Prairie Moon

by Maggie Osborne

  “No, thank you,” she said when the conductor came down the aisle passing out box lunches. Inside would be bread, butter, and cheese, two pieces of fried chicken, and cookies or a slab of frosted cake. It didn’t matter if it was morning, noon, or night, the boxed meals were always the same.

  Cameron also shook his head, but he did request coffee and assumed that she also wanted a cup. As recently as last week Della would have teased him about never missing an opportunity for coffee. Biting her lips, she turned her face back to the window.

  Well-maintained farms appeared with increasing frequency as the train chuffed southeast. Since the train carried freight and mail, it stopped at almost every town, large or small, which explained why the journey to Atlanta would take eight seemingly endless days. They had missed the fast-moving express train.

  “You should eat something,” Cameron said. He paid the conductor, then passed her a cup of coffee. After a minute he decided she wasn’t going to comment. “You haven’t said a dozen words in the last three days.”

  They rolled past a field enclosing horses and cows, and Della wondered what it would be like to live with an animal the same general size and shape as yourself but whom you couldn’t communicate with because he was a different species.

  She slid a glance toward Cameron, then looked out the window again. “I have nothing to say.” Having nothing to say hadn’t stopped her from talking in the past. She waited, but Cameron was tactful enough not to say so.

  In fact, there should have been a great deal to discuss and explore. That day sitting on the park bench had produced explosive declarations. Della had confessed to being on the brink of falling in love with him, and Cameron had admitted that he had fallen in love with a photograph he had carried for ten years. In different circumstances, they could have discussed these two wonders for weeks. At least Della could have. Cameron would have nodded and muttered and tugged at his collar, and she would have laughed watching his discomfort.

  But Cameron had killed her husband. One act, committed in less than a minute, had put Clarence in the grave and had forever changed her life.

  Closing her eyes, she dropped her head and rubbed her forehead. “I know it could have been any Yankee, you’re absolutely right. It just happened to be you,” she whispered. “From your point of view, it could have been any Confederate who appeared that day. It just happened to be Clarence.” Cameron didn’t speak. “For a while I blamed you that Clarence died with ‘I hate you’ in his ears. But that isn’t true. It’s my fault that he died believing I hated him.”

  Cameron faced forward and didn’t glance at her, but she saw his hands tighten around his coffee cup.

  “I know you were doing your duty as a soldier that day. I know you acted in self-defense. But in here,” she touched her breast above her heart, “I feel betrayed. You killed my husband and you lied to me.”

  “I never lied to you.”

  “You lied by omission. You let me believe things you knew were untrue.” She shifted on the seat to face his profile. “I believe that you are a man of integrity and honor. But if that’s true, then how could you deceive me like you did?”

  Finally he looked at her with tired eyes and an expressionless face. “I knew you would hate me when you learned the truth. And then I’d never get to know you or be with you for a while. I didn’t plan to deceive you, Della. It just happened, and I was glad.”

  She blinked and her lips parted. It was that simple. He had deceived her because he’d fallen in love with a girl in a photograph, a girl who had not existed for years.

  “Oh, Cameron.” Her voice cracked and dropped to a scarcely audible tone. “Were you disappointed?”

  He understood what she asked. “Never. You are everything I hoped you would become and more.”

  The back of her throat tightened and her eyes felt hot and scratchy. He wasn’t the type of man to whisper sweet nothings into a woman’s ear. He’d said all he could and probably more than he was comfortable with.

  “I wish . . .” But wishes were foolish things, about as useful as a broken clock.

  Della turned her head toward the window. She was sitting next to the man who had killed her husband. How was that possible? She had made love to him. Unthinkable, but it had happened. She could never forgive Cameron’s deception or make sense out of being with him.

  That hurt, too. When he’d told her the truth, she’d lost a friend, a confidant, and a lover. No one had taken as much from her, not even the Wards.

  And the confusing worst of it was that right now, she missed him and longed for him. She wished she could bury herself in his arms and tell him that she had bad dreams every night. She wanted to tell him that the odd sense of dread and foreboding had not disappeared as she had believed it would, once he told her everything. She wanted to talk about Claire and the rising anxiety that her courage would flag and she would have nothing to say to her daughter. Or that Claire would dislike her. And what of the Wards? She felt half sick when she thought of seeing Clarence’s parents again. Would it be necessary?

  “Della . . .”

  “Don’t,” she said quietly. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  With every click of the wheels on the rails, Della grew more agitated. Until now there had been new experiences to occupy her mind, and she had spent more time than she cared to recall thinking about Cameron. Clarence had faded from the front of her thoughts and she didn’t flog herself daily with guilt and remorse the way she used to. And Claire . . . although Claire was the entire reason for this journey, Della hadn’t spent many hours speculating about her daughter until now. Now Claire seemed real. Tomorrow they would be in the same town. She placed a hand on her stomach and felt ill.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I haven’t been sleeping well. But I don’t imagine you have, either.” The sleeping platforms on this train were shorter, harder, and more uncomfortable than any so far. “Part of me wishes we’d arrive and find a hotel with decent beds, but another part of me wants to turn around and go back to Texas.”

  Cameron lowered a newspaper he’d purchased on the platform of the last station, where they had stopped long enough for passengers to seek fresh air. “I’d say it’s natural to be a bit nervous.”

  “I’ve changed my mind,” she stated abruptly. “I don’t want to find Claire. It isn’t right. I’ve been thinking about it, and I’ve decided it’s easier not to know anything about her.”

  “That’s nonsense,” Cameron said, frowning.

  “When I imagine her, she can be anything I want her to be. Short or tall, thin or rounded. I always think of her as smiling and laughing, and that’s how I want to go on thinking of her.”

  “Della—”

  “This was all a mistake.” She gripped his arm and gave him a panicked look. “I’m sorry, Cameron. I’ve wasted your time and your money. I really don’t want to do this. Truly.” He didn’t say anything, so she babbled on. “We’ll stay overnight and sleep in decent beds, get some rest, then we’ll go back to Santa Fe. Stop looking at me like that.”

  If she hadn’t used up all of her tears, she might have burst into a fit of crying.

  “What can I do to help you?” Cameron asked after a moment.

  “Nothing.” She pushed away from him and wrapped her arms around herself, looking out the window. The train wound through winter brown hills and when they stepped out for a breath of air, the temperature was cool and pleasant, but she felt cold. A chill had settled under her skin and she couldn’t seem to shake it.

  “You were with Sherman’s army,” she said that evening. She hadn’t followed news about the war, hadn’t wanted to. But everyone had known General Sherman’s name. Sherman had brought the apocalypse upon them, and then the end. “We abandoned the plantation,” Della said softly. “We took everything we could pack in a wagon and we drove to Atlanta. A week later Atlanta fell.”

  She looked at Cameron, then turned her gaze back to the dark window. “By then you
were gone, walking north.” Sherman’s army had been accused of savagery. She was glad Cameron hadn’t been part of that.

  “Nothing out there looks familiar.”

  It was too dark to see anything, but she understood. Nothing looked familiar to her, either. “I remember the fires. So many people had fled that there weren’t enough men to fight the fires or deliver water. There was a fire burning somewhere in the city for weeks and weeks. And you could buy food, but a piece of bad meat cost as much as a prime carriage horse once did.”

  It wasn’t good to talk about these things; it was pointless. But these were Della’s last memories of Atlanta. She had given birth to Claire while the air was thick with ash and smoke. The Yankees held Atlanta then, but most of the Union army had swept on, moving toward the coast.

  Cameron’s mouth thinned to a slash and his eyes were icy and hard. “For the first time, coming here feels like a bad idea.”

  “I know.” Della bowed her head. “I feel shaky inside, like nothing has changed. Tomorrow we’ll wake up, look out the window, and the sky will be red with flames. Bricks will litter the streets, and the houses will be deserted.” Toward the front of the car a baby cried. Della’s heart skipped a beat and she thought she couldn’t stand it. Claire was mere miles away.

  That night she dreamed of following the hearse, walking close behind the creaking wheels. She could have looked inside the back window, past the curling gold vines, but guilt stopped her. Even in her dream, she understood that she had done Clarence a terrible wrong. She stumbled forward, listening to Mrs. Ward crying behind her.

  She awoke in her cramped space, shaking and gasping. They were all here. Mr. and Mrs. Ward, Clarence, Claire. Even Cameron was part of a past that had never let her go.

  Chapter 19

  Midmorning sunlight sparkled across the water below the bridge spanning the Chattahoochee River. It seemed no more than an eyeblink later that the train whistled into the main station puffing dark soot and white clouds of steam.

  The engine hissed to a stop, and the long journey was over.

  “Della?”

  Della blinked and discovered that she and Cameron were the last people in the car. Everyone else had rushed outside onto the platform where family and friends waited and porters rushed here and there pushing carts piled high with trunks and bags.

  She didn’t think her legs would support her weight. Her stomach rolled and churned as if she’d eaten something spoiled.

  Cameron touched her arm and peered into her face. “You’re pale. Are you all right?”

  “I have a terrible headache.” And she felt half sick and anxious. Had Claire heard the train’s whistle? How close or far away was she?

  Cameron slipped an arm around her waist and gently tugged her upward. “Let’s get you to a hotel and tuck you into bed. Some rest and a good night’s sleep on a proper mattress, and you’ll feel right as rain.”

  The air was different in the South, Della decided as they stepped onto the platform. Softer and moist without being damp. Locals would say that today was chilly, and the scent of woodsmoke suggested residents warmed their parlors with toasty fires. But to Della, now seasoned by living in the West, the temperature felt mild and pleasant. She glanced at the thick branches of tall pin oaks overhanging the platform and thought about snow back home. This was a different world.

  And it was a world she didn’t recognize. As they drove toward town in a hired carriage, Della silently peered out the side windows. Undoubtedly there were structures that had survived the war, but she didn’t recognize any buildings or the names of the shops. Some street names sounded familiar, but others did not. Also, it seemed there were crowds of people about and more traffic to snarl the streets.

  On the other hand, she hadn’t known Atlanta well, and she hadn’t lived here long. Moreover, during the time she had lived in town she’d spent most of her days confined, preparing for childbirth or recovering from childbirth. She had buried a husband here, had allowed her daughter to be stolen from her. There were no happy memories in Atlanta.

  At the hotel, Cameron followed her upstairs and into the suite he’d engaged for her. Della halted by the foyer mirror to remove the pins from her hat, but the first thing she noticed was the absence of a connecting door. Relief and a tiny whiff of disappointment eased the tension in her shoulders.

  Cameron didn’t turn from the window until the bellman and the maid had withdrawn, after they deposited Della’s luggage and lit a fire in the hearth.

  “I instructed the maid to bring you tea and toast.”

  “What will you do while I’m resting and dreading tomorrow?”

  “Do you really dread seeing Claire?”

  “Nothing has ever put me in such a state.” Raising a hand, she touched the headache behind her forehead. “I feel like this is a terrible mistake. Like seeing Claire will only be a disaster.”

  In the park in St. Louis, she had sworn that she wouldn’t confide in him, would not share her thoughts or feelings. She would treat James Cameron as an untrustworthy stranger. Now here she was, saying things she had sworn she wouldn’t and fighting a powerful urge to run forward and throw herself into his arms. Cameron was the only person in the world who knew how she felt right now, or who might care, and he was the only person who could offer any comfort.

  She drew a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, then deliberately turned her back to him and held her hands toward the warmth of the fire. Behind her, she heard the rustle of his jacket being pulled back, then the click of the lid to his pocket watch.

  “Shall we have breakfast together tomorrow?” he asked, walking behind her on his way to the door. “Meet in the dining room at, say, eight o’clock?”

  “That’s fine. Cameron?” She turned her head and met his gaze as if she weren’t thinking about the last time they had been together in a hotel. “There’s something I’ve been curious about . . . Do you like not having to worry about some hothead pulling a gun on you?” It had been at least two weeks since Della had noticed anyone studying Cameron with that certain glint of recognition.

  “It’s not completely comfortable,” he answered with a frown. “A man could get careless and let his guard down.”

  That would never happen with him, not entirely. The soldier was too much a part of James Cameron. He’d spent too many years being alert to his surroundings, being aware of every nuance. He was more relaxed than she’d seen him, but the term was relative. Cameron’s idea of being relaxed would have been another man’s notion of high alert.

  “I’ll see you in the morning,” Della said, gazing into the flames, wishing she could have rested and sought comfort in the enemy’s arms.

  Mercator Ward was not an easy man to find. By mid-afternoon Cameron knew Ward was not in business, had done nothing to get his name in the newspapers, and had never been arrested. The Wards didn’t live where they had ten years ago, and none of the neighbors there remembered them or could offer any information.

  It was late afternoon before Cameron found a church secretary who remembered Mercator and Enid Ward.

  “Standoffish people,” the secretary said, his lips thinning with dislike. “Mrs. Ward in particular didn’t take well to fellowship. A difficult woman, to put it kindly.”

  “Would you have a record of their current address?” Cameron asked. He followed the secretary through a side door and into the office of a small church that smelled of lemon polish and candle wax.

  “Here it is.” The secretary thumbed backward in a thick membership register. He read off an address, then explained that the street lay outside the city proper. “In a newer section that was built up after the war.” It was impossible not to divide life into before-the-war and after-the-war.

  Cameron hired a carriage to take him to the Wards’ address and instructed the driver to park across the lane from the house. Sitting inside the carriage, he smoked a cigar and watched lights wink on inside the house as the sun sank below the horizon.

&nb
sp; The house sat on a hilly acre of wooded land. Not surprisingly, it was constructed of fire-resistant red brick, trimmed with white shutters and porch pillars. Before the sunset faded, Cameron noted meticulously maintained grass, drifts of azaleas, and stone walkways. The house was larger than the place the Wards had rented after first coming to Atlanta, but smaller by far than the manor house Della had described.

  He watched for an hour, during which time no one entered or left the house. There was nothing outside to indicate how many people lived within or if they were in residence, but instinct suggested a small household.

  Eventually his mind wandered to Della’s question. For most of his adult life, Cameron had stayed alive by being observant and wary of his surroundings and the people near him. That being the case, he knew he’d left his legend somewhere between Santa Fe and St. Louis.

  It felt good to be anonymous. For the first time in years, he didn’t experience the weight of other people’s expectations, didn’t feel he had to prove anything. Now when someone gazed at him for a beat too long, he looked into their eyes and understood he drew attention because he was tall and imposing, not because the observer wondered if he should pull a gun or get out of the way.

  It wasn’t going to be easy to return to a life where everything he did and said was noted and judged against someone’s notion of how a legend was supposed to walk and talk and behave.

  But that was the life he had chosen. As he’d told Della, he didn’t know the names of the good men he’d killed during the war, but he did know the names and deeds of the outlaws he brought to justice. There lay his path to atonement.

  He put the subject out of his mind the next morning when he met Della for breakfast. Della and Claire would be the focus of all he did or thought for the next few days. He told Della that he’d located the Wards.