Confidence John

Chapter One

A reflection on the well floor told her everything. Three points of light. Two were like the staring eyes of a dead man looking up at the last drop of sun he’d ever see. The third was a sparkling star.

Emily paused with the ladle at her lips. A cloud sailed its shadow across her shoulder, and the well went dark. Still, she hesitated.

Footsteps crunched in the sandy courtyard behind her. I wouldn’t drink that, young sir.

Emily tipped her head to thank the man soaking in the swampy depths with a click of her tongue, a wink and a smile.

She let the ladle drop to clatter against the course stone. Twine looped into the handle creaked as it swung.

She straightened the ruffles at her wrists as she turned and lifted her chin to stare down her nose at the approaching figure.

Sniffed. Cleared her throat. Pitched her accent to British. And why ever not?

The church looked like it grew out of the surrounding trees. Cheesecloth shades fluttered over new tobacco plants.

The priest held his cassock close with one hand. Raised the other in greeting. His face was red and puffy in the blazing heat. Emily found it curious that he wore no hat against the pounding sun.

He dropped his hand when she didn’t return his wave, but the grin went nowhere. We believe some young Creek raiders may have dropped a deer in the well.

Emily widened her eyes as she pulled her beaver gaucho hat off and slapped the dust on her thigh. This close to Georgia?

The priest spread his hands. The magistrate is enlisting a host of Spaniards laying over for a letter from Andrew Jackson. I fear the governor has more pressing business, however.

The priest wore his robes like a costume, in wrinkles and rumples that didn’t fall right. Emily herself could understand. She was dressed as a young man looking for his way in the world.

A young man of means, and worldly. Cotton vest and jacket from England. Silk tie and handkerchief from India. Soft leather riding boots. Her pistols and saber were made by French masters, her saddle hand-tooled by Jans Brigham himself.

But unlike the priest’s welcome, hers was without flaw. She presented as a New England dandy. His pretense as a southern priest was offensive.

The accent was not Florida. Not Spanish or French. A slight lilt suggested Ireland by way of the Pennsylvania railroad gandy dancers working their way down the coast.

His sunburned nose and pale eyes helped confirm it.

Emily donned her hat with a flourish. Not aught to drink in the meantime, Father?

The priest shrugged again. I have fresh coffee. Strong and sweet. Some goat’s milk with a day or two left on it.

Emily nodded and extended her hand. I have full skins still. Warm and salty, but I had a taste for something cool. Emmett Bisset, at your service.

The priest took her hand in a crushing grip. She had learned long ago to wrestle in greeting. Give as good as she got.

The priest’s grin faltered. A flash of uncertainty, but he regained his aplomb in an instant. A pleasure, young sir. Chase Emmanuel.

Emily pulled her hand back and slid her fingers into her vest pocket. And have you caught them, Father?

His eyes narrowed in confusion, then widened in understanding. "Ah, ’tis not my calling of late, my son. To chase the sinners toward salvation. Nay, I save souls the Lord sends me."

Emily grunted laughter. Even if they’re not Catholic?

Chase threw his head back in laughter. His watery eyes crinkled at the corners. "Down here? Everyone is Catholic."

He pointed at Emily’s rig sitting in the sand at her feet — saddle and bags, toilette and bedroll. Can I help you carry your things to where you want?

Emily tipped her head toward the church. Where I want is right there, Father. I would accept your help, as I’m spent from days inside a jouncing carriage. And despite the heat, I would also accept the offer of coffee, if offer it truly was.

A young soul seeking out one of my humble vocation? I would be honored.

Emily stooped for the saddle. Tipped her head toward the bags. The honor is mine, Father. I’m most grateful.

She saw his eyes crawl over the plain scabbard and the wax seal on the veneered box that carried her guns. His brow furrowed with worry as he stood with his burden.

She stepped aside to wait for his lead and followed him over cobbles hidden by unswept sand. Through the front doors, and the church was still, save for rustling sheers over the side windows. A breeze helped cool the thin sweat on her cheeks and upper lip.

Chase threw his hip to the side, avoiding a collision with the chair holding the door open. This way, my son. My chamber has a wide window that faces the garden.

No bowl of blessed water. No burning candles.

Emily hitched the saddle up over the top of the girdle flattening her chest and laid her wrist against the knife handle hidden by her vest.

Like a kitten burrowing for the teat. It was a need fulfilled. Comfort.

Chase passed through a narrow door leading into the priest’s seating chamber. She waited for him to clear it, and he set her bags on a worn bench beside a wicker desk.

He stood straight with a groaning stretch, and the hem lifted from his boots.

More curious than the absence of a hat in the Florida blaze, was a priest with spurs. He'd stuffed tufts of dirty linen through to keep them silent.

Emily settled the saddle on the floor and turned to Chase with a bow of thanks. I know water slakes a man’s thirst, Father, but is there something else that might nourish your spirit?

Chase laid his finger along the side of his nose. Spirit for spirit, my son? If you have it to offer?

I do indeed.

Then, I accept.

Splendid. Emily clapped her hands and grinned. We shall both pour, then.

Chase turned with a nod, and she suspected his smile was finally genuine.

He ambled to a small iron stove and turned a coal with a pair of blackened tongs. Then he took two clay mugs from a shelf and poured thick coffee from a dented tin carafe.

Emily met him with a flask full of brandy. When she offered him the first dollop, and Chase rolled his eyes in pleasure at the aroma alone.

He poured a healthy splash, then looked up with a mischievous smile that brought a chuckle through her nose. She imitated his pour, and before capping the flask, they clinked their mugs in a moment of companionship she was sure was a surprise for them both.

The brandy did little to tame the coffee's bitterness, but managed to calm her fingers.

Chase smacked his lips, closing his eyes in appreciation. There is little else in the world that proves God’s love to me.

He pointed to the empty chair in front of the desk. Please, sit. Be my guest.

Emily set her mug on the stained doily next to a Bible with a cracked spine, capped the flask, and sat with a nod of gratitude. The chair creaked like sailing ropes. She took the mug back and watched Chase sit behind the desk. He barely fit. It had been meant for a much smaller man.

She looked down over the rim of her mug as she took another sip. The rug was askew.

Moved from its original location. The section of the floor not faded from the sun was still rich with color, in the shape of the rug’s border.

Moved to reveal or to hide?

She pulled her hat from her head. Rested it on her knee. Smoothed her hair down into the style held by the French beeswax.

What are your thoughts, Father?

On what, my son?

Emily smiled over her cup. "Not to put too fine a point on it, but on me?"

Chase took a long sip before setting the cup on his desk, ignoring the doily next to the blotter. Not many come through here with a full kit. I suspect the livery men turned you away empty handed, as there are no horses for sale this close to the border.

That is correct.

Chase acknowledged her words with a smug smile. And I can’t help wondering if your destination was not this town, but this church.

Correct again.

The caretaker before me spoke about strangers with strange requests. I have yet to encounter any, but then you have made none.

How long have you been here, Father?

He sat back in surprise, lifting his eyes as if to think. Oh, I have been at this for a very long time.

Emily had seen enough. She drank the last of the coffee, chewed on the grounds before putting the mug down. I will come to it, then. I am here for a box.

Chase leaned forward and steepled his fingers. A box, my son?

"Well, the contents of a box."

Chase nodded. His black sleeves slid down his arms. The white linen underneath was pitted with burn holes. Sparks from a blacksmith’s fire, maybe. Or the spitting coal of a steam engine.

The caretaker before me mentioned that very thing. And he told me there would be … a token. Something shown as proof the bearer was … qualified to view the contents of that box.

And did the previous caretaker say what that token was to be?

Chase narrowed his eyes and leaned back. He did not. He only said it would be one half of a heart.

And the heart?

"One belonging to a great man. A war hero. A scoundrel. The heart of Confidence John."

Emily held his gaze. Reached into her watch pocket. The brass was cold under her fingers. There was a baby born here. To a woman suffering a cruel addiction. The priest at the time, perhaps the very caretaker of whom you spoke, took her and the baby into the bosom of the church, and he attempted to cure the woman, but alas …

Chase sat with his mouth open, staring at her lips as she told her tale.

She pressed the release, and the watch sprang open, but there were no gears inside. No glass. No time at all.

Only history.

She looked up at the ceiling, momentarily breaking his gaze. The woman left, and the father decided not to follow. He was quit of her, you see. Of her and her lies. The lies into which she raised an innocent.

There was half a coin inside the case. A copper challenge coin from the war against the British. She lifted it out and set it on the desk. It landed with an empty clink.

The father ignored them both, until one day … for reasons untold, he sought them out. Many years passed before he found that child — confused by life, and angry. He gave the child that coin. Mated it with the other half he wore on a chain, and he told the child it was the other half of his heart. He also said the child was the other half of his soul, but the child did not believe that.

Emily slid the coin across the desk. Chase picked it up like the treasure it was.

"Decades later, the child learned the man did a strange thing. He left a treasure for that child to find. In this church. She reached into the watch pocket again, and she pulled out an iron key. Opened with this."

Chase stared at the key like he had witnessed a great magic trick, and he shook his head. You are not the child, yes?

Does it matter? I have the coin and the key.

Where did you get them?

She remembered the look on Gaston Grey’s face when she ran him through. Beaten by a woman. The shame so plain in his eyes as he drew his last breath.

He may have had the key, but only she and her mother knew where the church was. Gaston had thought to use Emily. Force himself into her bed at knifepoint. Take her body by force. Dig the location of the church from her tortured