Kit cocked the hammer and adjusted her aim. This time she was too low, and she hit the brick wall just below the bottom of the card. But it was still a respectable shot, and the crowd acknowledged it.
Her head was spinning, but she forced herself to concentrate on the small black shape at the center of the card. She'd made this shot dozens of times. All she needed was concentration. Slowly she squeezed the trigger.
It was nearly a perfect shot, and it took the point off the spade. There was a trace of disquiet in the subdued congratulations of the Southern men. None of them had ever seen a woman shoot like that. Somehow it didn't seem right. Women were to be protected. But this woman could do that for herself.
Cain lifted his own weapon. Once again the crowd fell silent, so that only the sea breeze in the sweet olives disturbed the quiet of the night garden.
The gun fired. It hit the brick wall just to the left of the card.
Cain corrected his aim and fired again. This time he hit the top edge of the card.
Kit held her breath, praying that his third shot would miss, praying that it wouldn't, wishing too late that she hadn't forced this contest upon them.
Cain fired. There was a puff of smoke, and the single spade in the center of the playing card disappeared. His final shot had drilled it out.
The onlookers went wild. Even the Southerners temporarily forgot their animosity, relieved that the natural law of male superiority had held firm. They surrounded Cain to congratulate him.
"Fine shootin', Mr. Cain."
"A privilege to watch you."
"Of course, you were only firin' against a woman."
The men's congratulations grated on his ears. As they pounded him on the back, he looked over their heads at Kit, standing off by herself, the revolver nestled in the soft folds of her skirt.
One of the Northerners shoved a cigar into his hand. "That woman of yours is pretty good, but when all's said and done, I guess shootin' is still pretty much a man's game."
"You're right there," another said. "Never much doubt about a man beating a woman."
Cain felt only contempt for their casual dismissal of Kit's skill. He thrust the cigar back and glared at them.
"You fools. If she hadn't been drinking champagne, I wouldn't have had a chance against her. And neither, by God, would any of you."
Turning on his heel, he stalked out of the garden, leaving the men gaping after him in astonishment.
Kit was stunned by his defense. She thrust the revolver at Veronica, picked up her skirts, and ran after him.
He was already in their bedroom when she reached it. Her brief happiness faded as she saw him throw his clothing into a satchel that lay open on the bed.
"What are you doing?" she asked breathlessly.
He didn't bother to look up at her. "I'm going to Risen Glory."
"But why?"
"I'll send the carriage back for you the day after tomorrow," he replied, without answering her question. "I'll be gone by then."
"What do you mean? Where are you going?"
He didn't look at her as he tossed a shirt into the satchel. He spoke slowly. "I'm leaving you."
She made a muffled sound of protest.
"I'm getting out now while I can still look myself in the eye. But don't worry. I'll see a lawyer first and make sure your name is on the deed to Risen Glory. You won't ever have to be afraid your precious plantation will be taken away from you again."
Kit's heart was pounding in her chest like the wings of a trapped bird. "I don't believe you. You can't just walk away. What about the cotton mill?"
"Childs can manage it for now. Maybe I'll sell it. I've already had an offer." He grabbed a set of brushes from the top of the bureau and shoved them inside with the rest. "I'm done fighting you, Kit. You've got a clear field now."
"But I don't want you to go!" The words sprang spontaneously from her lips. They were true, and she didn't want to take them back.
He finally looked up at her, his mouth twisted in its old mockery. "That surprises me. You've been trying your best to get rid of me one way or another since you were eighteen."
"That was different. Risen Glory-"
He slammed the open palm of his hand against the bedpost, making the heavy wooden spindle vibrate. "I don't want to hear about Risen Glory! I don't ever want to hear that name again. Damn it, Kit, it's just a cotton plantation. It isn't a shrine."
"You don't understand! You've never understood. Risen Glory is all I've ever had."
"So you've told me," he said quietly. "Maybe you should try to figure out why that is."
"What do you mean?" She grabbed the bedpost for support as she closed in on him.
"I mean that you don't give anything. You're like my mother. You take from a man until you've bled him dry. Well, I'll be damned if I end up like my father. And that's why I'm leaving."
"I'm not anything like Rosemary! You just can't accept the fact that I won't let you dominate me."
"I never wanted to dominate you," he said softly. "I never wanted to own you, either, no matter how many times I said it. If I'd wanted a wife I could grind under my bootheel, I could have gotten married years ago. I never wanted you to walk in my dust, Kit. But, by damn, I won't walk in yours, either."
He closed the satchel and began fastening the leather straps. "When we got married-after that first night-I had this idea that maybe it could somehow be all right between us. Then it went bad right away, and I decided I'd been a fool. But when you came to me in that black nightgown, and you were so scared and so determined, I forgot all about being a fool and let you creep right back under my skin."
He released the satchel and straightened up. For a moment he gazed at her, and then he closed the small distance left between them. His eyes were full of a pain that pierced through her as if it were her own. A pain that was her own.
He touched her cheek. "When we made love," he said huskily, "it was as if we stopped being two separate people. You never held back. You gave me your wildness, your softness, your sweetness. But there wasn't a foundation underneath that lovemaking-no trust or understanding-and that's why it turned sour."
He rubbed his thumb gently over her dry lips, his voice barely a whisper. "Sometimes when I was inside you, I wanted to use my body to punish you. I hated myself for that." He dropped his hand. "Lately I've been waking up in a cold sweat, afraid that someday I'd really hurt you. Tonight, when I saw you in that dress and watched you with those other men, I finally realized that I had to go. It's no good between us. We started out all wrong. We never had a chance."
Kit clutched his arm and gazed at him through the haze of her own tears. "Don't go. It's not too late. If we both tried harder-"
He shook his head. "I don't have anything left in me. I'm hurting, Kit. I'm hurting bad."
Bending down, he pressed his lips to her forehead, then picked up the satchel and walked out of the room.
True to his word, Cain was gone when she returned to Risen Glory, and for the next month Kit moved like a sleepwalker through the house. She lost track of time, forgot to eat, and locked herself away in the big front bedroom she'd once shared with him. A young lawyer appeared with a stack of documents and a pleasant, unassuming manner. She was shown papers that gave her clear title to Risen Glory as well as control over her trust fund. She had everything she'd ever wanted, and she'd never been more miserable.
He gives away his books and his horses before he can grow too attached to them…
The attorney explained that the money Cain had taken from her trust fund to rebuild the cotton mill had all been repaid. She listened to everything he said, but she didn't care about any of it.
Magnus came to her for orders, and she sent him away. Sophronia scolded her to eat, but Kit ignored it. She even managed to turn a deaf ear to Miss Dolly's fretting.
One dreary afternoon in late February, as she sat in the bedroom pretending to read, Lucy appeared to announce that Veronica Gamble was waiting for her in the sitting room.