by Beth Trissel
A tall young man stood before her in a brown wide-brimmed hat and jacket that fell below his waist. Shoulder length hair ruffled in the breeze. Dark pants met chestnut-colored riding boots, and he wore buff leather gloves. Moonlight streamed over the lean figure.
Angel light.
He didn’t smell angelic, but of wood smoke and days in the saddle, part horse, part man, and the wide-open outdoors. His pungent masculine blend was unknown to her, but she recognized the elements…wind, fire, horse, and man.
Did cowboys live around here?
From what she could see of his face, he wasn’t bad looking, and he returned her stare. Clearly, he had anticipated someone else answering his knock.
The stranger shook his head as if to wake himself, a rueful smile on his face. “Are you gonna keep me on the porch until Sam Hobbs finds me? The last guide he caught was shot before he said his prayers.”
Alarm rifled through her. “No. Sorry.” Baffled almost beyond coherent speech, she stepped aside to allow him passage.
He shut the door behind them and locked it. A swift pivot and he had her upper arm in his grip. She gasped as he pulled her back.
His gloved hand pressed her skin where the coverlet had slipped down past her short, ruffled sleeves, distracting her. “Don’t stand near the door or a window. Hobbs might shoot you, too.”
Air escaped her in shallow pants. “Dear God, why?”
“Shhh.” The cowboy went still, his body taut beside hers.
She was rigid with dread, her heart thudding against her ribs. Did she hear a twig snap? No. It must be her imagination.
The night was eerily quiet. Somewhere a dog barked. An owl hooted.
Seconds stretched into minutes, until she finally whispered. “Is he gone?”
“Not sure.” Her companion crept to the window.
He remained motionless at the glass, watching, waiting. “Don’t see anything,” he said at last, pulling off his gloves.
She exhaled heavily. “Shouldn’t you carry a gun, if this man’s after you?”
He turned, leaving his gloves on the windowsill. “What?”
“My father says you have the right to protect yourself.” Wasn’t that the cowboy creed?
She grew aware of him scrutinizing her again.
“You are suggesting I shoot Hobbs?” Incredulity underlay his tone.
She wasn’t advocating murder. “No, but before Hobbs shoots you, or is caught, maybe carrying a gun is a good idea, that’s all I’m saying.” An odd conversation to have with someone this overtly masculine. “Or maybe we should call the sheriff?”
“No need, miss.” He patted his left side beneath the jacket. “I have a revolver. But Mennonites object to my shooting men on their land. You’re not one of the plain people, are you?”
Her jaw dropped, an ache building behind her eyes. “Not remotely. Why on earth would you think I was?”
“This is a Mennonite house.”
“Was,” she emphasized, confused. Who was this guy?
He jerked as if stung. “Were they run off the farm?” he asked, his voice sharp.
“No. The property changed hands legally. But it was years ago.” What was this dude going on about?
“Not possible. I was here only last week, and everything was normal. As much as it can be, considering.” He sounded in dead earnest.
Had she missed the apocalypse memo? Was this an insane joke? The ache in her head grew, a strange buzz in her ears.
“Who are you?” He walked toward her, the floor creaking under his boots.
She panicked and scrambled back, almost falling over a stool. Who rearranged the room, and when?
Scant time to wonder with him advancing on her.
“Evie McIntyre.” Her voice hitched an octave higher. “Who are you? Who’s Hobbs? Did my grandmother hire you to patrol the place? Are we in danger? It’s always been so peaceful here.”
“Until it’s not.”
Crap. She should have taken that martial arts class her dad had mentioned several weeks ago.
The cowboy closed the space between them, his presence unlike any other man she knew. Greater, somehow. He emitted far more impact. Usually, she scarcely noticed guys. Now, breathing was difficult. She shook, and not only from fear.
He slid an arm around her waist to keep her upright as she tilted. His maleness charged through her like the rushing tide of a storm-tossed sea. Questions circled in the meld of sensations from what’s going on, and who is he, to holy wow.
“Don’t be alarmed, miss. I’ll not harm you. No one hired me to safeguard the farm. I’m a volunteer.”
His warm breath tickled her ear and tremors ran through her. She wanted to bolt and remain close to him at the same time. “What if Hobbs had come to the house?” She berated herself, wondering why that was the only thing she could think to ask.
“I would have gone around back and led him away. Shooting him is a last resort, and then I would have his body to hide…”
A strangled “Oh,” was all she managed between pants.
“Deep breaths, miss. Slow and steady. That’s the way.”
She attempted to do as he encouraged and failed. “I’m getting a little dizzy.” Was this when you were supposed to breathe into a paper bag or something?
“Here.” He firmed his grip on her and took a flask from an inside pocket. A finger of moonlight shone on the metal as he held it to her lips. “Take a good sip.”
She did as he said, questioning her judgment, and choking on what must be whiskey.
He administered a second swallow. “Feeling better?”
Not a lot. She nodded, though, before he gave her any more of the fiery stuff.
He knocked back a swallow and returned the flask to his pocket. “No need for panic. Certainly, danger lurks, especially for me. It’s war.” His tone was grim. “Hobbs is a Rebel Scout, and a crack shot. I’m Jack Ramsey, also a crack shot, but weary of killing men.” He offered a small smile when she looked at him. “To atone for my past, I became a guide, or agent.”
Killing echoed in a merry-go-round of strange words and imagery, but that wasn’t her first question. “For what?”
“The Unionist Underground Railroad.”
She stared at him blankly. “Say again?”
“How can you not know? You are in one of the depots.”
“Depot? This house?” she croaked, words sticking in her throat. “You make it sound like a train station.”
“In a way. The Wenger family have housed a lot of men wanting out of this war. I help the poor wretches escape through the mountains to the north and freedom.”
“What? Are they black? How bad have things gotten in the country?”
“Plenty bad. Some Negroes escape with them. Most men are pacifists who refuse to fight in any war and are being forced into this one. Some are deserters. Others are fleeing conscription.”
“They brought the draft back?” This was it. She had officially lost her mind.
“It never went away. Where have you been, miss? More to the point, who are you?” His gruff demand stirred the hair at her cheek.
She tilted her face at him. Only the barest outline of his strong features was visible, and yet… Man, was he hot. Focus Evie. “I told you. I’m Evie McIntyre. I live here with my grandmother. Didn’t you realize?”
“That so? I don’t suppose you would be a spy in a Mennonite house. Still. Never know. I best get a good look at you.”
“Who would I be spying for?”
“Rebs. Neither side wishes me well. I’m in no man’s land.”
Her heart drummed wildly. “Where does that leave me?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” He steadied Evie on her feet.
Was it? She had no idea what was going on and watched dazedly as he took something from the leather pouch hanging over his shoulder. “What’s that?”
“Lucifers.”
He’d lost her again. There must be a powerful resistance moveme
nt at work. She didn’t follow politics. Maybe she should. Had matters come to an explosive head tonight? Why hadn’t her grandmother said something?
He drew what resembled matches from a small metal container and struck one. Sulphurous sparks added pungency to the room. He lit the stubby candle in a tin lantern on an end table. Shadows danced from the pale taper glowing through the punches in the metal.
Pretty, how the light made patterns on the ceiling. Wait. Where had that lantern come from?
The stained-glass lamp Grandma G. treasured was just there before she went to bed. Dear God in heaven. What had happened to the room?
Nothing in the parlor was as it had been a short while ago. Furnishings suited to a monastery had displaced the frou-frou décor. Simple wooden chairs, stools, and a plain couch were arranged in a circle. A small table supported a large black book, possibly the Bible. Discarded knitting lay on a side table. A spinning wheel sat in one corner.
There were no frills anywhere. No lavender sprigged wallpaper or lacy valentines, or anything she remembered. Her grandmother’s cherished things were gone. Everything had changed, and yet, the layout of the room was the same.
Was she lost in a dream, or had she stepped into a parallel universe? That sometimes happened…in Doctor Who, not her world.
Oh, my,” she gulped, and blindly reached out to steady herself against the back of a chair. “Not what I was expecting.”
“Nor are you.” The man called Jack returned the match tin to his pouch and studied her by the flickering light, his sandy brows arching under the broad brim. “Whew.” He thumbed his hat back. “You’re nothing like Hettie Wenger.”
“Not in this life,” she said in a bare whisper, realization nagging at her.
“Did you have another?”
She nodded, gazing into the most glorious greenish-brown eyes, like sun-dappled trees. Wham. Lightning bolt impact. She had to remember to shut her mouth, but could not stop staring at him, and he swept his admiring gaze over her.
“I haven’t seen a woman as fashionably dressed as you in ages, or one as pretty. Ever. Did I die? Go to heaven?”
Her cheeks heated at the bold compliment. “With this décor?” She waved at their surroundings. “No.”
Humor hinted in his face beneath the wide brim, and he rubbed a chin roughened with the beginnings of a beard. “I’m trying to place you, Miss McIntyre. Are you Wesleyan?”
Did it matter? Was he hung up on religion?
She battled to find her way through the muddled maze of her thoughts. “Do you mean Methodist?”
He inclined his head.
“No. I’m Presbyterian. The last time I was anything.”
A slow smile curved his lips and crinkled his eyes. “I admire your honesty.”
“Thanks. I’m usually honest.” She shifted her searching gaze from his Hotness, as she already thought of him, to the room and back again. “Crazy, maybe, but truthful.”
“You are not mad.”
She gave him a look of disbelief.
“I’m not sure what is happening here, but not that,” he said, removing his hat. He set it on a table, running his hand through hair that would be blonde with a shampoo.
He must have been in the saddle for days, and camping out, whenever he felt safe. “Nice hat. Where’s your horse?” she asked randomly, trying to find some grounding in all the crazy.
He eyed her quizzically. “Tethered in the woods behind the house.”
“Why there? We have a barn.” At least, they did.
“Barns aren’t safe with rebels on the prowl and rogue bands taking what they like. Horses are a favorite. The Wengers leave hay in the woods for me to feed Buck when I come.”
“Thoughtful of them.” Her voice was a tremulous murmur. Had he said rogue bands?
“Yes. Buck’s seen me through a lot of battles and trips to the mountains. The Wengers hide their mare, foal, and draft horse there, too. They have had other horses taken, and some hogs, sheep…”
She gaped at him. “Grandma G. would be out holding off marauders with a shotgun, and have the staff toting them, too.”
His mouth narrowed in a slight frown. “Staff? You mean servants?”
“I suppose you could call them that,” she said, though no one ever did.
“Not slaves?” he emphasized.
“Good Lord, no. They sometimes complain about the work, but no one’s keeping them prisoner. And say what you like about Grandma’s temper, she pays them well.”
His shoulders sagged in apparent relief. “I don’t hold with keeping slaves.”
“Neither do I.” What had she missed?
“My father has a few,” he divulged, his eyes haunted. “But Papa’s sympathies are with the Union.”
Goosebumps flushed to her toes and she swallowed hard. They weren’t in another dimension, or in two thousand eighteen anywhere. This was freaked out lunacy. Planets spinning out of sync. Unless she’d fallen for an elaborate hoax—unlikely—she’d traveled back to the Civil War era at Lavender and Lace Herb Farm before it was called by that name. She must have arrived in the days of its Mennonite builders.
How in the world?
There was one totally improbable, the odds astronomically against it, possibility. She’d asked the house, as had Grandma G., and the house had answered.
Better go along with it for now. Her thoughts wheeling, she faltered. “Unionist men have slaves?”
He eyed her as if she were crazy, after all. “You do realize four slave states remained in the Union? Maryland, Delaware, Kentucky, Missouri? You’ve heard of these?”
“No. Yes. I mean, I didn’t realize,” she fumbled.
“The war has many faces, and some of them wear masks.”
“Yeah. I should have paid more attention to my father, he’s very interested in the War Between the States, or listened better in school.”
A glint of impatience crossed the cowboy’s gaze. “What does school have to do with anything? This isn’t a history lesson. It’s happening now.”
“Right. Sorry.” She racked her brain to think of what she knew of this era as her grip on the present—past?—slipped.
Questions crowded through her shock. “Your father doesn’t support the Confederacy? I thought all Southerners did.”
His lips tightened. “Not all. No.”
“I think my ancestors did.”
“Your what?” He regarded her as one might a mental patient.
She blanched, realizing her mistake. “Never mind. Does your father live in the valley? Is he nearby? Do you ever see him?”
Jack swiped his fingers through his hair and held up a hand like a traffic cop. “Slow down, miss. Yes. He has a large holding in the northern end of the valley. No. I haven’t seen him in years. He disowned me when I enlisted.”
“To fight for the Confederacy?”
“Yes. To defend my beloved homeland, Virginia.”
She battled to steady her voice. “Doesn’t Virginia still need you?”
He dropped his gaze to the lamp, as if its light would guide him. “Maybe so. I had my fill of war at Gettysburg, in Pickett’s Charge.”
The infamous name tolled a somber bell. Even she had heard of Gettysburg. She gripped his coat sleeve, his muscular arm firm beneath it. “Dear God. You were there? Dad said Pickett’s Charge was terrible. It’s amazing you survived.”
He squeezed his eyes shut and froze, a tremor running through him. Then he clasped her fingers with his hand. The veneer gone, he looked at her, raw anguish in eyes shadowed by ghosts. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be here.”
Pity swelled in her and spilled over. She squeezed his hand. “I didn’t mean it that way. Yes. You should be here. Some men survived. Why not you?”
He blinked hard, dashing at the sheen in his eyes with rough knuckles. “You don’t understand. Thousands of good men were killed that day. I saw them go down on every side. Heard their cries. The fallen littered the crimson ground like leaves. Some died
later in agony. Our division was decimated. I can’t begin to say what it was.”
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. His face said it all. “No. I suppose not,” she whispered.
“Why did I live, and they did not?”
“Only God can answer that. How did you make it out alive?”
He tapped his right leg. “I was hit in the charge partway across the field. Two men helped me off, and they were struck, too. We staggered together, dragging ourselves. Others came to our aid. I was fortunate not to lose my leg and pondered my survival on the hellish retreat to Virginia and during my recovery in the hospital in Harrisonburg.”
“What then?” she asked softly.
“Being an officer, I tried to carry on as expected, but fell ill. I was given leave and sent home to recover. Only, I didn’t have a home to return to.”
“Where did you go?”
“I’m not sure where I was heading, but the Wengers found me fallen by my horse near their farm, out of my head with fever. They brought me here and nursed me back to health. I confessed my doubts regarding the cause and they told me of the Unionist Underground Railroad. I don’t need to escape Virginia. I can survive in the mountains, hunting and bartering. I built a cabin there and help men caught in this unholy war to get out.”
Wonder washed over her. “Unbelievable. How many have you helped?”
“One hundred and twenty,” he said matter-of-factly.
She had to remember not to gape at him. “Don’t you see? They might have died without you. Is your father proud now?”
He gave a hoarse laugh. “I am dead to him.”
“But you’ve come back to his way of thinking?”
“No. I’m not siding with the Union, just against this ongoing blood bath, and my father’s not the forgiving sort.” Bitterness edged his tone.
“Have you tried going to him?”
Pain glazed his eyes. “No point. I know how it is with him.”
“I’m truly sorry.”
“Thanks.” Emotion roughened his voice and he shifted from boot to boot, as if uncomfortable at the unmanly display.
Evie became aware they were still holding hands and slid her fingers from his. “You must miss your family,” she offered, unsure of what else to say.