cathleen would have snatched her hand away but for his tight grip. She gasped as two quick steps had her on the platform.

The conductor blew a sharp whistle through his teeth and then muttered something about the stubbornness of Yankee women before turning to help the next passenger.

She resisted the urge to demand to know what he’d said. She definitely had her work cut out for her here. Biting her tongue, she turned, suddenly finding herself face-to-embroidered waistcoat with the tallest, broadest man she’d ever seen. She would have taken a step backward but for the throng of people embarking from the train behind her.

Two big hands clamped down on her arms, holding her upright as a boisterous child swept by.

Johnny Ross! the man called after the boy. You slow yourself down. You nearly caused the lady to fall. If your momma was to see you, she’d take a cornstalk to your hide! His drawl was that of the educated Southern aristocracy. Easy and languid, edged with confidence. Swagger.

She blinked as she assessed her unwelcome reaction to this very virile, very male Southerner whose proximity caused her to feel small and weak.

Cathleen O’Brien did not like feeling small. Or weak.

She opened her mouth to speak, but the man turned to face her. She stared, stunned by the sparkle in his light-colored eyes. Her initial assessment was that this man affected every woman with whom he came into contact—and worse, he knew it. Even though she, too, had been affected, she was loath to let him realize it. Breaking free of his grasp, she took a step back.

His gaze drank her in, as if all at once. You must be none other than Miss O’Brien, come to teach my little sister.

Cathleen lifted her chin. I am. She extended her hand—immediately regretting it.

He took it and instead of shaking it in greeting, he peeled down her black kid glove and bowed to press a kiss to the back of her hand. A shiver tore through her and his gaze met hers as if he knew—damn well knew—the effect it had on her.

Ransom Byrne, he said, straightening. He introduced himself in the same sinful drawl he’d used to scold that child. He squeezed her hand before he released it. How was your train ride down?

She cleared her throat. Long.

Luckily, Byrne’s End isn’t too far from here. Without asking permission, he reached and took her bag.

I’m sure I can manage my valise, Mr. Byrne.

Nonsense, he said, looking over her head to scan the length of the train for the porters. Ah, here they come. Which trunk is yours, Miss O’Brien?

Cathleen turned. From here, she could vaguely make out that the figures were people. She couldn’t have identified her trunk had her very life depended on it. I apologize, she said, gesturing toward her glasses. I can’t see that far.

He didn’t flinch. Well, what does it look like? Any identifying marks?

It’s rectangular and black with a lock on the front and handles on the sides.

He laughed heartily—the sort of laugh produced by a man who possessed inordinate amounts of self-confidence. You’re nigh the card, Miss O’Brien.

Cathleen didn’t know whether to laugh or be insulted.

He slipped his arm through hers and started toward the porter, leaving her no choice except to follow. Given his long legs, he could have taken giant strides, but instead his gait was easy. Patient.

At first sight, Cathleen had wanted to dislike the handsome, wealthy Southerner, but he was making it increasingly hard to do.

I won’t lie to you, Miss O’Brien. We have high hopes for Jenny, he said.

I understand she went blind after an illness?

His expression blackened. Typhoid, he ground out. We lost my grandfather. Pretty near lost Jenny too.

I don’t remember what it’s like to see clearly, Mr. Byrne.

Blind all your life?

Close to it. As a child, I contracted a bacterial infection and suffered from trachoma. After I was removed from a poor house, I was taken to the Perkins School, where I was educated. Luckily, I attracted the attention of a doctor and was fortunate enough to have been chosen for two experimental eye surgeries. I can read print now, but my eyes grow weary easily.

Hence the black glasses.

Cathleen pushed them up higher on her nose. Hence the black glasses, she repeated.

I suppose there’s no better teacher than an experienced student, he said. Now, which of these trunks belongs to you?

Cathleen slipped free of his arm, instantly missing the warm strength. She’d never been so bothered by a man’s presence before, and it irked her to no end. Ransom Byrne was not the sort of man a woman like herself should find attractive. Admittedly, his appearance was more than pleasing, but doubtless, he was one of those men who coddled women and thought their place was in the home. He was the type of man who didn’t find a plainspoken, plain-faced woman like herself attractive.

Not that she would have desired him to.

She approached the stack of trunks, removed her glasses and leaned to peruse them. Oh dear, they all look so much alike.

Perhaps you should have marked yours with a colored ribbon.

The fact he possessed so much common sense vexed her just as much. She’d prepared herself to be sympathetic to the child she was to teach, but had known—just known—she would feel disdain for these people. Thus far, Ransom Byrne had been nothing but…charming.

At last, she recognized her own trunk by a nick in the handle. This one, she said, standing and turning.

But Mr. Byrne was nowhere to be found.

Cathleen’s hands found her hips. The crowd had thinned but there were still so many people, and at a distance the faces appeared blurred. She blinked, focusing on a tall figure that could be none other than Byrne. He stood talking to a woman wearing a lemon-yellow frock trimmed in black.

Pursing her lips, Cathleen blew out a breath through her nose. She didn’t like the twinge of jealousy nagging her. She hadn’t expected to find romance in Tennessee. Far from it. But for Mr. Byrne to have so rudely turned his attentions to someone far prettier without so much as a word was unconscionable.

Cathleen couldn’t help but compare her simple black mourning gown, her no-nonsense coiffure and plain black bonnet to the stunning vision who looked like sunshine against the gray backdrop of the depot.

Excuse me, miss, a porter said. Can I take your trunk to your wagon?

Cathleen’s gaze swiveled to the throng of carriages and wagons to the side of the depot. I’m not sure which one belongs to Mr. Byrne.

I know, ma’am, he said and then pulled the trunk onto a two-wheeled hand truck.

Thank you, she said, uncertain whether she should follow the porter or rejoin Mr. Byrne.

The woman in yellow preened shamelessly, making Cathleen wonder if she herself had looked so hopelessly foolish as she’d lolled under Byrne’s attentions. The jaunty feather jutting from the fashionable black hat perched on the blonde’s head bobbed as she flirted with Byrne.

Dismayed, Cathleen turned to follow the porter. With a grunt, he hefted the trunk onto a buckboard and a little black boy, who could have been no more than seven years old, climbed onto the driver’s seat. He gaped at Cathleen as if she’d just sprouted horns.

Are you that Yankee tutor come to teach Miss Jenny?

Yes, I am. And what is your name, sir?

A grin claimed his little round face. My name’s Charles Hunt.

Charles Hunt, Cathleen exclaimed. That’s quite an impressive name for a little fellow like yourself.

His expression turned serious. I’m seven and I ain’t so little. You should see my brother. He’s way littler than me. Charles’ eyes brightened. Mr. Ransom, can I drive?

Of course you can, Byrne boomed, and before Cathleen could draw her