B000XUBEHA EBOK

by Osborne, Maggie

  She ducked her head, then gazed toward the road. “I was very young, Mr. Cameron. I married Clarence for the wrong reasons. I think I fell in love because he was nice looking, a wonderful dancer, and he came from a good family. He was easy to talk to and his manners were flawless.”

  Cameron leaned back in his chair and studied her expression. “What am I hearing in your voice?”

  “I’m surprised by how difficult these questions are,” she admitted finally. “It’s shocking me to realize I didn’t know Clarence well. I’m describing the surface, not the substance of the man.” She frowned and briefly touched her tongue to her upper lip. “I saw Clarence as a mentor and protector. He would teach me and take care of me,” she said slowly. “Maybe if we’d had the chance, we would have matured into a more balanced give-and-take. I don’t know.” She looked at him across the table. “How did you see Clarence?”

  Here was another opportunity to say what he’d come to tell her. And once again, he couldn’t bring himself to speak the words.

  “We’ll save that for another time if you don’t mind.” He took his watch from his waistcoat pocket and opened the lid. “It’s getting late.”

  Standing, he gazed down at her, enjoying how the candlelight softened her mouth and raised a shine to her eyes and hair. Unlike her shapeless work dresses, her town dress molded her body, revealing a full bosom and narrow waist, and when he’d assisted her from the wagon he’d caught a glimpse of trim ankles. She was a fine figure of a woman. If she’d lived in a town where she had no history, he figured every man within a hundred miles would have come courting.

  “Good night, Mrs. Ward.”

  “Good night, Mr. Cameron.”

  They looked at each other for a moment, as if there were more to say, then Cameron nodded and walked down the porch steps into darkness.

  At the barn, he checked all the animals, then sat outside on a tree stump and lit one of the short, thin cigars he’d purchased in town.

  Damn his hide. He had to tell her. He had to stop playing with the notion that he could ride out of here and leave things as they were. Honor demanded the truth. She had a right to know who she’d been feeding and opening her heart to. She had a right to hate him.

  And he couldn’t delay much longer. Della hadn’t asked how long he planned to stay, but she had to be wondering. He’d already stayed long past anything reasonable. He could have—should have told her everything that first night. That’s what he had intended. But a weakness in him had wanted to know the woman whose photograph he had carried for ten years. Who had she been, who was she now? He’d discovered that she was so much more than he’d imagined.

  Smoking, gazing up at the canopy of stars, he briefly wondered what it would be like to be loved by a woman like Della Ward. Clarence had been a lucky man. Had he known it?

  After a time, he ground his boot heel on the cigar, then stood and stretched, glancing toward the house. She’d carried the lantern into her bedroom, and he saw her silhouette pass the curtains. Did she braid her hair for sleeping, or did she wear it loose?

  Turning, he slammed his fist against the side of the barn. He was being a damned fool, and it was time he left.

  But first, there was one more question he needed to ask. Since she hadn’t volunteered the information, he knew the subject would pain her.

  Chapter 5

  Artillery fire shook the ground and showered clods of earth and ragged leaves on the Reb who appeared at the top of the embankment. The man ducked his head, then jerked when he saw Cameron crouched in the gully. A lifetime passed during the second they stared at each other, before each of them fired. Cameron rolled to the side and shot his rifle from the hip. A burning sensation sliced through the fleshy part of his forearm but he hardly noticed, his attention intent on the red blossom unfurling on the Reb’s uniform jacket.

  The Reb dropped his weapon and clasped his chest as he sank to his knees. He stared at Cameron until his eyes closed and he toppled down the embankment, rolling to a stop a few feet from Cameron’s boots.

  Cameron held the rifle on him until he was certain the man was dead, then he cocked his head and listened to the explosions cracking trees and throwing up dirt around him.

  Damn all. He was pinned in the gully with a dead Rebel. And there might be more Rebs in the forest. Scanning the top of the embankment, searching for movement, he removed his jacket and peeled back his bloody shirt to examine his wound. The ball had passed through without hitting bone. His luck had held.

  After tearing a strip off his shirt, he bound the wound as best he could, then considered his options. Make a run for it? Instinct told him that he’d exhausted his luck for the day. Trying to dodge the hail of artillery would end in death. Which gave him no choice but to stay in the gully with the dead Reb until the bombardment ended.

  Pressing his back into the mossy ferns, he gripped his weapon and stared at the opposing bank.

  He’d seen the Reb’s face.

  Throughout the whole miserable war, he’d deliberately avoided looking at the face of the enemy. He’d fought in close combat, but the enemy’s faces had blurred, and that’s how he’d preferred it. The enemy was a single monstrous entity, different and alien, to be feared and hated.

  But he saw the Reb in his mind standing at the top of the embankment, shoulders slumped in fatigue, eyes reddened and sore from the smoke and exploding earth. The man’s uniform was soiled and patched, as shabby and threadbare as Cameron’s own. He was of medium height, sandy haired, his eyes were blue gray. For an instant, he had reminded Cameron of Howard Ellison, a childhood friend. That’s what his mind recoiled from, the recognition that the Reb could be an ordinary man like Howard Ellison, like himself.

  He relit the cigar stub, smoked, and felt the ground shake when the artillery fell nearby. How the hell long was he going to be trapped here?

  After a time, he couldn’t restrain his curiosity. He looked down at the dead Reb. He’d seen countless dead men. Had seen men torn by canon and ball, had stood outside the operating tents and stared at hills of amputated limbs. Likely, the man at his feet had seen the same horrors.

  How different were they? Aside from philosophical differences, were they more alike than not? The question disturbed him.

  Acting on impulse, he slid down next to the man, hesitated, then went through his pockets, driven to know who he was. Something inside warned that he’d never be the same if he put a name to the Reb or learned anything about him, but he searched anyway.

  He found a pipe and a nearly empty pouch of first-rate tobacco. Matches in a tin box. A pocket knife with an ivory handle, and a gold watch on a heavy chain. And then a packet tucked in the Reb’s inside jacket pocket, protected by an oilcloth wrapping.

  Aware that he was about to invade the man’s privacy, but driven to know who he had killed, he looked down at the Reb, then moved away from him.

  His hands shook slightly as he opened the packet and a photograph fluttered to his lap. For a long time he studied the young woman and man in what was obviously a wedding picture. Damn it. Then he read the wife’s letter and a half-written response.

  He read the letters again, dropped his head, and covered his eyes. The man’s name was Clarence Ward. He had a pregnant wife, an ill father, and a distraught mother. His home was in shambles, in the path of the Union army, and his young wife was terrified and nearing the end of her rope.

  James Cameron had killed a decent man with family who loved him and wanted him home. He had killed a good man because the color of their uniforms was different. That’s what soldiers did.

  He turned his head to look at Clarence Ward. In different circumstances, they might have enjoyed each other’s company. Maybe they could have been friends.

  The full wrongness and horror of war seeped into him like poison. How many good men had he killed? Ordinary men like himself who were just doing their duty and hoping to stay alive until the madness ended and they could go home to their families.

&n
bsp; He’d been able to perform his duty because the enemy didn’t have the reality of faces or names. Until now it had been simple. The gray uniforms were the enemy, and his duty was to kill the enemy. The enemy didn’t have a young, pregnant wife or parents who needed him. He was just the faceless, nameless foe.

  Christ. He’d put a face and a name to the soldier at his feet. He knew something about Clarence Ward and his family. Nothing could be the same.

  He’d killed too many ordinary men in different colored uniforms. He had widowed too many young wives. He had killed men who had not wronged him or anyone else. How did a man live with this knowledge?

  Standing, he studied Clarence Ward’s face. It wasn’t fair that Ward, who had a family, was dead. But Cameron, who had no family, would survive. Bending, he laid his rifle beside Mr. Ward’s body, then climbed up the embankment.

  He started walking north. The war had ended for James Cameron.

  He spent the morning checking Della’s animals. The old sow was healthy. Any chicken that looked poorly would show up in the Sunday stew, so he didn’t concern himself there. He trimmed the manes, tails, and hooves of her horses. Doctored a cut on the ear of her milk cow.

  It hadn’t rained since the night he arrived, so he filled the stock tanks from the creek. Decided he’d carry a couple of buckets up to her garden.

  That’s when he noticed the laundry flapping on the line. Halting, he narrowed his gaze on three of his muslin shirts, two pairs of trousers, and two sets of long johns. She’d even washed his socks.

  Angry, he set down the buckets and went to the house, entering the open door without rapping first. She was standing near the stove, whistling an old lullaby and ironing another of his shirts.

  “I didn’t give permission to wash and iron my things, and I don’t want you doing it.”

  Her lips had curved when she saw him, but the tentative smile faded quickly. “Why on earth not?”

  “It’s not right.”

  “It’s no trouble. I was doing wash anyway. Truly, I don’t mind.”

  “I mind.”

  She set down the iron and tilted her head, studying him with a puzzled expression. “It seems the least I can do is include your wash. Washing and ironing a few pieces doesn’t begin to balance out the work you’ve done, but it makes me feel like I’m giving something back.”

  God almighty. Turning, he stood in the doorway, scowling at the road. He understood what she was saying, and in a different situation he would have been pleased and grateful.

  Tell her, he ordered himself. Tell her right now that she’s standing in a hot kitchen ironing the shirts of the man who killed her husband.

  “Mr. Cameron?”

  “You weren’t reared to iron.” Her life had collapsed that day when Clarence Ward had rolled down the embankment. If it were true that Mr. Ward had protected his fortune, then Clarence would have come home to a changed life, but one of comfort. Della Ward sure as hell wouldn’t have been putting up a wash and sweating over an iron on a hot August day.

  “Is that what’s bothering you?” She made a sound midway between dismissal and a laugh. “I’ll tell you something, Mr. Cameron.” He heard her place the iron on the stove top and pick up another that was hot. “I wasn’t reared to do much of anything useful. But I’ve learned there’s satisfaction in doing for myself. I like knowing how to cook and put up a wash. Most of the time, I like tending my garden and caring for my animals. It feels good to put my hands in a dishpan full of warm, sudsy water. At the end of the day, I like knowing that I kept body and soul together, and I did it myself.”

  When he turned around she wore a peculiar expression, as if she’d said things she hadn’t considered before.

  “I have to tell you something.”

  “I figured as much. It has to do with that unfinished business of yours, doesn’t it?” She arched an eyebrow, certain that she’d guessed correctly.

  Right now she was as beautiful as any woman he had ever seen. The collar of her work dress was open and her skin was dewy from the heat, her throat and face were flushed. A few tendrils of rich brown hair floated around her cheeks. Her mouth was slightly open and he could see the tips of her teeth.

  He wished he could walk over to her, take the iron out of her hand, then pick her up and carry her into the bedroom. The image was so vivid that he could picture himself removing her faded dress and her shimmy and drawers. He could see her standing before him in a light sheen of summer sweat, her magnificent body trembling in anticipation of his touch.

  He ground his teeth together and clenched his fists. Is this how he respected the man he’d killed? By lusting after the man’s wife? Cursing beneath his breath, he ran a hand across his eyes and down his face.

  He shouldn’t have come here. He should have posted the packet to Two Creeks. He could have told her the story of Clarence’s death in a letter.

  Could’ves and should’ves were a waste of time. Honor demanded that he face her, and here he was. So why in the hell couldn’t he speak the words? What difference did it make if Della hated him? Once he rode out of Two Creeks, he’d never see her again. They shared a common point in the past, but even at his most fanciful he’d never imagined he would establish anything ongoing with the girl in the photograph, or the woman she’d become. The outcome had always been inevitable.

  He looked at her, trusting and pink with heat, and his resolve shattered. Tomorrow. He would tell her tomorrow. One more day wouldn’t make any difference. He’d have one more day of conversation and perhaps a smile, one more day of looking at her and being near her.

  And there was one more question he had to ask.

  “I’ll be leaving before you do another wash,” he stated abruptly. He couldn’t change that she’d already washed his clothing and would iron it, but he could by God make sure that she didn’t spend any more of her labor on him.

  Her lips twitched with a hint of disappointment. That he was leaving? Or that he hadn’t yet explained his unfinished business?

  “I suppose you need to get on with the business of hunting outlaws.” She ran her fingers over the collar of his shirt, then smoothed the iron along the curve of muslin. “Are you searching for anyone special?”

  Cameron shrugged, watching the back-and-forth movement of the iron. “There are a couple of bank robbers reported to be between here and Santa Fe. If I don’t catch them, some other bounty hunter will.”

  “Would that bother you?”

  “Hell, no.”

  Turning his shirt, she ironed the yoke, then glanced at him quizzically. “Do you care about anything? Does anything matter to you?”

  She asked the damnedest questions, questions no one else would dare put to him. And he felt obligated to answer because she’d been so open with him. And because she was who she was.

  “I care about evening the score,” he said finally. Before she could insist that wasn’t possible, he added, “And a few other things. Right now I care about filling the rain barrel and greasing the buckboard’s axle.”

  He left the house as riled inside as he’d been in a long time. Seeing her ironing his shirts had shocked him, had brought him face-to-face with the one weakness in his life—Della Ward.

  Once he told her, she’d think back to washing and ironing his clothes, and she’d detest him for letting her do it. Well, she couldn’t hate him any more than he hated himself for not noticing earlier and stopping her.

  He had to tell her before she did him any further kindnesses.

  Since the night they’d dangled their feet in the creek, Della had sensed that Cameron held back something he wanted to say to her. Initially, she’d guessed it must have something to do with Clarence, but they had discussed Clarence often, and she’d offered him ample opportunity to speak. Perhaps he wanted to tell her about his mysterious unfinished business. She wished he would. Curiosity was getting the better of her.

  Most of all she wished she’d known James Cameron before the war did its damage. Had his
blue eyes sparkled and twinkled as they did so rarely now? Had he laughed easily? Had words come quickly, or had he always been a reticent, solitary man?

  “You’re quiet tonight,” he said, placing his fork and knife across the top of his plate.

  “I guess I still don’t understand why you were so angry about me doing your laundry.”

  Anyone else would have taken her comment as an invitation to explain, but he just nodded. There were things about James Cameron that could drive a woman crazy.

  And there were things about him that would make a woman forgive just about anything. He always wet down and combed his hair before he came to the table, for example. And his hair dried in soft loose curls just above his collar. He had strong, sure hands that didn’t waste a movement that wasn’t necessary.

  But the thing that gave her a fluttery feeling inside was the way he looked at her. As if he really saw her, as if he saw all she had been and all she might ever be. No one before had looked at her in that way.

  “I’d rather you hadn’t done it, but thank you.”

  “It was my pleasure,” she said, meaning it. The novelty of doing up a man’s wash had made an onerous chore speed by.

  “You were whistling when I came inside . . .”

  His comment made her smile. “See how far my manners have deteriorated? Would you like more coffee?”

  “Please. Where did you learn to whistle?”

  “A neighbor boy taught me. My mother was appalled.” Lord, she’d smiled more since Cameron arrived than she had in a decade. “I’ve never regretted learning. It’s nice to have music whenever I like.”

  “Mrs. Ward, I’ll be leaving soon . . .”

  The words hung between them, spoiling a pleasant mood. Della turned toward the pool of darkness gathering in the yard beyond the reach of the porch lamp.

  She would miss him. It shocked her to realize how quickly they had established habits and routines. After he left, she wouldn’t dress the table on the porch. She’d eat her meals standing at the sink. She’d return to not speaking for days on end. The dream would return to haunt her. And the loneliness would seem worse for having been interrupted.