Triumph

by Heather Graham

  “We’ve spent a lot of time out here already,” Gilly commented, “is the poultice done?”

  She looked down where she had been busy mashing mushrooms and moss together. It was amazing to see how mechanical her actions had become. The war had so inured her that she could function without thinking. She didn’t know if that was good or bad.

  Moss and mushrooms were now one pulpy mass, ready to be applied, and bandaged onto the wounded limb.

  “Let’s go in. And yes, we’re inviting him to dinner. We’re buying time.”

  Tia brought the poultice in; Gilly followed behind her. In the cabin, the Yankee was busy with Trey and Jemmy, seeing to the comfort and well-being of their other wounded man, Hadley Blake. The Yank had carried a small bottle of some kind of liquor in his frockcoat pocket. He was in the process of bathing Hadley’s wound, this one in the lower arm.

  Though he didn’t turn around, Tia knew that he was instantly aware that they had returned. His eyes were fixed on the wound. “Your brother is one hell of a surgeon, all right—if he’s the one who worked on this boy.”

  “He is.”

  “This arm should have been lost.”

  “He’s excellent at saving limbs,” she murmured, and she couldn’t quite keep the pride from her voice.

  The Yank stood. “The poultice?”

  “Here.”

  “Go ahead. Tend to the other boy. I’m sure you know your business.”

  She stared at him, then walked on over to the worktable where Stuart lay, twitching restlessly now and then.

  The boy was very young. Perhaps only fifteen or sixteen. The youngest of this sad little band, she thought, though he had certainly lied his way into the militia. She smoothed the hair back from his forehead. “Help me, Trey.”

  Trey came to her side.

  “Think a splash of that whiskey would do well here?” she asked the Yank.

  “Indeed.” He stepped forward, bathing her fresh stitchery. Stuart Adair groaned and twitched again. Already, though, his face had more color.

  Whiskey often seemed to be the best cleanser they had. Julian had commented that the wounds cleaned with whiskey often seemed to heal the best as well. She dabbed the wound dry, quickly and expertly applied the poultice, then bandaged the leg neatly.

  “There’s the remains of an old straw bed over there; let’s get him on it,” the Yank said.

  With tremendous care, they moved the wounded boy. When both the injured lay in deep sleep, Trey asked, “Think they’ll make it?”

  “Half of it is in the spirit, boy,” the Yank said. “Yes, I think they’ll make it.”

  “How about joining us for some hardtack stew?” Gilly suggested. “Yank, you are most welcome to anything we’ve got.”

  “Well, you can melt down some hardtack with that clean brook water—I’ll pick out the maggots. And maybe I can come up with something a bit better. Give me what’s left of that broomstick, son.”

  Gilly found the broken broomstick and handed it to the Yank. He exited the cabin, not seeming to care that his back was to them. And yet it wasn’t the right time to strike—Tia knew it. She shrugged to Trey, and followed him out.

  The Yankee walked down to the brook. He stood curiously poised over the water.

  “What the hel—sorry, Miss Tia. What on earth is he doing?” Jemmy demanded.

  “I don’t know ...” Tia murmured, and she felt uncomfortable again, watching the Yank. As if she knew him. Or should understand something about him that she hadn’t quite placed in her mind.

  Suddenly, like lightning, he moved. When he straightened, he had a huge catfish dangling from the broomstick.

  “Hell, yes!” Jemmy cried, delighted. “Oh, sorry, Miss Tia—”

  “Quit apologizing for swearing!” she said with a sigh. “This is a war.”

  “Yes, ma’am, sorry, ma’am. I’ll get the cooking fires a-burning!”

  “Now, wait ...” Tia began uneasily. She didn’t want any gifts from the strange enemy.

  But they weren’t waiting. They hadn’t really eaten in almost forty-eight hours, and they hadn’t had a decent meal in months. A fire was quickly lit. Gilly was an expert at what was called hardtack stew, a meal made by boiling hardtack and adding in bacon grease—or real, smoked bacon, which the Yank had in his saddlebags, and in this case, the hardtack stew made a filling side dish for the main course of the very delicious, fresh fish. The Yankee stranger supplied coffee as well, and laced each cup with a sip of the whiskey. To Tia’s alarm, by the time the moon had risen high in the night sky, the boys were looking up to the Yank as some kind of god.

  Washing their utensils with Jemmy by the brook, she told him sternly, “He’s still a Yank. He’s dangerous, and you boys can’t forget that.”

  “Yes, Miss Tia, but you said we needed to buy time. We’ve bought some time. Trey and Gilly are in the cabin now, getting some of the soft stew into Blake and Stuart. We’re giving them the strength to run when the time comes, right?”

  She nodded. That much was true.

  “We’ll also try to get them a night’s sleep. It doesn’t look as if the Yank’s going anywhere yet. But don’t go forgetting that he’s the enemy.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “In the morning ...”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ll get him to accompany me down to the brook somehow. You boys follow. I’ll keep him occupied. Then you can come in and take him by surprise. You’re going to have to move with speed and certainty. Can you do it?”

  “I may be young, ma’am, but I know my duty.”

  “Good.”

  They returned to the camp.

  The tall Yank alone remained by the fireside, standing with a tin camp cup in his hand while he watched the fire die down. He cut a very dashing figure in his handsomely fitted frockcoat, one booted foot set against a log, his head slightly bowed.

  Again, she had the eerie feeling he knew the minute they drew near; his hearing was uncanny, as was his eyesight.

  He turned to them as they reappeared. His eyes were the pure color of the blaze in the fire, and something about the way he looked at her was just as dangerous.

  Jemmy paused with her by the Yank. “I’ll go on in and see how our injured boys are doing, getting their nourishment down,” Jemmy said.

  “You do that, soldier,” the Yank advised.

  Jemmy left, a bit awkwardly.

  And Tia found herself alone with the Yank once again. She felt his gaze as he assessed her with his fire-glowing eyes, a slight smile on his face. “Perhaps you should run in with your valiant, protecting army,” he told her.

  “Perhaps I should.”

  “Ah, but you think you should keep an eye on me.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “So why do you look like a bird about to take flight? Are you afraid of me, Godiva?”

  “No.”

  “But your heart is beating a thousand times a second, so it seems. I know that look on your face, so wary ...”

  “You don’t know me at all!”

  “Every inch of you.”

  Her heart was indeed beating a thousand times a second. And still, she lifted her hair from her neck with a bored nonchalance. “I would appreciate it if you’d quit being so rude as to remind me of my most uncomfortable folly.”

  “I wouldn’t remind you, if I were able to forget!” he said, still smiling, and she didn’t know if he was in the least serious, or if he simply enjoyed his game of taunting her.

  He indicated the log. “Sit, Godiva.”

  She stared at him uneasily. She should say good night—then run to the shelter of the cabin and the security of her boys.

  He knew her hesitation, and smiled.

  “Be reckless! Brave, bold, confident! Take the risk. Courage, Godiva! Indeed, I think you’re going to need it.”

  “There is no risk in sitting with you!” she countered, but it was a lie, for suddenly ...

  She felt as if she were indeed in the great
est danger she had yet encountered.

  Chapter 4

  “COFFEE WITH A SHOT of whiskey?” the Yank suggested. “I did make the offer earlier, though you refused me.”

  “Why, naturally, sir,” she said, “I am quite careful with a stranger, when that stranger is an enemy.”

  “Ah, so speaks the Southern Belle!” he taunted.

  “So speaks a war-weary, wary young woman, sir. Do you think you can make me drunk?”

  “Drunk? You? From a single shot of whiskey?” She wasn’t sure whether or not to be offended by the amusement in his eyes. “Not at all. I have a feeling that proper lady though you may be, you’re quite familiar with whiskey and other spirits.”

  She ignored his tone then. “Fine. I’ll have coffee with a good strong shot of whiskey. You’re right—I am familiar with spirits.”

  He poured her coffee and added a generous dose of the whiskey. She accepted it, watching him.

  “So ... you’re staying through the night?” she asked him.

  “I am.”

  “What if you fall asleep, and we cut your throat?”

  “You won’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because if I hear one of you near me—which I will—I’ll put a bullet through flesh so fast there won’t be time to scream.”

  She shivered at his tone, then huddled into herself, sipping her coffee, hoping that he hadn’t seen her reaction.

  But he was suddenly closer to her, hunkered down in front of her, his eyes searchingly on her own. “Did you intend to slit my throat, Godiva?” he inquired.

  “No,” she murmured uncomfortably.

  She swallowed a huge sip of coffee, burned her mouth, and almost choked. She stared at him again, then shook her head. It was odd to have him so close again, and alarming to feel that she was coming to know him in some small way. Odd, the things she noticed, like the size of his hand, the rough texture of his palms, the length of his fingers, the neat, clean cut of his nails. She swallowed hard, wishing she did not feel so unnerved, and that she could find him to be a far more repulsive person. “Why are you staying here? Why haven’t you moved on?”

  He shrugged, still too close. “I have my reasons.”

  “We’re just what I said we were, a small party of children. Injured children at that, as you can see. And very, very tired,” she added, sighing.

  “Then relax,” he suggested. “Put your head back. Sit upon the ground there. Let the fire warm you. It is, in truth, a spectacular night. The air is cool, but the fire is warm. The stars remain beautiful in a clear, ebony sky. Rest.”

  “Rest?” she inquired. “With you? Lie down beside a rattler?”

  He laughed easily. “Oh, Godiva! I think your fangs are probably far more dangerous than my own.”

  “But—”

  “Had I meant to hurt you or molest you in any way, lady, I have certainly had my opportunities, don’t you think?”

  She lowered her lashes, flushing.

  “Lie back on the saddle and blanket there.” He rose, indicating the spot with a sweep of his arm. “The pines are soft beneath the blanket; the canopy of the sky is certainly a lovely one tonight.”

  Near the log, before the fire, he had laid out his saddle, saddle blanket, and army-issue bedroll. She was amazed to realize just how welcoming and comfortable it all looked.

  But then, it had been a long day.

  “You had intended that as your own bed,” she said politely.

  “Lady Godiva, it is yours.”

  “But—”

  “Allow your enemy to be valiant.”

  She rose as well, meeting his eyes again as they stood before the fire.

  “Fine, I will steal your bed. If—”

  “If?” he interrupted her. “If I make no assumptions that your being in my bed means that, er, you wish to be in my bed. Trust me—I had no intention of doing so.”

  “Fine!” she said. She turned away from him, taking the few steps to the spot. Then, after she had stretched out, pulled his camp blanket around herself, and closed her eyes, she added a soft “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure, Godiva.”

  He didn’t touch her, but he was near. She heard him sit down upon the log again, and though she didn’t open her eyes, she knew that he kept his gaze upon the fire, and that he was thoughtful.

  Would he tire? she wondered. Sleep soundly?

  Soundly enough that they might surprise him in his sleep?

  No. She was certain that assaulting him in the night would mean certain death. And not for him.

  Yet would the morning be any better?

  Perhaps, if she was any kind of seductress at all. If he had come to trust her at all ...

  She was so tired, yet surely, far too nervous to sleep. He was there, sitting beside her on the log. So close. His presence unlike any she had known before.

  Strange, but that enemy presence lent a certain security to the night. She stretched like a cat, then eased more deeply into her makeshift bed, feeling a luxurious sense of comfort. The weather was so cool—a Florida winter, coming in earnest. The air seemed refreshingly sweet around. The bedroll was warm where she was cold, and the saddle and blanket did make a fine pillow. Half-awake and half-asleep, she slit her eyes, and she could see the fire as it flickered and danced in the night. She was exhausted. Indeed, she’d been so tired, and then so full of catfish, and then the coffee spiked with the whiskey ...

  The world fogged. She was still so keenly aware of him. And she strangely thought that he smelled good; he was bathed, shaven, smelling of soap and leather, clean and rugged. Yet why did something about him seem familiar? Why did it seem she should know something, understand who he was, what he was ...

  The answer eluded her. Her eyes closed further. She could dare to trust him tonight. So that she could betray him come morning.

  It was easy to sleep, and yet later, she awoke, shivering.

  The fire must have died.

  She rose slightly and saw that he was up, stoking new life into the fire.

  He heard her, sensed her, knew that she was awake.

  “Cold?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  He came to her. With his unnerving agility, he was down and beside her before she even realized his intent. She started to move, to protest, but he set an arm around her firmly. “I mean you no harm, Godiva! Trust me, you hardheaded little wild thing. I’m only trying to warm you.”

  “I don’t want the warmth of such an enemy.”

  “Didn’t anyone ever tell you, Godiva, that we don’t always get what we want?”

  “No!”

  “Then it’s time someone did. Lie down, sleep.”

  She gritted her teeth. She hadn’t quite realized the scope of his strength; the arm around her was like an iron clasp. She closed her eyes, protesting no more. She could hardly entice him to join her down by the stream in the morning and flirt with him so engagingly that he’d forget his back if she fought being near him while they slept.

  It would just have to be a wretched night. One in which she would never find any rest again.

  But she did sleep. Comfortably, and very deeply. She was amazed to feel the coming of the sun against her cheeks, hear the chirping of birds.

  The world, she thought, could be so strange. War everywhere. Men killing men. But the birds let out their calls as usual, the sun rose each morning, winter came, and the breeze was fresh. And it was possible to waken in the morning and believe that there was no war ...

  Except that, when she awoke, he was there. Beside her as he had been. She had twisted and turned and—mortifying as it might be—she had used him. Used his form for added warmth, curled into the curve of his body, turned into it again. And now she looked his way.

  She had slept beside the man, through the night, and she didn’t even know his name.

  His eyes opened, hard on hers, and she realized that he hadn’t lied, that the softest whisper of soun
d, a bare hint of movement, awoke him. She’d done nothing but open her eyes, and she had awakened him.

  Or had he already been awake?

  She thought that was the case. He had awakened and lain there without moving. Not to disturb her? Or to study her. But there they lay, his eyes now on hers with just inches between them, their bodies all but entwined.

  She instantly pushed away, forgetting all thought of seducing him into an entrapment. She awkwardly struggled to her feet, backed away from him, and turned, fleeing toward the brook.

  Her heart was hammering, lungs heaving. She felt hot and cold, and hot again.

  The water beckoned. Bubbling over the little rocks midstream, powder blue, except for diamond-like crystals that rode the surface, gifts of the sun.

  At the brook, she fell to her knees. She splashed her face, half-soaking her gown, and so she opened her bodice at the throat. The water was wonderful, so cleansing. More and more. She scooped up big handfuls of the fresh, cold water, and dashed it against her face, her neck, her collarbone. She delved into her voluminous skirt pocket again and found what had become her most cherished possession—her horsehair toothbrush. It was wearing thin, but then again, this was war.

  Fortunately, Christmas was near. And one of the blessings of being a civilian was that she could go home, and at Cimarron, her mother would give her a new toothbrush, maybe even understanding just how much such a small item meant.

  “I’ve got baking powder,” she heard.

  She stiffened. He’d followed her. Already.

  Were any of her men even awake yet? Would they arrive in time if she were to distract him here—now?

  And then, that thought didn’t really matter—she realized just what he had said.

  Baking powder! A great luxury for cleaning teeth, now that she was so constantly on the road and on the run.

  She jumped to her feet, spinning around to face him. He walked toward her, taking a leather satchel from his frockcoat and handing it to her. He remained amused, and yet he seemed to understand. She accepted the gift, knelt to the water again, and felt the delirious, sensual pleasure of really cleaning her teeth. She ran her tongue over and over them, delighting in the smooth feel.

  When she rose and turned toward him, ready to thank him, she realized that Trey and Gilly were hovering near the rear of the pines. She lowered her eyes quickly, moistened her lips. Then she looked up at the Yank with a bright smile. She moved an inch closer to him. He still smelled like soap and leather, not at all repugnant. This was doable. She lay a hand against his frockcoat, aware that her bodice was opened to what she hoped was a temptingly low position. She looked up into his eyes. “Thank you. I’d thought you’d be the most horrible person in the world. A monster. But you’ve cared for men. You’ve looked after their health, their welfare. I don’t know what you really want, why you’re waiting, but ...”