Scarlet Leaves

by Sonya Birmingham

  Silky's throat tightened with emotion. Most of his belongings were already packed in his saddlebags and on his mount. She'd given him Daniel's heaviest jacket and muffler, and also a floppy mountain hat that was sprinkled with snow from his trip to the barn. The oilskin roll was over his shoulder, his hands were gloved, his feet were booted, and, although dim light only now pushed away the darkness, he was ready to go.

  Suddenly a spate of memories tumbled through her brain. She recalled how surprised he'd been when he'd first seen her, the awed look on his face when he'd seen the view from Apple Hill, and how cool he'd been when Holt had come to challenge him. The vivid images sang with life and color and filled her with a thick, warm longing that made her weak. In a moment he would be gone, and there was nothing she could do about it. "The winter will seem long," she said woodenly, hardly trusting her voice. "Mountain winters are always lonely."

  His face softened, and without a word, he tossed the food bundle on the table and put his arms about her, pulling her close. The roughness of his coat touched her cheek, and the sense-drenching scents of tobacco and damp wool sloughed over her, tearing at her heart.

  He kissed her forehead and brushed his lips over hers. "Good-bye, Fancy Pants. Take care of yourself," he offered in a resonant voice, shot with emotion. A grin touched his lips. "Don't shoot too many Yankees with that remarkable rifle of yours."

  "Good-bye, West Point Gentleman," she whispered brokenly.

  He swept his gaze over her, then in a flash, picked up the bundle, and through her blurry vision she saw him leave.

  The door stood open, letting in a chilly blast. At the threshold she stood immobilized, regarding him as he walked to his mount, snowflakes pouring over his shoulders. How she wished she had the nerve to go after him, throw her arms about him, and, like a child, beg him to stay with her always. She watched him add the food bundle to his saddlebag and lash the oilskin roll into place, big feathery flakes clinging to his hat and clothing.

  Without warning tears stung her eyes and a lump swelled in her throat. Impulsively she left the cabin, the icy wind stinging her face. "Taggart," she yelled over the whining wind.

  He turned about, and as their eyes met, he held out his arms and she ran to him. He pressed her hard against him in a last moment of rapture. "Silky," he said softly, cupping her face in his gloved hand. Then, his eyes glittering like fire, he kissed her with a devastating tenderness that made her heart pound crazily. The kiss was full of passion and desire, and as his mouth moved over hers a shudder passed through her. Her lips were still warm and moist when he lifted his head, prompting a rush of tears to her eyes.

  Quickly he released her and swung into the saddle. Without looking back, he rode into the snow that soon obscured him behind a veil of white. For a moment she saw the smudgy outline of a riderthen nothing.

  He was gone.

  Chapter Five

  A knitted shawl draped over her head, Silky sat in front of her hearth and stared at the flames dancing over the big logs. It was about five in the afternoon and shadows engulfed the cabin. The only light pooled from the fire's glow, an island of warmth in the drafty room.

  With a long sigh, she recalled Taggart's parting that morning. It seemed so long agoages ago, in fact. She'd spent hours thinking about him. Truth be told, she'd worried about him all day. Where was he now? Was he all fight? Was he hungry? Why hadn't she packed more food for him? She wondered if he'd taken the fight turn at Biglow's Crossing. It was so easy to become disoriented with the heavy snow swirling down, obstructing all landmarks. The questions and possibilities raced through her mind like the flames darting over the logs, tormenting her.

  She rose and paced about the little room. It all looked the samea place of refuge and safetybut she was keenly aware that everything had changed. She paused to rub her hand over the back of the chair that Taggart had sat in at dinner. Drawn to the bed where he'd slept, she picked up his pillow and held it against her, his scent full and warm in her nostrils.

  She envisioned him squatted down at the soldiers' homecoming, talking to Amos Evans. Taggart had passed the conversation off lightly, but something still bothered her about the picture. Why had he been so interested in Uncle Joe's soldiers? she wondered. Of course as a Confederate, he would be interested, but there was something else about the situation that troubled hersomething she couldn't quite understand.

  A gust of wind rattled the shingles, and she dropped the pillow and glanced outside. The light was almost gone. The weather was getting more violent by the minute, she thought nervously. At the window she drew back the curtain and frigid air seeped in about the poorly fitted frame, chilling her and telling her the storm was blowing up into a full blizzard.

  She squeaked a circle on the frosted pane and peered into the twilight, seeing nothing but driving snow. With a fresh pang of worry, she leaned her forehead against the cold glass, praying with all her heart and soul that Taggart was all right. How could she have let him go out in such bitter cold? With the temperature falling at this rate he could easily freeze to death before dawn.

  Wet and aching with cold, Taggart hunched his shoulders against the wind, giving his mount her head down the narrow trail. The forest was beautiful: dark evergreens, whitepowdered maples, delicate hackberries, and wild plums. But the gale had whipped the day's snow into huge drifts, slowly but efficiently blotting out all landmarks, just as Silky had predicted. Now, as twilight settled in, Taggart's eyelashes and cheeks were covered with frost from his frozen breath, and his feet and hands were numb. Soon blackness would descend and the temperature would drop even more.

  He'd followed Silky's suggestion and crossed the Nacachee at its lowest point. The swiftly moving water couldn't have been more than a foot deep, but it was bitterly cold and iced about the edges, and just remembering it made his teeth chatter. To make matters worse, after forcing his horse across the creek, he'd found the trail soon petered out.

  A path had appeared once again, and he'd given silent thanksbut was it the same trail? He'd never found what Silky had described as Biglow's Crossing. Gloom now settled over the crusted snow, and flakes twirled down in gusts, burying everything under a blanket of white. There was no question about his riding on. He must find shelter and find it quickly.

  His patient mount plodded ahead for a quarter of an hour, then whinnied and floundered in a huge drift. After the frightened animal had regained her footing, Taggart led her, slogging along one step at a time. The wind flapped his hat brim and whipped snow in his face, but he made himself keep going, knowing that stopping now would first mean exhausted sleep, then death.

  Back in Sweet Gum Hollow it was duskcandlelightand Silky would be cooking supper, he told himself, his feet so numb he could scarcely feel them striking the frozen earth. The satisfying aroma of meat and biscuits would fill the cabin, and a cozy fire would be popping in the hearth. The memory prompted a keen loneliness, but he held it close, for he could picture her safe and warm. The vision sustained him, and he trudged forward, refusing to stop.

  At last he came to a little clearing, and through the lacy snow he noticed boulders jutting all about him. It was then he realized that since his horse had floundered, he'd strayed from the main trail and been walking in a dry creek bed. Here in this draw, some ancient river had undercut the limestone, and at last he found what he was looking for: a natural shelter with a ledge over its top where he and his mount could take protection from the wind and snow. Partly shielded by a stand of trees, it was as good a place as he could have found in this icy wilderness.

  Working quickly before the dim light faded, he tethered his horse, then gathered broken limbs from deadfalls and stacked the material on the exposed side of the undercut to make a windbreak. Before he was finished he'd constructed what the old-timers called a half-faced campa crude shelter that might see him through the night.

  Just as blackness settled over the mountains, he piled together dry wood and crumbled bark atop it for kindling. By the time
he reached for his matches, he could scarcely see his own hand. He shook with cold and dropped his first three matches, but with the fourth match sparks raced over the kindling.

  Protected from the wind by the stacked limbs, the fire finally took hold and a small flame bloomed in the inky blackness, promising survival. Only after the fire was going well did he bring his mount into the shelter, take off her tack, and feed her a precious portion of the oats he'd brought along in the saddlebags. The horse nuzzled into the grain, her warmth a friendly comfort against the unyielding cold.

  After Taggart fed the mare, he made a bed of evergreen boughs, spread blankets atop them then, squatting down, stripped off his gloves and held his hands over the struggling fire. His fingers stung with a thousand pinpricks as feeling returned, but he welcomed the pain, for it meant he might survive. Yes, for now he was alive, and since the windbreak reflected the heat's warmth back into the overhang, he would remain relatively warm. But outside the shelter the snow continued to fall steadily. Aided by the fire's glow, he could see the world had turned white and silver, the heavy snow bending the tree boughs and wiping out any trail he might have left.

  In his heart he knew he was in troubledeep troublebut for the present, the only thing he could do was hang on.

  Dawn broke cold, with clouds so low the darkness was almost like a second night. With aching limbs Taggart walked out to gather more branches from the deadfalls, which he stacked under the ledge along with a supply of bark for kindling. Afterward he brought the horse from under the ledge so she could paw at the snow and nibble the winter-burned grass that lay beneath the crusty blanket of white.

  What he needed now was just a small bit of good luck, he thought as he hunkered down to eat some of his rations. With a firm resolve, he fought down a feeling that threatened to turn into useless panic. He needed to concentrate on todayon surviving the next twenty-four hours, then surviving another twenty-four hours, There was nothing to be done now except let the storm blow itself out. He needed to save his strength and thinkthink of a way to better his situation.

  Three hours dragged past, and then another three. In the middle of the afternoon he cut a hole in one of the blankets to make himself a long poncho. Who knew how long he'd need to make his food last? he thought, realizing if he was warmer he'd need less to eat. After putting on the poncho, he looked at the sky, which seemed like a blanket of white. Only the Lord knew how long he'd have to stay holed up, and evidently the Lord wasn't talking today.

  It had been dark and gloomy all day, but, studying the falling snow, he judged that it was abating a bit, and the fact bolstered his spirits. Before darkness fell, he fed the horse, then let his mind drift and dozed a while, dreaming of his boyhood, then of Ned.

  At first the dream was pleasant. It seemed they were walking through a park, talking and laughing about some incident that had happened to Ned at school. Then the dream darkened and became the nightmare that Taggart was so well acquainted with. How often had he experienced the troubling dream? he wondered, aware that he was sleeping, but unable to awaken.

  With a moan, he saw his brother taken away to his execution. Ned, a look of stark fear in his eyes, glanced over his shoulder and cried, "Help ... for God's sake, help me!" In the dream, Taggart was always rooted to the ground where he stood, unable to move as Ned, a pleading look on his face, was shot by a Confederate firing squad, his cap tumbling from his head as he fell to the earth.

  With a start, Taggart suddenly woke, his heart pounding. It was always the same, he thought, silently cursing the recurring dream that had tormented him since the boy's death. Upon waking, he would remind himself that in actuality he couldn't have prevented the tragedy; nevertheless, he always experienced a lingering sense of guilt and a righteous anger at the Rebs who committed the act. Feeling his heart slow, he promised himself yet again that he would do everything he could to see that the North won the war. Perhaps in this

  way he could honor Ned's memory and mitigate the deep sense of loss he still carried in his heart.

  An hour after awakening from the disturbing dream, Taggart ate, and decided to make himself a little camp coffee, boiling a bit of ground beans in a tin cup. He was halfway through his coffee when the muffled sound of a horse's whinny caught his attention. Cautiously he put down the cup and stared in the direction of the noise. At first he saw nothing; then very faintly through the swirling snow, he spied the outline of a rider coming up the dry creek bed. Thank God he'd heard the noise, for visibility was so poor that otherwise he wouldn't have seen the figure.

  Every nerve tingling with awareness, he peered at the blurry form that seemed no more than an apparition. Consisting of shades of white on white and shrouded in fog, the rider wore a hood over his head, and the vision reminded him of the Grim Reaper himself. For a moment Taggart wondered if he was hallucinating: then the sound of another whinny carried loud and clear and he realized the horse and rider were no specters.

  But who would travel in weather like this? Only a desperate man like himself, or a man with his mind set on troublea man like Sergeant Holt, he thought, picking up his rifle. The phantom drifted closer, his hood shielding his features. Taggart knelt on one knee and, bracing the rifle on the limbs he'd stacked for a windbreak, put the icy stock against his cheek and took aim. If this vision had risen from a frozen hell, it was his intention to blow it back to its source.

  The rider entered the line of fire, seemingly without fear. When the figure came into range, Taggart squeezed back on the trigger, needing to pull it only a hairbreadth to send the bullet ripping into the phantom's heart. Let him come three yards closer and he would be dead.

  Suddenly the rider pulled his mount to a halt, and as the horse shied, the figure's hood slipped down, revealing a floppy hat and long hair. With a start of surprise, Taggart realized the figure was a woman with a blanket draped over her.

  "Taggart, is that you?" the rider called over the moaning wind.

  Taggart's heart nearly burst from his chest. Recognizing Silky's voice, he put down his rifle, thanking heaven he hadn't killed her. The horse slowly plodded forward, and Silky's gorgeous hair now glistened in the light of the flames while her face shone with a rosy glow. Stunned, he met her worried eyes, both thrilled and amazed that the feisty spitfire had trailed him from Sweet Gum Hollow. Damn, what a woman this is. A howling blizzard would have slowed down most females, but not Silky Shanaban.

  Weak with exhaustion, Silky slid from her horse and, through the falling snow, saw Taggart running toward her. Within seconds, he was clutching her in his arms, pulling her against his hard, tough body. She'd finally found him! she thought, scarcely believing her own eyes. "Taggart," she rasped, trembling with excitement.

  With his blanket poncho he looked like a wild mountain man, and beneath his battered hat his hair and mustache were matted with frost. But to her he'd never looked better, and she ran her hands over his wide shoulders, just to prove to herself that he was all in one piece.

  Gently he cupped her face and his lips met hers. A moan burned her throat as he deepened the kiss, once again stirring a familiar fire within her. Talk was forgotten as she responded to the passionate kiss, letting the joy of being reunited with him sweep her along on a cresting wave of happiness. At last he fluttered little kisses over her forehead and cheeks, then gently eased back, holding her at arm's length. "You should have announced yourself sooner," he chided, his eyes tender with amusement. A wry grin curled his lips upward. "I came within an inch of blowing off your pretty head."

  "I'm sorry," she apologized, trying to regain her breath after her long ride. "With the gloom and falling snow, I could hardly see. I finally caught a glimpse of your fire."

  Taggart quickly tethered her mount, and she smiled as they entered the warm shelter, their arms about each other's waists. Relieved to be out of the wailing wind, Silky squatted by the flames. Thank God she'd found him, she thought, blinking away nervous tears. And how happy she was she'd made the decision to go a
fter him. After worrying for hours, she'd finally decided it was her only choice. Lost in the storm herself, she'd almost given up hope, but something within her had made her forge ahead despite her fear, Let him believe it had been nothing, she advised herself, hoping he'd think the stinging wind had produced her watery eyes.

  Taggart wrapped an extra blanket about her, then handed her his cup of coffee. ''Lord, what possessed you to follow me?" he inquired, his eyes running over her in sheer disbelief. "It was a damn foolish thing to do."

  She tilted her head and grinned, unable to resist the urge to tease him a bit. "I suppose it was. About as foolish as starting off to Charlottesville in a blizzard," she quipped, her mood rising now that she knew he was all right. "It'd take the biggest fool in Virginia to do something like that. Why, city folks might put a fellow away for something as crazy as that."

  Taggart watched her hunching by the fire, sipping coffee, and chuckled at her peppery tongue and remarkable spirit. She'd looked so exhausted when she slid from her horse that he'd automatically taken her in his arms, marveling at how someone so small and delicate could be so full of courage. The kiss had happened just as naturally, and as he'd pressed her softness against him, passion had swirled through both his heart and mind.

  Just looking at her lovely face prompted a wild joy that shook him profoundly. He'd never been this happy to see anyone in his life, and with a burst of insight, he knew it had nothing to do with his present circumstance. Digesting the frightening thought, he realized that he must send her back to the safety of her cabin as soon as possible. All that was decent told him it wasn't fair to the girl or himself to prolong a relationship that could only end in sorrow.

  Resolving himself to this fact, he stooped beside her and adjusted the blanket about her slim shoulders. "How in the hell did you find me?" he questioned, truly awed at her remarkable abilities.

  Silky noticed her body relaxing under his appreciative gaze. "I tracked you, of course," she replied lightly.