You Belong to My Heart by Nan Ryan

Gulfport Belle shortly after seven Sunday morning. He glanced around the lavishly appointed cabin and whistled through his teeth. After dropping his small valise to the patterned rug, he crossed to a curtained porthole and looked out.
    He squinted into the morning sun, anxiously scanning the bluffs above until he focused on the gleaming white mansion of Longwood. His gaze was immediately riveted to a pair of tall second-story windows that he knew were directly beside Mary’s bed. He pictured her there asleep, warm and sweet and beautiful.
    Yawning, he turned away from the porthole, shrugged out of his suit jacket, and flung himself onto the cabin’s soft bed. He stretched out his long legs, folded his arms beneath his head, and lay there dreaming of the day when he and Mary would be sleeping in the same bed.
    Lulled by the pleasant thought, Clay closed his eyes and soon drifted into peaceful slumber. He never knew when the Gulfport Belle threw off its moorings, backed away from the busy levee, moved cautiously out into the middle of the Mississippi, and headed downstream.
    But John Thomas Preble did.
    Watching anxiously from just inside the open double doors of his book-lined study, the master of Longwood finally relaxed and began to smile. As the twin paddle wheels of the gingerbread-trimmed Gulfport Belle churned up great spumes of water and the big craft maneuvered out onto the river, John Thomas sighed with a mixture of pleasure and relief.
    Hands clasped behind his back, eyes locked on the slow-moving white steamer, John Thomas stayed where he was—where he had been for the past hour—until the riverboat’s tall texas deck finally disappeared around a heavily timbered bend in the wide river.
    Only then did he turn away.
    He dropped onto his tall-backed leather desk chair, clutched the padded arms, and exhaled loudly. His dark eyes beginning to dance with delight, he sat there for a long moment, silently congratulating himself for his cleverness.
    Savoring the moment, John Thomas reached for the carved decanter sitting atop his desk and poured himself a stiff drink of bourbon. He drank it down and poured another. The fiery liquor warmed his insides and gave him the necessary nerve to execute the next step of his plan.
    The hard part.
    John Thomas swiveled his chair about and gave the bell pull a firm yank. Titus appeared almost at once, ready to do his master’s bidding.
    “Titus, is Miss Mary Ellen awake yet?”
    “Yes, suh, Mast’ John. She awake. She sent fo’ her breakfast to be brought up.”
    John Thomas nodded. “Tell her I need to see her here in my study.”
    “Now, Mast’ John?  ’Fo’ she eat her breakfast?”
    “Now, Titus.” His tone was somber, commanding. “This minute.”
    “Yes, suh,” said the obedient servant, and hurried away.
    In minutes John Thomas heard Mary Ellen and Titus out in the corridor, nearing the study. The curious Mary Ellen was questioning Titus, who was saying, “I don’ know, Miss Mary Ellen. I don’ know, honest.”
    John Thomas drew a deep, spine-stiffening breath and rose to his feet. Mary Ellen appeared in the open doorway, her white-blond hair sleep-tangled and tumbling down around her robed shoulders. She was barefoot. She looked like an innocent child of twelve.
    “Papa? You wanted to see me?” she asked, her dark eyes wide and questioning.
    “Yes. Yes, I did. Come in, sweetheart.” Her father beckoned to her. “Come inside and close the door.”
    Mary Ellen’s heartbeat quickened slightly beneath the soft batiste of her pale pink nightgown and matching robe. She stepped inside, closed the door, leaned back against it, and looked at her father.
    “Mary Ellen, sweet Mary Ellen,” John Thomas said, a woeful expression on his face. “Come here to me, child.”
    Instantly alarmed, Mary Ellen asked, “What is it, Papa?” What’s happened?” Anxiously gathering her gown and robe up to her knees, she hurried across the room and moved around her