by Beth Trissel
“The South fought hard with much courage,” she attempted.
He gave a short bitter laugh. “I experienced the hard fighting and bravery firsthand, and some might accuse me of cowardice now, but that’s not why I left. After Gettysburg, I figured the end wouldn’t come in a blaze of triumph.”
“No.” She didn’t know what else to add.
“Strange to be flat-out told, though,” he muttered.
She lifted her shoulder and let it drop. “How else?”
“Indeed. Might as well spit it out.”
Tilting his head at her, he weighed her with those penetrating eyes. If any part of her were lying, he’d know it. But she wasn’t.
He seemed satisfied and the intensity in his gaze diminished. “You are telling me Sheridan is on the warpath and we are sitting ducks?”
“In a big bad way. But it might not be too late to help the Wengers.” Surely, some parts of history could be altered.
He sighed with the weariness of a man who had slogged through endless battles. “I will ponder these fearful tidings and learn what I can of Union movements in the valley.”
Visions of flames devouring all that these good people possessed in the world filled her mind. “Please do, but don’t take long. There’s little time.” She grasped at ideas. “Think of the worst you can imagine and magnify it tenfold.”
“Evie, I swear you sound like an Old Testament prophet warning of the destruction of Jerusalem.”
“I kind of feel like one. The alarm needn’t come from me, Jack, but urge the family to hide their food, everything they can, where it won’t be found. Maybe they could dig holes outside, or tunnel back into the cellar with a pickaxe or layer branches over stuff among the trees. Find a cave the outsiders won’t know of. All those things. Every bit they save counts. Winter will be brutal.”
“How many soldiers are coming?” he asked quietly.
“Thousands. Like locusts covering the ground, scorching and devouring. The gates of Hell are opening.”
Chapter Five
A rap on the side of the open door snared Jack’s attention. He’d vaguely noted footfalls on the steps and in the hall but was too distracted by Evie’s dire warning to take heed. Turning with her, he was greeted by the sight of the seven sisters and their triumphant mother. Each girl carried a bucket of water with steam rising from it. The wooden tub rode in Mary’s grip. They must have dipped into the rain barrel on the back stoop and fired up the big cast-iron stove in the kitchen. No doubt, he was the intended target of their quest.
The feminine assembly in the doorway wrenched him from the dreadful tidings he struggled to comprehend. Tentative plans to cope with the crisis Evie declared nearly upon them halted. This sight was more immediately alarming.
How was he to bathe with his ‘bride’ in the chamber and protect her modesty, or retain a shred of dignity? Respectable men did not parade naked before ladies, but this particular lady was his presumed wife.
‘Wash yourselves, make yourselves clean,’ he’d heard Mary quote from the Bible, Isaiah something, she’d said. ‘Cleanliness is next to godliness’ was another of her favorites. The woman was a stickler for tidiness, and the militant set of her jaw alerted him to the near religious zeal of her mission. She was determined to see him spanking clean for his cherished bride on their wedding night.
The girls she’d recruited to her cause wore shy conspiratorial smiles. Only the eldest, Hettie, seemed distinctly ill-at-ease. She skittered away from his arched glance with pink cheeks and an apologetic shrug.
He surveyed Evie’s dumbfounded expression. She seemed struck mute once more, not that he blamed her. He wouldn’t be surprised if she went into a dead faint. But the twitch at her lips eased his conscience slightly. Unfolding circumstances must strike her as amusing, at least a little.
Unequal to opposing the formidable Mary, he smiled wryly at his wife of the past hour and addressed the host of females. “Ladies, how thoughtful.”
“Ya,” Mary grunted, not in the least bit fooled.
He guessed the shrewd female had discerned his reluctance. She probably considered him a pig when it came to cleanliness. Living alone in the woods made laundry and washing a challenge. In his defense, he made use of the creek flowing by his place, though not often enough for her lofty standards.
The petite figure dressed in black marched into the room and set the tub on the brown and tan striped rag rug in the center of the floor. Each sister stepped forward to empty their bucket into the wooden recess. The sweetness of marjoram rose in the steam, one of many dried herbs in the house.
“Fetch the linens, Hettie.” Her mother faced Jack squarely as the girl darted away. “We are giving you the lend of one of Paul’s clean shirts, a fresh pair of his drawers, socks, and undershirt. Leave us yours to wash.” She raised her hand to halt his attempt at gratitude. “This is good. Ya?”
The tilt of her jaw dared him to refuse. He understood she was repaying him for getting her sons to safety, in her own way. But this family had saved his life when he’d had fever. He knew the resolute woman would brook no argument.
“Yes. I will leave everything outside the door for you to launder,” he agreed, wondering how in the world he was to maintain any sort of decency with Evie present.
The matron of the family nodded her satisfaction, and the girls exchanged glances. Mary rounded on them, briskly clapping her hands. “Off with you. We shall return with food for you and your new bride, Jack.” She gestured admittance through the petticoat ranks to Hettie whose arms were filled with the promised articles of clothing and linen towels. She set them on a chair. “Where’s the soap?” her mother pounced.
The blushing young woman hastened from the room and down the hall. She returned with a blue crock containing soft brown soap scented with wintergreen, from the fragrant leaves of the woodland plant. This was Mary’s personal recipe.
“Here.” Her gaze downcast, Hettie set it on the washstand.
“Thank you.” He suspected part of Hettie’s reluctance stemmed from her partiality for him.
He found the girl attractive but hadn’t considered pursuing courtship with her. For one thing he wasn’t Mennonite and had no intention of converting, if that were wanted. More importantly, he couldn’t offer her stability. What kind of life could he provide a young wife?
For that matter, what could he offer Evie? He slid his gaze at her, considering what he was undertaking. He’d committed himself to her protection, and if her predictions were true, hellfire would soon scorch this lush land at the hand of the Union troops advancing into the valley. With this awareness came the inherent knowledge that he still considered the Boys in Blue his enemy, while also being at odds with the Confederates.
Mostly, he just hated this wretched war. Secession had been a terrible costly mistake and matters were about to get a whole lot worse. If Rebel General Jubal Early and his Army of the Valley failed to keep Sheridan at bay, the countryside would swarm with Billy Yank and his flaming swords. Doubtless, unscrupulous men on either side would take advantage of an undefended populace. The chaos of war brought out the worst in those without scruples.
He couldn’t focus on that right now, though. Not with Evie so near, and him soon to be as bare as the day he was born. Dear God in heaven above. How had he landed in this predicament?
“Come, girls.” Mary intruded on his rattled thoughts, shepherding her daughters from the room. “We will bring refreshments,” she added over her shoulder. “Shut the door behind us and open when you are ready for your supper.”
“I will. Thanks again, ma’am.” He answered automatically, like a soldier on drill. When the line of skirts vanished from sight, he turned to Evie with a low groan, weighing the mix of undeniable humor and gaping surprise in her face. “My apologies. You must be flabbergasted.”
“Not entirely. I mean, well, yes. A lot. But it’s not your fault,” she stammered.
“No. I didn’t foresee this circumstance. Best ave
rt your gaze, dear lady,” he cautioned with a slight smile. “Be it on your head if you peek and I offend your delicate sensibilities.”
“My what?” Giggling, she sank onto the bed in a lacy puff of skirts and petticoats. “You really are a gentleman.”
He straightened his shoulders. “I trust I am.”
“Without question. And don’t worry. I won’t look but doubt I would be offended if I did. Not by you.”
Her praise and the glow in her eyes warmed him. “I shall take that as a compliment.”
“Do. You’re the handsomest husband I’ve ever had.”
“Have you had others?” he teased, walking across the room to the door.
“Not that I recall, but if I had, you would be streaks ahead of any. I’ve never known a man like you.”
The wistfulness in her tone washed over him in a tide of hope. “I pray you never do.” He found he meant every word.
“I wouldn’t be foolish enough to seek a duplicate with the original right in front of me.”
Her clever phrasing and the intent behind her assertion buoyed him. Maybe he was mad, but he ardently wished this most unlikely of all women might share a future with him.
“You wouldn’t find another like me even if you sought one. I’m alone in no man’s land.”
“Then we must find a way to be together.” Her voice was little more than a whisper.
Had he heard her rightly? He shut the door and pivoted, searching her eyes by candlelight. Gone, any humor in their blue-gray depths. Sincerity shone back at him.
God help him, she had the face of an angel, a tantalizing woman-child unlike any he’d ever met before or ever would again. He stood lost in wonder. The wash of moonbeams slanting through the window bathed her in a pearly sheen, her lacy pink shawl resembling the inside of a polished shell.
Her presence enriched the plain room like a vibrant jewel, and he felt as if he had a claim to her, not only because of the pretended marriage, but because she belonged to him. It was as if they had been together before, but he couldn’t think when. He had nothing to base the strong sensation on except emotion. If only she truly were his.
Speak now, or forever hold your peace, he told himself. “Yes. I believe we must find a way.” His voice was husky with an entirely different emotion than the aching regret that pervaded his mood before.
Her eyes glistened. “Do you really mean it?”
Could he show her just how much he meant it, how fast he was succumbing to her charms? Did he dare proceed? If he aligned himself with her, there would be no return.
He had the war and his duty to think of. But he and she might have little time left before the invaders came and the countryside was overrun. If he were caught, he’d be taken prisoner, or shot—by either side. This could be his sole opportunity to act.
“Jack?”
At the soft plea hovering in his name, he strode across the room and scooped her up from the bed. He gathered her in his arms, inhaling her flowery perfume, her hair spilling over them both. Desire rushed through him like a scorching gale. The coming inferno she warned of enflamed him and he clasped her closer still. She tilted her face toward his, her eyes drifting shut, lashes brushing her cheeks, and he bent his head, covering her lips with his rapturous mouth.
Perfection, two beings coming together at the exact moment preordained for them. Flames consumed him as he slowly circled with her in his embrace, kissing her all the while. A drum beat in his heart, an ancient song known to all men tumbling in love. He had climbed mountains with less hammering inside, and her chest rose and fell against his.
If lips could speak without words, he conveyed his fast-growing devotion in a torrent. She returned the heated pressure on her mouth, her slender arms entwined around his neck. Everything he’d ever wanted or cared about, seemed as nothing compared to this moment with her. Headwaters crashing together and swirling him away, could have no greater effect.
How had he lived before Evie? How could he ever bear to let her go?
Impossible. Unthinkable. He scarcely knew her, and yet, he did.
Breaking for breath, he pressed his lips to her satiny neck, eliciting tiny shivers in her, furthering his delight. “Will you marry me and truly be Mrs. Jack Ramsey?”
“Yes.” She didn’t hesitate, her panted reply beyond belief.
Was any of this real? Maybe he was delirious, out of his head, wandering in a fevered dream of piercing joy. “I don’t know how we shall live,” he added, reclaiming her pliant lips.
“We’ll manage somehow,” she said, in between the sweetest, most fervent kisses he’d ever experienced. “Here or there…” she trailed off.
“By there, you mean the future in this house with your grandmother?” he clarified, doubtful she’d surrendered that fantasy since entering the chamber she’d proclaimed her own.
“Yes. Grandma G. wants me to help her run the farm, and she’d be wild about you. In fact, if you were there with me I would willingly stay—”
He disrupted her touching avowal, silencing her with a tender kiss. Moments passed, their lips conveying what could not be defined in words, because it made no earthly sense. Their hearts hammered. He swore he felt hers beating, too. How long he stood cradling her, he didn’t know. Footsteps in the hall reminded him the family awaited the couple’s readiness for their wedding supper. For that, he must climb into the tub, and emerge freshly scrubbed, scented with wintergreen, and wearing the borrowed clothes.
“They’re waiting.” Breaking from Evie with a sigh, he reluctantly lowered her to the bed. “Duty calls. I would love to discuss my intentions further with you, but I’ve got my marching orders. Better get on with my bath.”
She gazed up at him in lip-twitching amusement, appearing more desirable than ever. “You mean, you are going to strip off your clothes now, and I’m to stay here?” Bubbly laughter escaped her.
“That’s the plan.” He strode to the chair and positioned it near the tub.
Shaking his head at the craziness of this undertaking, he slid the strap of his black canvas haversack from his shoulder and slung the supply pouch over the high back.
“And I’m not to look because you’re guarding my modesty?” she continued.
“Correct.” He might as well have said ‘bizarre’ because it was.
Instead, he removed his brown jacket and hung it beside the haversack, unbuttoned his butternut-colored vest and added it to the growing collection. His gray suspenders joined the rest, and he pulled his once white shirt off over his head. The undershirt followed, both crumpling at his feet.
He met Evie’s admiring gaze, and it wasn’t lost on him that her eyes wandered over his bare chest. A tinge of rose pinkened her smooth cheeks, which suited him just fine. His gaze had wandered plenty over her curves since he first saw her.
“Final warning.” He grinned and pulled off his chestnut-colored riding boots, standing them on the floor. “My trousers are coming off next.”
Mary hadn’t requested these or his vest and jacket for the laundry, nor was he parting with them. In critical times like this, a man must be prepared to dress and act in an instant. He unbuckled his leather belt and laid it and the holstered revolver over the chair, then unbuttoned his fly and let the trousers slide to his ankles. He stepped out and added that vital article to the others.
If Evie watched him, the most he could do to guard what little propriety remained was to keep his backside toward her. With this in mind, he lowered his drawers and heaped them on the wash pile. His socks followed. Snatching a towel from the stack of clean linens on the chair, he clutched it around him. The linen didn’t cover nearly enough. Mostly his front. He climbed into the water and draped the towel along the side in readiness.
“Pretend I’m not here.” He sank farther down into the still warm liquid.
Doggone it. He’d forgotten the soap on the washstand. Shadows partly hid him, and the water he soaked in was a dark pool. Maybe she could help him without causing too mu
ch offense.
“Except, would you mind passing me that blue crock?” he asked his silent companion.
Had she peeked, was she scandalized?
“If you can do so in all modesty,” he added, burning with curiosity as to her reaction, but he faced the door and could not see her expression. He glanced over his shoulder.
“Think I can manage.” She gathered her skirts and walked to the stand. Lifting the crock, she tiptoed to his side, as if this better preserved her decorum. With her face carefully averted, she extended the container to him.
He took it from her. “I also need the pitcher for rinsing.” He hadn’t planned this watery assault very well, possibly because he was in the chamber with the beautiful woman he’d embraced and proposed to only moments ago.
“It’s full of water, too.” She retrieved the vessel and passed that to him. “Shall I climb in there with you?”
He met the mirth in her eyes. “You vixen. You peeked.”
She nodded, puckering her lips to suppress a grin. “Only for a second,” she reasoned, as if that didn’t count.
A smile tugged at his mouth. “Still want to marry me?”
“Even more.”
She bowled him over. Utterly. He pointed dripping fingers at the bed. “Go. Wait at a respectable distance,” he insisted, muffling the laughter rising in his throat.
“Yes. All right.” Snatching the pitcher from him, she poured cold water over his head.
“Scamp,” he sputtered.
“A little.” She erupted in giggles and set the pitcher by the tub, darting across the room in a flurry of skirts.
He needn’t have worried about her fainting at the sight of a man without apparel. She had more spirit than he’d realized, a sustaining attribute they might well need.
Not might. Would. And she was very young. He felt ancient by comparison. More than a few years stretched between them when it came to experience. He never wanted her to see the carnage he’d witnessed.
How was he to fight in a war he wanted no part of, and shield her from the mayhem at the same time? Because the hour was coming when he must choose a side, and the only one that struck a chord within him was Virginia and his beloved valley.