Secret Lady

by Beth Trissel

  She grimaced in agreement.

  “This is a most damnable business,” he muttered. “Hail with pellets the size of cannon balls could hardly be worse than the retribution you have foretold.”

  “Not a lot. What will you do?”

  The question branded his soul. “What man doesn’t fight when war comes to his door belching fire and smoke?”

  “Mennonites,” she emphasized. “The Wengers and others like them would never take up arms in their defense. Violence of any sort is against their beliefs.”

  He sighed. “With rare exceptions, this is true. Pacifism is the doctrine of their church, and those who depart from it are shunned. But violence isn’t against your beliefs, is it?”

  Her cheeks flushed a deeper pink than the chill wind accounted for. “I would meet the burners with a pitchfork, or whatever else I could lay my hands on.”

  Smiling slightly, he envisioned her planted defiantly between the oncomers and the farm. “Many Southern women would do likewise. But I cannot allow you to take that risk.”

  “You may have to. Union soldiers mustn’t find you on the farm when they come. You will be arrested.”

  “Or worse.” He didn’t soften the truth and met her searching gaze. “The old Jack would fight without hesitation.”

  Her face creased in emphatic refusal. “No. It’s a lose-lose situation. How can you oppose an army large enough to blot out the sun?”

  “I can’t, but I can harass the heck out of the smaller parties they will form to execute their vile purpose.”

  She shook her head. “Dear God. You mustn’t.”

  “I can ride circles around them,” he scoffed.

  “There are too many. Are you courting death, Jack?”

  “Not in the least. This is my land. My valley. I know every road, lane, and track. They are newcomers and at a disadvantage.”

  “Even so, you cannot possibly guarantee your safety.

  He shrugged. “No one can.”

  Flames lit her eyes in a meld of anger and pleading. “Grandma G. is trying to aid us.”

  “From the future? How?”

  “She brought us supplies, and advised me,” Evie fired back. “She may do more. I don’t know.”

  “You said your grandmother told you I don’t survive this war. Maybe it’s my destiny to fall opposing these destroyers?”

  Evie appeared angry enough to kill him herself. “Stop that kind of talk right now, mister. I don’t think this is how Grandma G. meant. But if you’re bent on being foolhardy, you may alter your end. Then how am I to save you?”

  “I don’t expect you to,” he snapped.

  Tears welled in her reproachful gaze, and he gentled his tone. “If you are meant to find a way to aid me, you will. But I cannot stand idly by while bluecoats destroy my valley.”

  “Who said anything about idle? We must spread warning. People in town know an army’s coming, but that’s the extent of their knowledge, and folk in the country are unaware.”

  “We will tell a few,” he agreed. “But they must help spread word. We haven’t the time to ride all over the countryside, and you look ready to keel over.” Fresh guilt stung him. “I forget how accustomed I am to days in the saddle, while you are not.”

  “It isn’t only the long ride that has tired me, and I’ve been on those, but the change in time. Worse than jet lag, or losing an hour from daylight saving, and I know you don’t understand a word I just said.”

  “No need. You admitted your fatigue.” And there was some satisfaction in that small victory.

  “Well…yes. But how can I rest with all the work that must be done to help the family prepare for the worst?”

  “I shall work while you sleep after we return. Then tomorrow—”

  A shot exploded, sending a bullet whizzing past his ear.

  Confound it! He’d let his attention drift while debating with Evie. The trees on his left partly hid a narrow track leading off into the countryside. An ideal spot for an ambush. How could he have missed it?

  “Stay back,” he hissed at her, cursing his negligence. He could be dead in an instant. Then what would happen to Evie?

  Seizing the revolver at his waist, he swung Buck toward the secluded spot. Eyes intent, he probed every leafy shadow. There! A figure obscured by trees and underbrush waited on horseback. He took aim.

  “Hold up, Jack.”

  At the distinctly familiar and unwelcome voice, he paused, his finger on the trigger. “You weary of following me around, Sam Hobbs?”

  “Sure am.” The branches parted, and Sam emerged on a big red horse, his pistol also drawn. That had been a warning shot. The sharp-eyed scout rarely missed.

  “Who you got with you?” Amazement widening his eyes, Sam reined in his mount and lowered his gun. “You’re a sly one, Jack. Who’s the lady? Not one of your usual rescues. Kept her a secret, haven’t you?”

  Relaxing his guard slightly, wondering at Sam’s intentions, he grunted in the affirmative. “My wife, Evie McIntyre, from Augusta County,” he replied, giving him a nugget to chew on. “And yes, I have guarded her. Wouldn’t you, Cousin?” he pressed, aware of her astonishment.

  “Uh huh.” The opposing man appeared equally taken aback. Walking the horse closer, he nodded at Evie. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am. I know some of your kin. Staunch Confederates. What are you doing with my renegade cousin?”

  “Jack? You’re the renegade,” she sputtered.

  “By his account, you mean.” Sam reined in his mount again and gaped at her.

  She shifted her baffled gaze from one to the other. “You two are nearly identical. Did you realize?”

  Laughing, Sam thumbed back a wide-brimmed gray hat. “Yeah. Except one of us is crazy.”

  “You,” Jack retorted, but he didn’t argue the undeniable family resemblance. “We were like twins growing up.”

  Sam snorted. “And tussled like a pair of bull calves.”

  They’d also had each other’s backs until this damn war came between them. Sam had the same hazel gaze, chiseled chin beneath the stubble, shoulder length blond hair, and lanky frame, though Jack liked to think he was the better looking, definitely the nobler, of the two. There was no accounting for the marital taste of his father’s sister in her choice of spouse. Apart from that, Aunt Ida seemed sane enough. His late uncle must have passed on the inherent wild streak in Sam.

  The fellow smelled of wood smoke, pipe tobacco, and pronounced masculinity. His faded butternut coat, vest, and pants were the casual attire of a guerilla scout. He ran with a loosely formed group of partisan rangers who shifted between the valley and West Virginia, raiding Union supplies, chasing down deserters, and retaliating against unionist sympathizers.

  These guerillas acted outside the authority of General Lee, and were little more than bushwhackers. But now, Jack considered his kin speculatively. There might be some use for him and his wolf pack.

  Taking a chance, he holstered his gun. “You have far greater quarry to stalk than me, Sam. Sheridan’s coming.”

  The sharp scout followed his movement with the barest flicker in his keen gaze. “I heard something of the sort this morning. You know when?”

  “Any hour.”

  “You don’t look too happy about that,” Sam observed, holstering his pistol. “Thought you might be clicking your heels in joy with your Unionist sympathies.”

  “No. I would have to be stark raving mad to rejoice. Sheridan will torch everything and kill or cart off all the rest.”

  “The valley will be a barren wasteland,” Evie supplied.

  Sam shifted his scrutiny between them. “That so? What are you gonna do about it, cousin of mine?”

  The relentless question tormented him. “Not much we can do. But…”

  “No, Jack.” Evie’s fierce whisper elicited the ghost of a smile from his watchful relation.

  “I have the family to think of before taking any action,” he amended.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry ab
out your papa,” Sam scoffed. “He’s likely royally entertaining the bluecoats as we speak.”

  “Probably so.” Jack envisioned his father falling all over himself acting the gracious host. “He will need all his wiles to prevent them from burning his barn on the way out. I wasn’t thinking of him, anyway. Not after he disowned me.”

  “Ah. You mean your adopted brood?” Contempt tightened Sam’s sardonic smile, but he bit back the swearing that would normally follow such an admission.

  Some choice words rose on Jack’s tongue and remained there in Evie’s presence. “Yes. I must also consider my wife,” he said instead.

  “Certainly.” His Rebel kin waved a gloved hand, as if giving his blessing, but a mocking smile flickered at his mouth. “See this fair lady settled as best you can. Leaving her with the family?”

  Indignation swelled in Jack alongside the anger already brewing. “You must admit the Wengers are hardworking and superb farmers.”

  “Indisputably.” A wicked grin curved Sam’s lips. “The boys and I have enjoyed many a good meal at their expense.”

  Jack arched in the saddle, like a panther ready to spring. “No more. You leave them alone.”

  “I might oblige, if you confide your plans regarding our coming visitors,” Sam bargained.

  “Simple. I will shadow them like a hawk, hasten their fiery stops, and make their stay here less than agreeable.”

  “Oh, Jack.” Evie heaved a heavy sigh. “You’re putting yourself in the thick of it.”

  He hated to upset her, but there it was. “Someone has to, sweetheart. We can’t just let them linger at each farm.”

  Approval glinted in his former adversary’s greenish-brown gaze. “Want any help hurrying the bluecoats along? More safety in numbers.”

  Running with wolves wasn’t Jack’s usual mode of operation. But there was nothing normal about the scorching invasion soon to be underway in his beloved valley. Sheridan had left him no choice, and this meeting with his cousin might prove propitious. “Half a dozen or so men would come in handy, Cousin,” he allowed. “Not too many. We must move furtively.”

  Sam gave a knowing nod. “I’m accustomed to stealth.”

  Jack narrowed his eyes. “I’m counting on it. We shall be ghosts.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Evie rode her mare into the rustling woods behind Jack, her thoughts and emotions in tumult. The potential ramifications of his proposed action tumbled through her frazzled mind. Not only was she frustrated with him, but herself. She shared some of the blame for his radical redirection.

  Shadows lengthened among the trees with the advancing afternoon. Thickening clouds dimmed the blue peeking between the leafy canopy. The stiff wind had diminished to a light breeze and held the hint of rain in its chill breath.

  A welcoming nicker drew her attention to the chestnut colt awaiting their return, his white-streaked face lifted in expectation. Beside him, stood the steady draft horse, Bill. The two friends made a touching scene, but it didn’t ease the tempest brewing inside her.

  She reined in the mare. Polly was anxious to reunite with her colt and sidled impatiently. Too tired to dismount unaided in these circumstances, she tightened her grip on the horse. Polly tossed her head, wheeling in a circle. The mare was through cooperating, and Evie was fast losing control.

  “Jack!” Perhaps a bed of pine needles would cushion her fall if she toppled to the ground.

  He swiveled his head at them and sprang from Buck. He stilled Polly with a stern word. The well-trained gelding waited quietly as his master reached up and helped Evie dismount. She slid into his sure grasp, both savoring and resenting his embrace.

  He held her to his warm strength. She turned her head, a little awkward in her hat, and rested her cheek against his chest. His coat smelled of wood smoke from countless campfires, horses, and Jack. The dearest scent in the world.

  Wild conjectures tumbled in her mind like a rushing stream overwhelming its banks. What if he wasn’t here tomorrow? What if he got himself killed? Worse. What if her coming caused his death? He might meet a different end than the one history had in store for him.

  Maybe she couldn’t alter the fate of someone destined to die. But if that were the case, why had she been sent back?

  If he were taken from her, what would she do? Catch the next warble back to the future, leaving behind any hope of a life together? The thought was too terrible to bear.

  Unwanted tears blinded her. She blinked and sniffed in a decidedly unladylike manner. “Oh, Jack.”

  “Don’t fret so over me,” he whispered.

  “What makes you think I am?”

  “A hunch.” He gently set her aside. “Wait here while I tend the horses and hide our tack. You aren’t dressed for physical labor and are dead on your feet.”

  “True. But—”

  “Wait,” he insisted.

  “Okay.” She wouldn’t be much use in her restrictive getup, even if she weren’t a wreck.

  This was an absurd outfit for riding, or anything else. Crazy what women used to wear. Some modern fashions didn’t make much sense either, though. Platform stilettos came to mind. At least she could walk in her riding boots.

  Propping herself against a substantial trunk, she looked on blearily while he unsaddled their mounts. If she sank to the earth, she’d never get up, and she wasn’t having him haul her back to the house.

  “Here.” He paused in his brisk movements to pass her the canteen. “Sorry. We are out of food.”

  “We’ll restock.” She had finished off the granola bars and he must’ve eaten the rest of the beef jerky in the black haversack slung over his shoulder. They’d replenish supplies from her carpet bag.

  Longing for hot coffee, she sipped metallic mouthfuls as he rubbed down Polly and Buck with a piece of toweling. The aroma of horses and leather mingled with the earthy humus of the woods, comforting scents, and the four animals were glad to be together again. She welcomed the company of horses.

  If they had provisions and a tent, she and Jack could camp out here and not have to face the family. Just the two of them, alone…

  What now? He fished a small hatchet, reminiscent of a tomahawk, from the waterproof pack he’d tucked beneath an evergreen. “What are you doing?”

  “Watch and see.”

  He deftly hacked boughs from surrounding pines and cedars until he had a pile. After covering the saddles and bridles with a wool blanket, he piled on boughs and further disguised the tack.

  She tipped her hand to him. “Clever.”

  “Have to be,” he quipped, with a smile.

  Snatching up a wooden bucket, he strode to the barrel filled with water that must have been hauled by wagon from the well, or the nearest stream. He scooped out water and carried a bucketful to each horse, waiting while they drank.

  “You shouldn’t have to stand around, Jack. You need more buckets or a watering trough up here.”

  “Will you fashion them?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “I wouldn’t have a clue how.”

  “It takes skill and hours we don’t have to spare.” He lifted a pitchfork and turned his attention to forking hay from the hidden mound. The horses snatched at the fodder he tossed to them.

  She eyed the diminishing pile. “More hay needs to be carted up here. A lot more. Easy for me to say, I know. I’m not the one hauling supplies and am dead on my feet. I’m a total wimp.”

  He flung another forkful to hungry mouths. “Not sure what that is. But you will gain strength after ample rest.”

  If that could be had.

  “Caring for concealed livestock is a lot of work and will only grow when the cows arrive.” Pausing, he swiped at his brow. “I reckon they could be driven farther back in the mountains, but several of the older girls will have to remain with them, unless Paul does. And that will take him away.”

  The enormity of the Wenger’s situation weighed on Evie. “Right. What of the sheep and pigs? They can’t tether thos
e.”

  “No. Sheep could also be herded to the mountains. Wish their dog hadn’t run off. Bob would be a help.” He swept his hand at the woods. “They might have to let the hogs loose here and attempt to round them up later.”

  “It will be chaos. And what about the chickens?”

  “Same thing,” he grunted, flinging another forkful.

  She envisioned the resulting confusion. “The Wengers don’t have that much livestock in comparison to modern farms. Still, it boggles my mind to think of caring for the animals they do have, while keeping them hidden. Either they find a way to preserve them for the duration of Sheridan’s stay, or risk losing every single one down to the last hen.”

  “It’s not right.” Mouth set in a tight line, Jack stabbed his fork into the ground and left it. “That’s the bulk of the chores done.” He resettled his hat and glanced through the trees. “It will be candle-lighting before we know it. Best head back and deliver the news to the family.”

  “Not all of it,” she amended. “I’m guessing you will omit your cousin.”

  “No use in mentioning Sam.”

  She exhaled heavily. “I can’t get over the pair of you being enemies only a few hours ago. How could cousins be so antagonistic to each other? You grew up together.”

  He stiffened. “That’s the nature of civil war, pitting brother against brother. I didn’t relish being at odds with Sam and went out of my way not to shoot him.”

  “That should never even be an option. It’s truly a horrendous war.”

  His shoulders sagged as if under the weight of the fallen. “The worst. And you do not know the half of it.”

  Frustration roiled in her like a tossing sea. “Then why do you want to get back in?”

  “I don’t. Needs must.” Eyeing her as he might a skittish mount, he extended his arm. “Come on. Let me help you back.”

  “I can manage.”

  Rebuffing his assistance, she picked her way through the trees behind him, while he went ahead, keeping watch. The soldiers shouldn’t arrive for a few days, but you never knew. Her long riding habit was a constant battle, and it was the most she could do to stay on her feet. Rocks and roots tripped her up.