To save her friend’s future, she must marry him.  To save his life, she must defend a killer. 

Clay Hayward has worked diligently to escape the memories of Savannah in his search for the promise of contentment at the end of his fifteen year journey from his father’s plantation to what he hopes will be his final destination--ownership in a New Orleans based steamboat.  Before he settles, he must race back to Savannah, a detour promising only pain. 

Clay returns to the snake and alligator infested rice fields owned by his estranged father to discover Catherine, the little sister he was forced to leave behind has grown into a cold woman, befriended by the loyal and stubborn Andrea Lansing.

            During a party given in her honor, Andrea and Clay are forced together.  Although Andrea cannot hide the hostility she feels toward him for having abandoned his sister to their brutal father, she experiences an undeniable attraction to the broad-shouldered quiet woodsman.  Clay is drawn by Andrea’s direct manner and regal beauty, but believes that the red-haired belle is beyond his reach.

             When a drunken mob tries to hang Clay for rape and murder, Andrea is surprised to discover that that her friend’s brother is also the hero of her childhood, and she involves herself in proving his innocence.  In his father’s Will, she discovers that unless Clay marries a bride acceptable to Savannah society, Catherine’s future will be destroyed.  Without admitting their mutual attraction, Andrea offers to marry Clay to protect his sister, and he reluctantly agrees.  Though Clay is found not guilty, he is not cleared of the crime.  They must work together to keep the plantation and defeat his father’s carefully laid plans to destroy their futures. 

             Although Clay is no Southern gentleman, he'll surpass her dreams.

Excerpt from

Wayfarer's Promise

CHAPTER ONE

  Savannah, Georgia, 1837

Clay Ward couldn’t have picked a stormier day to return to the place he called Hell.  Savannah, the realm of Clayton Ward VIII, the man who caused his birth and exile from all he knew and loved.  The demon some would call his father.  Some, but not him. 

He slammed the office door against the whipping wind blowing from the Savannah River and dropped his satchel near a worn leather couch.  “Are you Michael Montgomery, the lawyer who sent me this letter? 

          “I am.”

          At least he had found the right office—if you could call the closet cut from the neighboring warehouse and decorated with crates and barrels an office.  The lack of decoration surprised him.  The old man normally associated himself with affluence and success.  “I’m here to answer your summons.”

          “Then you must be Clayton Ward, IX.” 

He hated the name.  “Clay.  Clay Ward,” he corrected. 

The lawyer circled a battered desk and extended his hand over a barrel covered with paper.  Clay accepted the solid handshake.  “If you’d like to return after you’ve had the opportunity to rest, we can discuss the matter I approached in my letter.”

He couldn’t waste time or he’d never meet his ship.  “My ship to New Orleans leaves at dusk.  If we could complete our business, I’ll be on my way.  As I said in my letter, I won’t accept the old man’s money.  I haven’t changed my mind.”

The lawyer’s smile faded. 

Clay didn’t mind making him uneasy.  In fact, if Montgomery didn’t expect friendly conversation, he would be able to return to his newly won steamship without delay.  “Your reply stated the law required me to appear in person to reject my inheritance.  I’m here.  If you’ll collect the papers, I’ll sign and be on my way.” 

Montgomery’s eyes narrowed.  He straightened into an imposing stance. “Until your father dies, there is no inheritance to refuse.  You haven’t asked about his condition, but I’ll tell you anyway.  He is confined to his bed most of the time, but he still lives.” 

Clay steeled himself for the lawyer’s condolences.  He might have to bite his tongue, but he wouldn’t insult the lawyer and delay this meeting.  The young lawyer continued, “We can address your refusal after you visit Catherine.” 

The mention of his sister tied him in knots.  The little girl he remembered couldn’t be bothered to answer his many letters and inquiries.  According to the local paper, Savannah’s society had embraced Catherine and, like her father, she had dismissed him.  She couldn’t be bothered to return his letters.  She ignored his existence.  The daughter of Clayton Hayward VIII wouldn’t want to reunite with the family outcast. 

Clay had answered the lawyer’s summons, but he would not allow anyone to rip open his soul.  The wounds of his childhood closed long ago.  They would stay that way.  No reason he should bleed all over Catherine’s dreams and hopes.

Michael cleared his throat.  “I assumed you would stay at the plantation until after your father’s funeral.”

“You’d be wrong, Mr. Montgomery.  If you’ll get those papers...”

          The lawyer shuffled a stack of parchment from one hand to the other and then dropped it on the barrel.

Placing his fists on the edge of the makeshift table, Clay leaned forward.  “I will sign the papers refusing my inheritance.  Now.  When the old man dies, you file them.”

          The lawyer leaned forward and met his stare.  “Your father hired me to contact you.  You will need to meet with his attorney of record to refuse his gift.  Out the door you’ll find Bull Street.  Walk south to Perry.  Ask for the home of John Lansing.”

          He sighed, venting his impatience.  Finding the other lawyer would delay his departure, but would not keep him from returning to New Orleans in time for the maiden voyage of his new steamship.  There was much to do to before they loaded cargo on her decks.  Clay turned to the door, retrieved his bag and gripped the knob.

The lawyer called out, “You’ll be rejecting a substantial sum.  Wayfarer’s Promise is a profitable rice plantation.  The land alone is worth a small fortune, then there’s the equipment, livestock, and a valuable inventory of skilled slaves.”

Wayfarer’s Promise.  The place of his birth.  Another name for hell.  Catherine could claim it.  The government could seize it.  Hell, they could pitch it in the river.

“If you don’t have the authority to accept my refusal, I won’t waste any more of your time.”  Clay opened the door to meet a lady’s breathtaking golden-brown eyes.  Her face was equally beautiful, but her shining eyes took his breath. 

She dropped her gaze and stepped inside, forcing him back.  She shuffled a roll of crisp parchment, loosened the ribbons on the unadorned hat shading her face and pulled it off to expose hair the color of fire and sunlight.  Her tidy dress bespoke a woman of modest means or simple taste. 

“I didn’t mean to interrupt a meeting, Mr. Montgomery.”  A voice like spun sugar.

          “Mr. Ward was just leaving.”

          She spun so fast, Clay backed up to avoid the swirl of her olive skirt.  Her eyes flashed with a keen intelligence.  Breathtaking.  It’d be best if he left.  Quickly. 

All images and writings copyright 2006  Sheila-Rae Z. Mohs  Last Updated 04/05/08