Once a Rebel

by Mary Jo Putney

  Richard stepped up to Callie and drew her into a full body kiss. Not a polite brushing of the lips but mouth and tongue and pulling her hard against him, his hands moving hungrily over her back and hips.

  After an instant of resistance, she fell into the embrace with equal hunger. Fire burned through her veins and her brain, eradicating awareness of where they were and the crisis they faced. Her trusted friend, the man she cared for most in all the world . . .

  Then he released her, his breathing rough. With his steadying hands on her arms, he said forcefully, “I’ll be back, Callie. Never doubt it. And we’ll have Trey, so don’t worry. I will be back!”

  He spun on his heel and left. Callie stared after him, touching the fingers of her left hand to her lips. What had just happened?

  Her life had turned upside down. Again.

  Round eyed, Molly exclaimed, “I thought you were just friends!”

  “We were.” Callie moistened her lips with her tongue, still shaken. “That’s changing.”

  Sarah gave a deep chuckle. “Next time that boy asks you to marry him, you need to say yes!”

  Maybe she would. The idea was starting to make sense.

  The apartment felt very empty after Richard and Josh and Peter left. In the silence, Molly said uncertainly, “Trey will be all right, won’t he?”

  “He will.” Sarah put a comforting arm around her granddaughter. “Peter Carroll didn’t sound too worried. It’s just that a leg wound makes it hard to walk, and it’s a mighty hot day. The boy is tired.”

  Callie didn’t disagree with any of that, yet a pall of anxiety hung over her. Was danger really threatening, or was she generally tied in knots of anxiety? It felt like real danger coming at them. Maybe a small group of British soldiers would make their way into the city. Or British sailors might come ashore in a small boat to wreak havoc.

  Both ideas were highly unlikely. Yet her unease wouldn’t lift.

  A tired Sarah relaxed in the padded, extended chair. Eyeing Callie, she said, “You look like a cat dancing on hot coals, Miss Callista.”

  Callie took a deep breath to steady her nerves. “It feels like something is about to happen. Not the British invading the city. At least not yet. But something.”

  “There could be plain old criminals,” Molly suggested. “With so many men off in the militia, looters might break into houses that don’t have men to defend them.”

  “Maybe that’s what I’m feeling,” Callie said slowly. “As a way to keep busy until the men return, how about if we practice what we’d do if thieves did break in? Like the drills that soldiers are always doing.”

  “I like that idea,” Molly said. “Trey told me that’s why soldiers drill all the time. So they’ll know what to do when they face danger. Most people just freeze when something terrible happens. We’ll do better if we’ve practiced how to react.”

  “Exactly!” Callie said, struck. “When the British soldiers broke into my house in Washington, I felt paralyzed, like a terrified rabbit. I don’t think I could have done anything more since they outnumbered me, but I hate myself for feeling so helpless.”

  “No one likes feeling helpless,” Sarah said with a touch of grimness. “Let’s work out what we’ll need to do if we have to defend ourselves.”

  Callie regarded her pistol thoughtfully. “In Washington, I knew a single shot wouldn’t be enough to save me from a squad of angry soldiers. But if there was a break-in here, it would probably be only a few men. I need to put the pistol in a convenient place, along with powder and shot for reloading.”

  “How about this?” Molly pulled a small table to a position with a clear shot to the doorway. Then she put a basket with her rag rug materials on the edge toward the door. “You can put your pistol and ammunition there and someone coming in won’t see them.”

  “Perfect! What about knives? We have Sarah’s good sharp cooking knives, but it would be hard to throw them accurately without a lot of practice.”

  Molly considered. “Knives work best close up. I don’t want anyone to get that close to me!”

  “I certainly hope not, but if several drunks break in and see three females, they might decide they want to amuse themselves.” Callie swallowed hard. “Which means they would get far too close.”

  They all fell silent, too aware of the possibilities. Molly said, “I have a good-sized scrap of tanned leather. I could fashion it into a couple of sheaths for the smallest knives that could be worn on a thigh.”

  “You have a delightfully wicked mind!” Callie exclaimed. “Let’s get to work on those.”

  “Don’t forget tobacco,” Sarah said. “We’ve got great barrels of it just sitting here. They’re nice and stable on their flat ends, but if we turned a couple on their sides, they’d roll fast if pushed, and they’re heavy.”

  “Brilliant, Sarah! Molly, let’s start by tipping a couple of the barrels on their sides and aiming them toward the doorway. After that, we make sheaths for the knives.”

  Her stepdaughter smiled. “This is fun, in an alarming way.”

  “I’m sure it will come to naught,” Callie said. “But the preparations will keep us busy.” She laid her loaded pistol, her powder, and her extra balls on the table behind the rag basket. She’d told Richard earlier that she wasn’t sure she could try to kill someone. But her opinion on that was changing.

  Chapter 22

  “The cabin is down here.” Peter directed the cart into a bumpy track that wound through a tunnel of trees. “I brought Trey as far as I could so we’d be beyond the battle.” His words were underlined by the blasting of artillery just east of them.

  The lane ended at a weathered log cabin. Chickens scrabbled around the yard, glancing up incuriously before returning to their hunt. Gordon guessed they’d been turned loose from their cages so they wouldn’t starve before the cabin’s owners could return.

  “If the redcoats find this spot, those chickens are history,” Josh remarked as he halted the cart in front of the cabin. “Did you have to break in, Peter?”

  The young man nodded, looking apologetic. “The lock was very simple. I didn’t want to leave Trey lying out in the open. I left some money and a note of apology. I also left both of our rifles under the table. I didn’t feel strong enough to carry them.”

  Gordon and Josh followed Peter inside. Trey lay with his eyes closed on a simple pallet of old blankets that his friend had fashioned in front of the cold fireplace. The crude bandages on his left shoulder and leg were stained with blood, but he opened his eyes when they entered. “Grandpa!” He looked ready to weep with relief.

  “Don’t worry, Trey,” Josh said in his deep, comforting voice. “This is a good friend you have here. He came straight to the warehouse, then guided us back.”

  Trey’s exhausted gaze moved to Peter. “He saved my life. If the British had found me, I’d be dead, like Hank McComas and Danny Wells.” He swallowed hard. “I really liked them both.”

  “Were they the ones who shot General Ross?” Gordon asked sympathetically.

  “I’m not sure who fired the shot that took him down,” Trey said painfully. “Three of us fired at once and we’re all sharpshooters, so it could have been any one of us. General Ross was knocked from his horse and an aide caught him before he hit the ground. His troops gave a kind of howl of anguish and rushed forward to attack us. Hank and Danny were both killed under the tree they’d used as a shooting platform. I . . . I’m sure they’re dead. I was hit twice but I was farther away so it wasn’t so bad.” His face screwed up and he looked very young. “I’m not dead yet. Am I going to die?”

  Gordon removed the leg bandage, poured on whisky to clean it, then applied a fresh bandage. “Some day, but it won’t be today. The musket ball that struck your left thigh went straight through the muscle without hitting any major blood vessels.”

  Trey’s jacket was already off, so it was easy to examine the shoulder wound. “A ball grazed over your shoulder.” He poured more brandy, then fa
shioned a pad and bandage. “Inflammation is always a danger, but you’re young and strong and you’ll be home with your grandmother very soon. You should be fine. In the future you can brag to girls that you’re a hero of the Battle of Baltimore.” Which was no more than the truth.

  Trey gave a rusty little laugh, then gasped when Josh and Gordon carefully lifted the blanket he lay on from both ends, using it as a stretcher to carry him outside to the cart. As Peter fashioned a blanket canopy to keep the sun out of his friend’s eyes, Gordon returned to the cabin and added to the money Peter had left.

  Then he collected the rifles, powder, and ammunition, and closed the door. With luck, the owners would return to find their cabin intact and the money sufficient to excuse the home invasion.

  They set off at a slower pace than when they’d arrived so Trey wouldn’t be jolted more than absolutely necessary. Josh drove while Peter gave directions. Gordon sat in back with Trey and loaded both rifles, then concealed them under the blankets. He could pull one out and shoot quickly, but hoped he wouldn’t have to.

  Shortly after they turned onto the main Philadelphia Road, a squad of American soldiers led by a lieutenant stopped the cart and brusquely demanded an explanation of what they were doing so close to the battle lines.

  “My wounded friend and I were in the advance guard of sharpshooters,” Peter explained. He indicated his bandaged arm. “I’m no good now, so I was told to take my friend Trey back for medical treatment.”

  The young officer peered into the back of the cart, seeing the bloodied bandages. He asked Gordon, “Who are you?”

  “A surgeon, George Gordon.” He showed his blistered hands and Americanized his accent. “But I’ve put in time digging fortifications this last week, too.”

  The lieutenant accepted that and waved them on. “Best get out of here fast. The City Brigade is holding off the British so far, but if they break . . .”

  He shook his head wordlessly, then continued with his patrol. He’d barely noticed Josh, probably considering him a slave and of no account.

  As they headed west toward Baltimore, Trey said, “You tried to warn me that war isn’t glamour and glory.”

  “Yes, but it’s one of those things that must usually be learned firsthand,” Gordon said. “At least you survived your baptism by fire.”

  “So far.” Trey gave a crooked smile. “Were you an officer in the British Army? I heard Miss Callista call you Captain Audley once.”

  “I’ve commanded a ship or two, but I’ve never been a formal soldier with a rank and uniform. Obeying orders is not my strong point,” he replied. “But I’ve had to fight for my life more than once. Surviving pirates in the South China Sea is serious combat.”

  “Really?” Trey’s eyes opened wide. “That’s not just a story you’re telling to distract me?”

  “Entirely true. I’ve fought on other occasions, too. Usually against bandits or pirates. Not fighting for my country, just defending myself and my friends from vicious people who wanted to kill us for whatever reason.”

  Trey closed his eyes and was so silent that Gordon thought he must be asleep or unconscious. They were halfway back to the warehouse before he asked in a thin whisper, his eyes still closed, “They say General Ross was a good and honorable man, and I might have killed him. Am I a hero or a villain?”

  Gordon laid his hand on Trey’s. “Both. Neither. The hell of war is killing strangers, many of whom are decent, honorable men with friends and family who love them. Ross is such a man. But the British Army has no other officers here who are his equal. With him gone, they may withdraw, or if they attack our fortifications, they may not do as good a job of it. That could save many American lives.”

  After another long silence, Trey said, “I thought soldiering would be grand and honorable. Now I don’t think I like it very much.”

  “Which proves you’re wise beyond your years. You’ve done your duty. You can take pride in that even if you don’t like what you did.”

  “Thank you,” Trey whispered. He said no more on their trip back to the warehouse, but Gordon saw a glint of tears under his eyes.

  Being yanked into adulthood wasn’t easy.

  Chapter 23

  Arranging their defenses was a good distraction for Callie, Molly, and Sarah. Sarah’s energy was still low, but she assured the younger women that she was quite capable of rolling a tobacco barrel into invaders.

  Molly’s tanned leather was easily fashioned into a pair of thigh sheaths that would safely conceal the two smallest kitchen knives. Callie felt like a dashing lady pirate when she tied the sheath to her left thigh and practiced swiftly pulling it out from under her skirts.

  Sarah dryly asked her not to kill anyone with the knife because she wouldn’t want to use it in the kitchen after that. Despite the heat, Sarah was making a beef, barley, and vegetable soup that Trey liked, saying it would be strengthening. Even more strengthening would be the grandmotherly love Sarah put into it.

  It was hard to ignore the noise of artillery and gunfire sounding in the east, but Callie became somewhat used to it. People really could become accustomed to anything.

  Their preparations were complete by dusk. Callie and Molly settled on opposite sides of a lamp, Molly working on her rag rug and Callie altering another secondhand gown. As Callie unpicked a seam, it occurred to her that the two of them were more like sisters than mother and daughter. Being a sister seemed to carry less responsibility than being a mother.

  Molly wasn’t much younger than Callie’s smallest sister back in England. Annie had been in leading strings when Callie went to Jamaica. What would she be like now?

  She felt a stab of longing for her childhood home. Her father was a bully and probably her next younger sister had betrayed Callie to their father when she’d tried to elope with Richard. But by and large, she got along well with her sisters and little brother. Had they missed her? Would they even remember her after all these years?

  CRASH! A thunderous blow on the door yanked Callie from her thoughts. She leaped to her feet as fear lanced through her. Another blow smashed into the door, wrenching it halfway off its hinges. This was it, the menace she’d felt approaching!

  After a paralyzed moment, she remembered the pistol. But before she could even leap from her chair, a third blow shattered the door into jagged fragments and three men surged into the sitting room.

  And in the lead was her brutal stepson, Henry Newell.

  A triumphant sneer twisting his features, he hissed, “I’ve got you now, you bitch!”

  Sarah was in the kitchen stirring her soup. She and Molly both froze, staring at Henry like rabbits hypnotized by a snake. They knew all too well what he was capable of.

  Callie had thought it absurdly unlikely that her stepson would come all the way to America to find her. Yet now that he was here, there was a ghastly inevitability to this meeting. According to Matthew’s servants, Henry had been a beastly little boy, never able to admit when he was wrong or able to bear losing. He’d go to any lengths to claim that he’d won, which meant that he must hunt her down and destroy her.

  Marshaling all her resources, she rose gracefully, letting the gown she was altering slide to the floor. A pity she’d moved out of reach of the table that held her pistol in order to get better light for her sewing. The table was between her and Henry, and her weapon was tucked in the shadow of the rag basket where he couldn’t see it.

  Callie moved a step toward him and said with lying warmth, “Why, Henry, what a surprise to see you! Have you come to insure that your stepmother and half siblings are safe and well? I would have thought you’d have a wife and child to look after by now.”

  “No wife and no child, not until I’ve dealt with you!” He yanked a pistol from under his coat and aimed it at the center of her chest. The barrel looked as large and deadly as the mouth of a cannon. “I’ve waited three damned years for this moment!”

  Callie had but one thought: buy time any way she could. “How di
d you find me? I thought you’d have given up by now.”

  “I never give up! I couldn’t believe my luck when the warehouse manager wrote a couple of months ago and mentioned that Mrs. Newell was living in Washington and might want to move into the warehouse loft if the British invaded.” He smiled with sick anticipation. “Finally, after three bloody years and having to sail through the Royal Navy. Today we spent hours in the alley while I studied the warehouse and waited to make sure the men wouldn’t be back soon. Now it’s time to administer justice.”

  Clamping down on her panic, she drifted a couple of steps closer. “I don’t understand why you need justice, Henry. Your father’s final will mysteriously vanished, so you’ve inherited everything. Isn’t that enough?”

  His pale eyes glittered. “You ran off with all the money in my father’s safe and four valuable slaves, not to mention my mother’s jewelry! I want everything back!”

  Even a war hadn’t been enough to stop him. His hunt would have cost far more than the value of what he claimed to have lost. But Henry didn’t care about logic. She’d always sensed that he had a dark obsession with her that must be satisfied, no matter what the price. “You know your father wanted to free all four of the Adamses. He told both of us that at the same time.”

  “But he was too lazy to ever get around to doing it. Since he didn’t, they belong to me and you had no legal right to free them!” he growled. “I’ve come to take them back and to settle my score with you. With the city under attack, no one will even notice what happens here.”

  “What score is that?” Another step closer, keeping an eye on his men as well. They were a pair of surly brutes and they smelled like they’d just emerged from a distillery. One man was familiar and she realized it was Hoyle, the brutal overseer she’d persuaded Matthew to fire. Now she recognized that the other was a muscular but not very bright crony of Hoyle’s called Goat, which was an insult to real goats.

  Keeping her voice calm, she continued, “I’ve done you no harm. The money I took from your father’s safe is far less than I would have been entitled to if I’d received my jointure. Even if you add the fair market value of the Adamses to what I took”—the very idea of a price on her friends made her want to vomit, but she swallowed and continued—“it would be far less than paying my jointure. You won, Henry. Why did you go to so much effort to track us down?”