by Janet Dailey
The partially burned wood reminded her of the homesite she had seen that day. Blackened timbers, charred rubble, and gray ash piled like autumn leaves were all that remained of the house that had once stood there. A neighbor said the rebels had burned it.
Back in Massachusetts, the newspapers had carried few reports of fighting this far west. Rather, the stories in recent months had dwelt mainly with the second battle of Bull Run and the bloody clash at Antietam. Arriving at Fort Scott in Kansas, Susannah hadn't understood why so many families had fled the Indian Nations and taken refuge there.
But today, after riding past field after field lying fallow; after crossing pastures empty of livestock and overgrown with weeds; and after observing homes abandoned, most ransacked, some burned to the ground, all the stories she'd heard at Fort Scott became real for her. Talk of Confederate guerrilla bands terrorizing the countryside, pillaging and looting and burning—striking with the swiftness and devastating force of a lightning bolt before vanishing—had seemed impossible. She hadn't believed it was as bad as they said. Now she did.
Something rustled in the dead leaves behind her. A second later, a twig snapped. Susannah stiffened, alarm shooting through her as she glanced toward the sound, conscious of the light weight of the small derringer in her dress pocket. A month ago she had laughed when Frank, Payton Fletcher's grandson, had given it to her for protection, well aware that when he thought of the Indian Territory, he conjured up images of the Plains tribes that lived along its western boundaries.
To pacify him, she had packed the derringer away in her valise and forgotten all about it until tonight—until she had seen what war could do to a land and a people. Now it was tucked in her pocket, and she wasn't laughing. Now she wished she had paid more attention when Frank had tried to show her how to shoot it.
A tall, lanky man emerged from the darkness, carrying a bundle of broken branches and dead limbs in his arms. The diffused glow of the campfire touched the white of his clerical collar. Susannah relaxed, smiling at the fear that had momentarily frozen her.
"The horses are settled for the night. I picked up some firewood on the way. I thought we might need it before morning comes. Mmmm, that stew smells good, Eliza." He stopped on the edge of their camp, his head dipping self-consciously. "I am sorry, Susannah. Sitting there, you looked so much like your mother, I—"
"I understand, Reverend." She had lost track of how many times Reverend Cole had slipped and called her by her mother's name since they started this journey. He meant no offense by it Actually Susannah found it, and his insistence on accompanying her home, quite endearing. She was glad of his company.
"Your mother has always called me Nathan." He moved within the circle of light and laid the bundle of wood on the ground near the fire.
"I know." Susannah spooned a generous portion of stew onto one of the tin plates, added a chunk of skillet bread, then handed the plate to him, her glance falling briefly on his fingers, long and on the bony side of slender like the rest of him.
He sat down on an old log, rolled close to the fire, and balanced the plate of stew on his lap, then waited until Susannah had fixed a plate for herself and joined him. With bowed head and clasped hands, he began speaking the words of blessing for the food they were about to eat, just as he had done before every meal they had shared.
Susannah clasped her hands in prayer and bowed her head, turning it slightly to study him. Noble probably wasn't the word most people would use to describe Nathan Cole, but that was the way she thought of him. Noble and kind and good—with the gentlest eyes she had ever seen in a man. Most ministers she knew preached about the wrath of God, but not Reverend Cole. He didn't fear his God; he loved Him. And it was that love that shone in his face and softened his severely angled features and gaunt cheeks. The lines she saw around his eyes and mouth all came from smiling.
"The stew is excellent. Aren't you going to try it?"
Startled by his gentle inquiry, Susannah realized she hadn't heard him finish the blessing. "Sorry, I was . . . thinking." Hastily, she picked up her fork and speared a chunk of rabbit meat.
"About what?"
"About Mother." Which was half-true. "Wondering if she is all right."
"Your mother is a strong woman. I'm sure she is just fine."
"Of course."
"At times I find it odd the way the past seems to repeat itself," he remarked thoughtfully. "Did you know that I accompanied your mother when she traveled to Georgia all those years ago? Neither of us could have guessed that she would eventually marry the man whose children she had come to teach. I performed the wedding ceremony myself outside the walls of Fort Gibson. Now, here I am, making another trip with her daughter, who looks so like her mother—tall and graceful with the same shimmering gold in her eyes."
Susannah knew the reverend had once been in love with her mother. "Did she need as much moral support as I do?"
"In some ways, more," Nathan admitted. "She was facing the wilderness—the unknown. You are going home."
Watching him, Susannah was almost positive he was still in love with her mother. The look in his eyes when he talked about her, the way he kept talking about her, made her long to ask. If she were really like her mother, she would. But Susannah wasn't quite as outspoken as Eliza.
"Remember those temperance meetings Mother used to have at Oak Hill . . . and in Tahlequah, too. You were always there. Mother would play the piano, and we would sing those songs. What was that one? I can't remember the words, but it went—" She began to hum the notes of the melody, hesitantly at first, then as her recollection of the tune became clearer, with increasing confidence. "I know! It was—"
But the title didn't come out of her mouth. Frozen in shock, Susannah stared at the armed men on the opposite side of the campfire. Ghostlike, they had materialized out of nowhere, without a whisper of sound. But there was nothing ghostlike about the weapons they carried. Fear turned her mouth dry when Susannah saw the gun barrel pointed at her.
A ragged, shabbily clad lot confronted her, their faces dark with rough beards, slouch hats pulled low, leaving only their eyes to glisten from the shadows of their faces—the way an animal's eyes glowed in the darkness.
"Who are you? What are you doing here?" Even as she found her voice to make the sharp demand, one of them moved silently into the circle and picked up the old shotgun Reverend Cole had left propped against a jagged tree stump.
"We could ask you the same questions," came the drawled answer.
Susannah was so busy counting that she wasn't sure which of them had spoken. There were six men whom she could see, but there was no telling how many more were out there in the darkness.
"I am Reverend Nathan Cole." Nathan stood up, smiling that benign smile of his that knew no enemy. "And this is . . . my ward, Miss Susannah Gordon. We're on our way to her home. As you can see, we have camped here for the night." He indicated the fire and the wagon behind them.
"And where might your home be?" The man in the center, the tall, lean one with narrow hips, was the man who spoke. The voice had a deceptively soft drawl to it, like velvet sheathing steel.
They were obviously rebels; flunking fast, Susannah replied, "My home is not far from my sister's—Mrs. Smart of Grand View, although I am not entirely sure it's any of your business."
"Mrs. Stuart. Would that be the wife of The Blade Stuart of the Cherokee Mounted Rifles?" The man tipped his head at an inquiring angle. For the first time his face was illuminated by the firelight, and Susannah was able to distinguish his features—the slope of his lean jaw, the high ridge of his cheekbones, the smooth slant of his forehead, and the gray of his eyes.
"It would be. Now that we have answered your questions, would you be so good as to answer ours?"
Unexpectedly, he swept off his hat and made a mockingly gallant bow. His eyes changed from the color of dark steel to glittering silver. "Lieutenant Rans Lassiter of the Texas Brigade, at your service, ma'am." There was a flash of whit
e teeth as he smiled, almost tauntingly. "And these are my men, plus a few more out looking to see if you have anyone else with you."
"We don't."
"She's right," a man's voice drawled behind her. Susannah turned on the log, again startled by the sight of yet another man appearing out of nowhere. "It's just the two of 'em. They got their horses picketed over in those trees."
"I told you." Susannah looked back at the lieutenant. His hat once more covered his brown hair and shadowed his face.
"So you did, but when we're scouting an area, we have a duty to check on such things, ma'am." He walked into the light. "We smelled your smoke about a mile back . . . and the stew even farther than that."
"We have some left. You're welcome to it," Reverend Cole offered.
"Thank you, Reverend." Lassiter nodded to his men, indicating they should help themselves.
Susannah stared in amazement as they swarmed around the pot, producing plates out of nowhere. Within seconds they scraped it clean and sat hunkered around the fire, shoveling the stew into their mouths and sopping up the juices with chunks of skillet bread. They were ravenous, Susannah realized. She looked at her own plate, suddenly guilty at the way she had picked at her food—especially when she noticed there hadn't been enough for Lieutenant Lassiter.
She hesitated, then offered her plate to him. "I'm not hungry."
He held her gaze for an instant. "I guess it shows we haven't had a decent meal in a good while. You'll have to forgive our manners, Miss Gordon." He smiled crookedly, a glint of rueful humor in his gray eyes. "Or should I say, our lack of them."
"No apologies are necessary, Lieutenant." She felt ill at ease when he took the plate from her. Part of her regretted feeling sorry for them. They were Confederates. For all she knew, they might be the very ones responsible for the desolation she'd seen, and here she was feeding them.
"I gotta be honest with you, ma'am," one of them said as he wiped up every drop of juice with his last bite of bread. "This is the best meal I've et since I had Sunday dinner at Momma's house just before I left." He popped a piece of bread into his mouth and chewed it with his mouth open, looking around at the others. "Wouldn't ya jus' love a cup of real coffee now . . . and maybe, a ceegar?"
At the wistful nods of agreement, Reverend Cole spoke up again. "We have some coffee in the wagon. Would you like us to brew some?"
"Would we? Whoo-eee! That's like askin' does a kid like Christmas!" The man laughed.
"I'll fix the coffee." When she stood up, Susannah felt the men's eyes traveling up all five feet, nine inches of her. She thought she had become used to being stared at because she was tall. She was wrong.
She walked to the rear of the wagon and set the coffeepot on the ground beside her feet, then rummaged through Reverend Cole's supplies for the coffee. Something clunked softly against the side of the wagon when she reached inside. The derringer; she had nearly forgotten about it.
"What else you got in that wagon?"
She jumped when a voice spoke beside her. "Didn't anyone ever tell you it isn't polite to sneak up on people?" she snapped angrily. At almost the same instant, she found the coffee. Picking up the pot, she swept back to the fire, thinking the man would follow. But he didn't.
"Hey! Looky here!" He shouted and held up some cans. "They got tins of peaches . . . and tomatoes." He tossed them to his buddies and went back to his search. "Hell, they got a lot of food in here."
When the men flocked around the wagon, Susannah started to protest, then glanced uncertainly at Reverend Cole. He smiled back, letting her know it was all right. She hesitated a moment longer, then put the coffee on to boil and listened to their excited talk. They acted as if they had found a treasure.
One of the soldiers opened a tin with his knife and stabbed out a peach half. He shoved it whole into his mouth, ignoring the juice that dribbled down his whiskers and onto the front of his ragged shirt. Even Lieutenant Lassiter took part, although he still held himself slightly aloof from his men.
"What d'ya suppose is in this trunk?" The one named Kelly hopped into the wagon bed next to Susannah's trunk, then waved to another man. "Come on up here, Hayes. Give me a hand."
"No." Susannah moved quickly to the wagon. "That is mine."
No one paid any attention to her. "I got first dibs on any shoes."
"Leave it alone. That trunk doesn't belong to you." Everything she owned was in that trunk—her clothes, her few pieces of jewelry, her books—everything. Taking food was one thing, but stealing her property was another. Out of desperation, Susannah fumbled in her pocket and pulled out the derringer. Holding it with both hands stretched in front of her, she aimed it in the general direction of the two men atop the wagon. "I said that doesn't belong to you. Get away from my trunk."
"I think you boys better listen to her." Slowly and carefully, Rans Lassiter set the tin of peaches on the wagon bed. "She has a gun—if you want to call it that."
"And I will shoot if I have to," she insisted boldly, secretly hoping the mere sight of the weapon would make them leave her things alone. "Get away from my trunk . . . and the wagon."
"Didn't anyone ever tell you, Miss Gordon, that it isn't polite to point a gun at someone?" Rans Lassiter moved directly in line with the end of the derringer and started walking forward—slowly and deliberately. "It's definitely bad manners."
"Don't come any closer," she warned, fighting the sudden spate of nervousness.
"I have to." He smiled. "If you shoot, I want you to be sure you're close enough to hit what you're aiming at. Those little guns aren't very accurate at a distance. You don't want to miss with your first shot."
"I said stay where you are!" She pointed it at the ground in front of his feet, closed her eyes, and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.
She opened her eyes in astonishment and looked at the gun. In two springing strides, Lassiter crossed the space that separated them and seized her wrists, forcing them up into the air. Susannah struggled frantically to keep control of the derringer.
In the next second, she was hauled roughly against him. But it wasn't the impact of being suddenly crushed against the hard length of him that stole the breath from her lungs, but the discovery of his face so close to hers—so close she could feel the stubble of his short beard. He was no more than an inch taller than she was; his gray eyes looked almost directly into hers. She could see the black pupils ringed with silver. And his mouth was a mere breath away.
She froze, numbed by a thousand sensations all clamoring to make themselves known—from the jutting angle of his hipbone pressing into her stomach to the solid wall of his chest flattening her breasts. Her heart stopped beating for an instant, then went racing off like the wheels of a locomotive trying to find traction.
Dear God, what was she thinking of? She was a woman alone with men who claimed to be soldiers. And she had never seen a more disreputable-looking lot. Reverend Cole wasn't a young man. If they chose to assault her—to rape her—he couldn't protect her. What had she gotten herself into?
Susannah stared at the strong, tanned fingers that held her right wrist. She still clutched the derringer. He hadn't wrested it from her yet.
She felt the warmth of his breath on her neck. She was suddenly more tense than before. "Perfume," the lieutenant murmured. "It's been a long time since I smelled perfume on a lady."
"Kindly let me go," she ordered, fully aware that she was in no position to make demands.
She watched as his fingers slowly slid up her hand and closed over the derringer. The roughness of them reminded her of the rasp of a cat's tongue. She let him take the gun from her, and he loosened his hold. She stepped quickly back from him.
"In this part of the country, Miss Gordon, if you're going to carry a gun—more importantly, if you're going to point it at someone—you better know how to shoot it."
She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks. She could well imagine how humorous he thought this was and refused to meet his gaze, knowi
ng those gray eyes would be laughing at her. Instead, she stared at the weapon in his hand, watching as he deftly and familiarly checked to see whether it was loaded.
"Before you pull the trigger, you have to cock it. Like this." With his thumb, he pulled back the hammer. "See how it's done."
"Yes," she snapped.
Gently, he eased the hammer back into place. Then, with a slight movement of his hand, the derringer lay in his callused palm. "You better hang onto this, Miss Gordon. Next time you may need it. But try to remember how to use it." She looked up in disbelief, doubting that he truly intended to give it back to her. He smiled, ever so faintly. "And don't shoot at the ground. This thing only carries one bullet."
There were snickers behind him. Self-consciously, Susannah took the derringer from him and shoved it inside the pocket of her skirt.
"Kelly, Hayes, out of the wagon." Still looking at her, he lifted his voice to bark the order, then turned to face them, his tone becoming light. "I have the feeling the lady wouldn't appreciate you two going through her things. Although you might look quite fetching in petticoats and bonnets."
Guffaws of laughter followed his remark, accompanied by a few ribald comments, spoken low out of deference to Susannah. She heard parts of them and shut her ears to the rest. Someone mentioned the coffee, and they drifted back toward the fire. Wanting to avoid them, she busily set about cleaning the dishes.
Almost immediately, Reverend Cole came over to her. "Are you all right?"
"Yes. And you don't have to say it. I know it was a stupid thing to do."
"We have all done one or two of those in our lives, Susannah. Do not be too hard on yourself."
"That isn't easy." She managed a smile, then darted a quick glance at the men lounging around the campfire, drinking coffee and trading stories. "Maybe it's the war. It seemed so far away when I was in New England. I keep remembering the burnt-out houses we passed. And I keep wondering if these men were responsible."