No Greater Glory

by Cindy Nord

  Dedication

  I dedicate this work of fiction to my husband, Tom, the love of my life and in every way, shape and form my hero. To my sons, Christopher and Jeremy, who are my greatest blessings. And to Tex, who has made this thing called writing so amazingly fun.

  Chapter One

  October 1862

  Seven miles west of Falmouth, Virginia

  A bitter wind slammed through the tattered countryside, sucking warmth from the morning. Emaline McDaniels rocked back in the saddle when she heard the shout. She glanced over her shoulder and her eyes widened. Across the fields of ragged tobacco, her farrier rode toward her at breakneck speed. Lines of alarm carved their way across the old man’s ebony face.

  Emaline spurred her horse around to meet him. “What’s wrong?”

  Tacker pointed a gnarled finger eastward. “Yankees, Miz Emaline! Coming up da road from Falmouth!”

  “Yankees?” Her heart lurched against her ribs. She’d heard of their thievery, the fires and destruction left in their wake. Teeth-gritting determination to save her home flashed through her. She leaned sideways, gripping his work-worn sleeve. “Are you sure they’re not the home guard?”

  “No, ma’am. I seen ’em, dey’s blue riders, for sure. Hundreds of ’em.”

  Two workers moved closer to listen to the exchange, and the farrier acknowledged them with a quick nod.

  “Everyone back to the cabins,” Emaline snapped, sinking into the saddle. “And use the wagon road along the river. It’ll be safer.”

  “Ain’t you comin’ with us?”

  “No. Now move along quickly, all of you. And keep out of sight.” She flicked the reins and her horse headed straight across the fields toward the red-brick mansion that hugged the far edge of the horizon.

  The spongy ground beneath the animal’s hooves churned into clods of flying mud. Aside from a few skirmishes nearby, the war had politely stayed east along the Old Plank Road around Fredericksburg. Her mare crested the small hillock near the main house, and Emaline jerked back on the leather reins. Off to her far right, a column of cavalrymen numbering into the hundreds approached. The dust cloud stirred up by their horses draped in a heavy haze across the late-morning air. In numbed fascination, she stared at the pulsing line of blue-coated soldiers, a slithering serpent of destruction a quarter of a mile long.

  Waves of nausea welled up from her belly.

  “Oh my God…” she whispered. She dug her boot heels into the mare’s sides and the nimble sorrel sprang into another strong gallop. Praying she’d go unnoticed, Emaline leaned low, her thoughts racing faster than the horse. What do they want? Why are they here?

  Her fingers curled into the coarse mane as seconds flew past. At last, she reached the back entrance of the mansion. Quickly dismounting, she smacked the beast’s sweaty flank to send it toward the stable then spun to meet the grim expression fixed upon the face of the old woman who waited for her at the bottom of the steps. “I need Benjamin’s rifle!”

  “Everythin’s right there, Miz Emaline. Right where you’d want it.” She shifted sideways and pointed to the .54 caliber Hawkins, leather cartridge box and powder flask lying across the riser like sentinels ready for battle. “Tacker told me ’bout the Yankees afore he rode out to find you.”

  “Bless you, Euley.” Emaline swept up the expensive, custom-made hunting rifle her late husband treasured. The flask followed and she tumbled black crystals down the rifle’s long muzzle. A moment later, the metal rod clanked down inside the barrel to force a lead ball home.

  She’d heard so many stories of the bluecoats’ cruelty. What if they came to kill us? The ramrod fell to the ground. With a display of courage she did not feel, Emaline heaved the weapon into her arms, swept past the old servant, and took the wooden steps two at a time.

  There was no time left for what ifs.

  “You stay out of sight now, Euley. I mean it.” The door banged shut behind Emaline as she disappeared into the house.

  Each determined footfall through the mansion brought her closer and closer to the possibility of yet another change in her life. She eased open the front door and peered out across Shapinsay’s sweeping lawns. Dust clogged the air and sent another shiver skittering up her spine. Her heart hammered in her chest as she moved out onto the wide veranda. Five strides later, Emaline stopped at the main steps and centered herself between two massive Corinthian columns.

  She squared her shoulders. She lifted her chin. She’d fought against heartbreak every day for three years since her husband’s death. She’d fought the constant fear of losing her beloved brother in battle. She fought against the effects of this foolhardy war that sent all but two of her field hands fleeing. If she could endure all that plus operate this plantation all alone to keep Benjamin’s dreams alive, then surely, this too, she could fight.

  And the loaded weapon? Well, it was for her fortitude only.

  She knew she couldn’t shoot them all.

  “Please, don’t turn in,” she mumbled, but the supplication withered on her lips when the front of the long column halted near the fieldstone gateposts at the far end of the lane. Three cavalrymen turned toward her then approached in a steadfast, orderly fashion.

  Her gaze skimmed over the first soldier holding a wooden staff, a swallow-tailed scrap of flag near its top whipping in the breeze. The diminutive silk bore an embroidered gold star surrounded by a laurel wreath, the words, US Cavalry-6th Ohio, stitched beneath. Emaline disregarded the second cavalryman and centered her attention directly upon the officer.

  The man sat his horse as if he’d been born in the saddle, his weight distributed evenly across the leather. A dark slouch hat covered sable hair that fell well beyond the collar of his coat. Epaulets graced both broad shoulders, emphasizing his commanding look. A lifetime spent in the sun and saddle added a rugged cast to his sharp, even features.

  An overwhelming ache throbbed behind her eyes. What if she had to shoot him?

  Or worse—what if she couldn’t?

  The man reined his horse to a stop beside the front steps. His eyes, long-lashed and as brown as a bay stallion’s, caught and held hers. Though he appeared relaxed, Emaline sensed a latent fury roiling just beneath the surface of his calm.

  Her hands weakened on the rifle and she leaned forward, a hair’s breadth, unwillingly sucked into his masculinity as night sucked into day. Inhaling deeply, she hoisted the Hawkins to her shoulder, aiming it at his chest. Obviously, in command, he would receive her lone bullet should he not heed her words. “Get off my land!”

  Colonel Reece Cutteridge spotted the woman the instant he turned onto the lane. He informed his comrades he’d handle the situation. But just how, he didn’t quite know yet. The blazing animosity reflected in her evergreen eyes indicated she wasn’t open to hospitality. The rifle in her hands underscored that fact. Of the many plantations he’d commandeered since the beginning of the war, most were deserted or housed civilians cowering within.

  But not this one. This wasn’t an outlandish act of defiance by some deranged old farmer. No, this woman was brash. Bold. Reece gritted his teeth, the sensation radiating against the firm set of his jaw. A quick glance around the front of the mansion assured him her weapon was the only immediate threat.

  His gaze dropped in time to catch the slight tremble of her hands, the lone indication of her fear. He scanned the firearm and a faint smile touched his lips. In her haste to defend her home, the brazen little madcap had failed to place a necessary percussion cap in front of the firing hammer. An unprimed rifle posed no danger.

  His shoulders relaxed. His thrumming pulse relaxed. Even the muscles in his thighs relaxed. Reece scanned her again, moving slowly from the top of her head to the tips of her muddy boots. Perhaps
in her mid-thirties, she stood a breath above five feet. A thin line of defiance tightened her mouth; otherwise, her lips would be full. Lush. Coffee-colored hair lay in a long braid across her right shoulder. Errant wisps clung to the perspiration that glistened on the sun-stained curve of her cheek. A timeworn work dress extended barely to the top of her boots, the faded green and black plaid doing little to disguise the noteworthy curves that lay hidden from view. Without a doubt, he could encircle her waist with one arm.

  That is, if he wanted to.

  And that simple reflection, flickering back to life beneath the layers of emptiness and grief, startled him. He’d not had such a thought about a woman in years. But he had a job to do and took pride in doing it well.

  Reece hardened the tone of his voice. “Is this the Shapinsay Plantation?”

  “I said, get off my land.”

  “You don’t need to do this, ma’am. We’re not going to harm you or your people.”

  She raised the weapon a fraction further and widened her stance. “Turn your horse around and keep on riding. There’s nothing for you here.”

  “Unfortunately, I can’t do that. In the name of the United States government, I’ve been ordered to commandeer your home and grounds for my regiment’s winter encampment.”

  “Your orders mean nothing to me.”

  The corner of his mouth quirked upward and he topped one hand with the other on the front of his saddle. “I can clearly see that. However, my men are exhausted after the long ride from Manassas Junction, I’ve got a camp to establish before nightfall, and the horses need tending.” The smile vanished. “Now, I’m asking nicely. Lower your weapon.”

  She tromped down four of the five steps, the heavy rifle wavering in her grip. Edging into the shadow cast by his horse, she brought the Hawkins closer. “If you don’t turn around right now, mister, you won’t be alive to worry about anything else.”

  Before the woman could respond, Reece leaned from the saddle and wrapped a gloved hand around the rifle’s barrel.

  The unexpected motion startled her. She gasped and squeezed the trigger. The hammer struck metal without firing. Her mouth dropped open as Reece raked the rifle from her grasp and tossed it to the soldier behind him.

  He then leaned toward her, a surge of anger roughing his words. “The next time you aim a damn weapon at anyone, woman, I’d suggest you make sure it’s properly loaded.” He exhaled sharply. “Now you can make this easy or difficult. The choice is entirely yours. But make no mistake in understanding this: We’re here to stay.”

  Her mouth clamped shut so hard Reece heard her teeth clack.

  A gust of wind tossed an errant curl across her face and she reached up to rake it back. Ever so slowly, Reece straightened, the worn leather of the McClellan saddle creaking beneath his shifting weight.

  Since riding east into the bowels of this war, he’d yet to meet such an uncompromising woman. And if he weren’t so damned tired, he might have commented on her boldness and bracing spirit. Good God, thinking she could hold back his entire regiment with an unprimed hunting rifle.

  He’d not seen such refreshing courage since Jenny.

  The muscle under his eye twitched as he shoved the memory back into the darkened corner of his heart, crushing it up against his other misfortunes.

  “Stay out of our way and you won’t get hurt.” He touched his hat brim in a curt acknowledgment before pulling Saguaro’s reins to the right and galloping back down the lane.

  Daylight surrendered to darkness as the sun sizzled from sight behind the farthest ridge of rolling hills. Apricot streaks painted a glorious sunset across the sky, but Emaline dismissed the masterpiece to stare instead at the macabre scene that now stained Shapinsay’s canvas.

  A ten-acre walnut grove stood to the right of the lane and the stately trees arched over a sea of white tents. In the six-acre clearing nearby, where corn had thrived each summer, scores of cavalry horses now grazed.

  More than eight hundred soldiers swarmed across Shapinsay’s secluded haven, hacking miles of whitewashed fencing into fuel for the cooking fires of a dozen canvas kitchens. The tangy aroma of cut pines infused the late-afternoon air, the trees stripped bare of limbs and honed into poles or flooring for the enemy tents.

  All activity emanated from commander’s row, where dozens of junior officers directed their troops. And Emaline knew exactly which tent housed their colonel. The blue-coated beast reigned supreme at the pulsing core of this living, breathing and all-too-organized hell.

  She looked over her shoulder to the pile of military vouchers stacked on the nearby side table. The same brute who’d ordered the pillage beyond had signed every single one. As she stared at the signature scrawled across the documents, her thoughts tumbled backward an hour to when an envoy of his soldiers stood at her front door, one man shoving the official issues into her hand.

  She glared at the officer. “How dare that man assuage his guilt with these scraps of papers? How can I care for my people if he leaves me nothing to feed them?” Her voice spiraled into a harsh whisper. “I demand to speak with him this instant.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but Colonel Cutteridge is busy. I’ll be certain to forward your request.”

  “You do that.” She slammed the door in their faces.

  Instead of the colonel appearing, however, Yankee activity increased and a dozen more vouchers followed. The brute ordered men to establish picket lines on the roads leading into Shapinsay, and gave them permission to plunder the hen houses, the milking shed and even the gristmill. He’d even had the gall to have them slaughter several of her pigs for their evening meal.

  Emaline glared out the window at the broad-shouldered figure in the distance. He leaned over a camp table, a white map unfurling before him like a full-blown sail across the weathered wood. Her lips pulled tight. She had watched him issue orders to officers, enjoy a bite to eat, and even tend to his own horse. In fact, he took time for everyone and everything. Yet hours later, he still hadn’t found the courage to face her again.

  The mantel clock in the upstairs library chimed nine.

  Emaline tossed the pencil to the desk and stared at the tidy numbers tallied in the ledger. Ciphering a dozen times still produced the same agonizing numbers, the same agonizing annihilation of her resources.

  She flipped to the front of the leather tome and to yet another bundle of the colonel’s military vouchers. In the past five hours, her house overflowed with his worthless documents.

  She slammed the volume shut to block out the blasted man’s signature. The clock’s persistent ticking, however, could not block out the emptiness. Her eyelids slipped shut. Benjamin’s death still left an aching hole in her heart, and she sorely missed her husband’s wise counsel and friendship. He would’ve told her to inhale deeply and count to ten. Emaline’s despair rose. Though lacking a passion only whispered about behind fluttering fans, their marriage had nonetheless been satisfying. The few times he’d taken his privilege with her, the joining failed to produce a necessary heir—an obvious defect in her delicate frame, he’d whispered, for Benjamin had been a stout and hearty man. After several attempts proved futile, he draped the banner of barrenness over her, took himself a mistress in Fredericksburg, and never entered her body again.

  Emaline had not missed his absence from her bedchamber, and she’d accepted his infidelity with an expected dignity, however, she deeply mourned the loss of motherhood. Upon his death, management of Shapinsay consumed her and became the child she never had. Like the air she breathed, she needed the scheduled routines. Routines sustained her. Routines kept her sane. Now this horde of bluecoats had severed her from her very purpose.

  The ache of disruption bled through her.

  Emaline shoved the chair backward and stood, breathing deeply to push away the memories. The six-tiered crinoline beneath her dinner gown settled into place. She rarely wore the ensemble, yet tonight she needed familiarity. The caged hoops brought back a much-needed sense
of control. She draped a white silk shawl around her shoulders and strode to the window.

  The multitude of Yankee campfires beyond the panes of glass reflected her life’s transformation. The flames within the fieldstone rings slowly consumed her home. Her gaze skimmed past soldiers playing cards or musical instruments to search for the man who had become her target of blame. The beast was nowhere in sight.

  Emaline leaned forward, spreading her hands across the cool glass. “I cannot change things now, Colonel. That is true.” Her whispered words veiled the panes. “But I’m finished with waiting for you to face me.” The angry swish of brocade accompanied her when she turned abruptly, and left her upstairs sanctuary. Each resolute footfall down the carpeted hallway and main staircase only deepened Emaline’s wrath.

  She jerked open the front door in a full-blown and frenzied stride.

  Reece lifted his hand to knock upon the mansion’s wooden door.

  Now that he’d established camp, he knew he needed to deal with the hellion. Ever watchful, she haunted him. And that fact alone irritated the hell out of him. But he was finished with intriguing women. By delivering this next order in person, he would also be finished with her. The massive door opened so quickly Reece didn’t see who crashed into him. Instinctively, his arm wrapped around the warm body.

  A startled gasp filled the space between them and he looked down into the woman’s face. She blinked in confusion, then her features shifted into blinding contempt.

  “Release me this instant, you…you…”

  Reece stared down at her. Amid the dullness of winter, this woman’s sparking wrath vivified his mood and the essence of lavender wafted over him to scatter all logic. Unexpected heat tripped up his spine, along with the disquieting thought that he should not be feeling such intense emotions simply from holding her. He dropped his embrace and stepped back.

  Loosened by their impact, a pale blue ribbon drifted over her eyes and the crocheted netting that confined her hair slipped sideways. In one fluid movement, she pulled the piece off her head and sent a tangle of dark curls tumbling across her left shoulder and down over her breast.