by Donna Dalton
“The wind? It sounds more like a tortured spirit.”
“It does sound rather woeful.”
Woeful was not the word she would use. She dropped her rocks. They wouldn’t do much good against an apparition. “How much further until we reach the end?” Not soon enough for her.
“We’re about halfway through. It’s a long tunnel. Nearly a mile from end to end.”
Only a mile? It felt as though they’d been walking for ten miles. She pulled her cloak tighter. She could do this. It was only a brief slice of the journey that would eventually take her home.
She picked up her pace, taking care with the placement of her feet to avoid wrenching her ankle on the wood cross-ties. She wasn’t about to spend any more time in the frightening tunnel than necessary.
Unnerving in a different way was the nearness of her escort. He walked so close she could almost feel his breath on her neck. Her skin tingled with awareness.
“I imagine the wind whistles like that,” he said. “Because this tunnel doesn’t have the usual vertical shafts that most do.”
His voice was steady and strong, an anchor in a storm. She clutched onto it. “Why doesn’t it?”
“The civil engineer who designed the tunnel, Claudius Crozet, decided that cutting shafts wouldn’t be practical in such dense rock. So he set up inverted tubs to trap the noxious fumes. He then expelled the tainted water through a system of pipes and valves. It was quite ingenious.”
She nodded. “It would seem so.”
“Crozet had workers boring through the granite using hand drills, pickaxes, and black powder.” He held the lantern up to the wall. “You can still see the chisel marks in the rock face.”
She studied the tunnel with newfound interest. Looking at chisel marks was a lot less terrifying than watching for shifty rodents. “It sounds like quite an arduous undertaking.”
“It was. Took them nearly ten years to complete. Crozet had two crews on each end working toward each other. They holed through on Christmas Day in ’56.” He chuckled, the sound rich and rumbly and chasing her fears to the corners. “There were quite a few wagers on whether or not the two crews would actually meet. In the end, Crozet’s calculations were so precise, only half an inch separated their alignment.”
“That’s amazing. How is it you are so familiar with the construction?”
“During the War, my unit was tasked with scouting this region of Virginia. General Jackson’s cavalry seemed to be travelling rather quickly across the Blue Ridge—too quickly for such difficult terrain. We discovered he was using the tunnel as a passageway for his troops.”
He’d fought in the war. Had he suffered any injuries? He appeared to be fine physically, but were there mental wounds hiding just below the surface? Robert Gentry, their neighbor’s son, had hanged himself only months after being discharged. Many folks said he just couldn’t handle the atrocities he’d witnessed.
“Who did you serve under?”
“I originally enlisted in the Seventh Regiment, New York State Militia, and served there for several years before the war started. I later joined Major General Butler’s brigade.”
“Are you from New York?” If so, that would explain the lack of a southern accent.
“I was born and raised in New Haven, Connecticut, but later moved to New York.”
“Do you have family still in New Haven?” She was being intrusive, she knew. But focusing on him took her mind off the moaning wind and skulking shadows.
“My older brother Eugene lives in the family farmhouse with his wife and two children. My father passed on when I was nineteen; that’s when I joined the military. My mother died just before General Lee surrendered.”
“I lost my mother, as well...just after the war started.” With a heavy heart, she rubbed a finger over the brooch pinning her cloak together. Her mother had given her the heirloom on her twelfth birthday. She hoped to one day hand it down to her own daughter. “So there’s just Father and my younger sister Penelope and me.”
“I also have a sister, Arianna. She’s the oldest of the three of us. She moved to Chicago with her husband a few years ago. That’s the extent of my family.”
“There’s no wife to join you at Fort Leavenworth?”
“No. I’m not married.”
She would never admit relief at hearing those words. Major Holt was a fascinating man. She didn’t want to imagine another woman delighting in his attentions.
Ahead of them, a small circle of light appeared and grew larger and brighter as they drew closer.
“Looks like we’re nearing the end,” he said.
“Yes, it appears so.” She looked over her shoulder at him and smiled. “I know what you were doing, Major Holt.”
“Pardon?”
“You opened up about your private life to take my mind off the darkness. Thank you for doing that. It helped tremendously.” Major Holt was nothing like she expected. Beneath that formidable armor beat a strong, compassionate heart. It would be quite easy to call him friend, if not more.
“I’m glad I could be of service.”
The exit to the tunnel loomed ahead, bright and beckoning. She picked up her pace, eager to leave the eeriness behind. A few minutes later, she emerged into the sunlight. She smiled and squinted against the glare. No more darkness. From now on, their trip would be full of light and clean, dry air.
Something darted across the lip of the ravine above them, but her vision hadn’t adjusted enough to determine what it was. Most likely just another trick of the light.
The major unholstered his pistol and grabbed her elbow. “Get behind me, Miss Whitlock.”
His forceful tone snuffed out the sunlight. “What is it?”
“Wolves.”
Chapter Three
With Miss Whitlock tucked behind him, Evander focused on the pack of wolves. There were five of them that he could see—four grays and one black. It was the black one that had him the most concerned. The fearless brute had scaled the ravine and was approaching fast, snarling, teeth barred. Its ribs were quite evident beneath the ragged fur coat. It was hungry and therefore desperate. Not a good combination.
The horses neighed in alarm, their frantic movements nearly tugging the reins from his grasp. He wouldn’t be able to deal with the wolves and control the horses at the same time.
“Take the horses, Miss Whitlock,” he said calmly. He didn’t want to spook her, too.
“Wh-what?”
He reached back and fed the reins into her hand. “Hold onto the horses as best you can.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to try and scare off those wolves.” He gave her fingers a quick squeeze of reassurance. “Don’t worry. Everything is going to be all right.” He would make sure of it.
He moved forward a few steps and waved his arms back and forth. The black stopped its advance, but didn’t retreat. Damn. Evidently the animal wasn’t about to give up on what promised to be a fine meal of horse and human flesh.
Evander began shouting and stomping his feet. The black didn’t move. Its companions hovering on the ravine rim merely shifted their positions, pacing from side to side. He had them on edge, but not enough to send them running. It was going to require something louder and more intimidating, and if the wolves weren’t going to like it, neither would the horses. But it couldn’t be helped. Hopefully with the ten-foot gorge confining them, Miss Whitlock would be able to maintain control.
“Prepare yourself, Miss Whitlock,” he warned. “I’m going to fire a couple of shots into the air.”
“Give me one second...” Footfalls shuffled behind him. She grunted and then said, “There. Go ahead, Major. I’m ready.”
He thumbed back the hammer and pointed the pistol skyward. He didn’t want to shoot the animals unless he had to. He’d seen enough killing and bloodshed to last him beyond a lifetime.
He fired three shots into the air. The sound echoed against the ravine walls. The wolves over
head yelped and disappeared from the rim. The big black male retreated about twenty feet, then turned back around and eyed him.
Ballsy brute. Evander aimed over the animal’s head and fired again. The wolf turned and raced up the side of the ravine, scaling the rock wall like a nimble mountain goat. A few seconds later, it reached the lip and vanished.
Evander fired one last shot for good measure and turned to help Miss Whitlock. The horses were wide-eyed and pulling hard against her hold. The mule was bucking and braying for all it was worth. Miss Whitlock had her heels dug in, but was no match for three terrified animals. They hauled her along the ground like a ragdoll.
He holstered his pistol and sprinted toward her. “Hold on, Miss Whitlock. I’m coming.”
Upon reaching her, he stretched around her and spooned his hands over hers. He braced his legs and managed to stop her momentum. Her buttocks molded his thighs. Her head was inches from his nose. She smelled of roses and vanilla. Fire flamed in his groin. He stifled a groan. The last thing he needed was to develop an itch he couldn’t scratch.
“You can let go now,” he said, his voice coming out in a hoarse croak. “I have them.”
She eased her hands free and ducked under his arms. He concentrated on calming the animals with soft words and a firm hand. After a few minutes, both his groin and the horses settled down.
“Goodness,” she said with a breathy exhale. “I thought they were going to pull my arms clean out of their sockets.”
He turned his head. She stood there, grimacing and rubbing her arms. “Are you all right? Did they hurt you?”
“I’m fine. Just a little sore and winded from all that pulling.” Her eyes widened. “I just thought of something. Could that shadow I saw in the tunnel have been one of those wolves?”
“I doubt it, but we can’t rule out the possibility, especially considering the pack appeared to be waiting for us just outside the tunnel.”
“Their attack did seem planned—” Her expression fell. “Oh no. My horse.”
He looked back in time to see her horse trotting into the tunnel, reins trailing in the dirt. The mule’s frantic bucking must have loosened the knot. Perfect. Just what they needed—their trip delayed while he rounded up her horse.
First the wolves, and now this. He should have listened to that little voice telling him this venture was a bad idea. A very bad idea. Yet, there was nothing he could do about it now. He’d made his bed. He’d just have to sleep in it.
He untied the mule’s lead rope from his saddle. “Hold onto the mule and this...” He handed her his pistol. “If the wolves return, just aim over their heads and squeeze the trigger.”
Color drained from her face. “Do you think they’ll come back?”
He snagged the lantern from the ground where he’d set it when the wolves first appeared. “I don’t think so. The gunshots seemed to have scared them off. But you never can tell with wild animals. Keep an eye out for them. I’ll be back quick as I can.”
He mounted and urged his horse into tunnel. He didn’t want to leave her alone, but he had no choice. His horse couldn’t carry the both of them over the rugged terrain. And the mule was already loaded down with her baggage, which he knew she would never agree to abandon. Not the way she had supervised their packing. She’d inspected every lash, every knot. Whatever the crate protected meant the world to her.
The farther he went into the tunnel, the darker it got. The gloominess had put Miss Whitlock on edge. Somehow the small talk he’d used to calm her had turned to the War and his personal life. He rarely opened up to anyone like that, especially not to a lady. Miss Whitlock was definitely special. Amazing that someone hadn’t staked a claim on her by now.
Halfway into the tunnel, a snort sounded and then the lamplight branded the truant. The gelding apparently disliked the darkness as much as Miss Whitlock. It gave a soft nicker and trotted toward him.
Evander reached down and snagged the reins. “Come on, boy. You’ve had enough excitement for one day.” He grunted. “We all have.”
Twenty minutes later, he emerged from the tunnel. Miss Whitlock stood by the mule, her shoulders slumped. She turned to face him, her pretty mouth turned down, her eyes brimming with tears. His pulse bucked. What had her so upset?
He dismounted and crossed to her in three strides. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” He quickly scanned the area. “Did the wolves return?”
She shook her head and pointed to the mule. “My shipping crate...it got smashed. So did the picture frame it was supposed to protect.”
He stepped around her and inspected the crate. One side was caved in. Through the jagged opening, he could see the shattered corner of a picture frame. The mule must have careened against the rock wall during its bucking frenzy.
He peeled away one of the broken slats and held up the lantern. Light glistened on a painted canvas hanging inside a fractured gilded frame. “Is that a painting? It appears to be undamaged.”
“Truly?” She went up on tiptoe beside him. “I wasn’t tall enough to see inside.”
His skin shot to attention as she brushed his arm. He clamped his teeth around a groan. This was going to be a long trip if he continued to react to her every touch. He released the broken slat. “The canvas looks intact. As for the frame, a good craftsman should be able to repair the damage for you quite handily.”
Her sunny smile nearly robbed the breath from him. “I’m so relieved. I thought it was ruined. The painting is a gift for my sister. She’s getting married on Christmas Eve.”
“You must be close to your sister to go through all this hardship just to attend her wedding.”
“We’ve always been close, but after our mother died, we became even closer.” Her eyes and mouth wilted. “She’s leaving after the wedding, going to live with her husband in Indiana. Though it’s not that far away, I wanted her to have something to remind her of Seven Swans.”
“Seven Swans?”
“That’s our home in Kentucky. Father named the estate for the swans that live on the lake behind the big house. Penelope and I used to spend hours watching them swim and raise their young.” She pointed to the crate. “I had a painting commissioned of swans swimming on a lake. That’s why I was in Richmond, to visit a friend and to retrieve the painting from the artist.”
“I’m sure your sister will appreciate the gift no matter what condition it’s in.”
Her sad eyes brightened. “Thank you, Major. You’ve been quite kind and tolerant during all this.” She handed him his pistol and then rested her fingers on his arm. “And thank you for believing in me. You don’t know how much it means that you trusted me to take care of myself while you went after my horse.”
He holstered the pistol and busied himself with extinguishing the lantern and attaching it to the mule pack. That hand on his arm was just a gesture of gratitude. Nothing more. It was not an invitation to intimacy.
“You handled yourself quite admirably, Miss Whitlock. You would put many of my soldiers to shame.” She had pluck, he’d give her that. Most women he knew would have swooned at the sight of a wolf. Not to mention attempting to wrangle three terrified animals.
“Abigail,” she said.
“Pardon?”
“Since we’ll be travelling together for a while longer, we should dispense with the formalities, especially after what we just went through. Please, call me Abigail.”
Abigail. He rolled the name around on his tongue. It felt familiar and right, as if it belonged there.
A gust tore down the gorge, kicking up dust and debris. Too focused on the wolves and Miss Whitlock, he hadn’t noticed the change in the weather as he emerged from the tunnel. Thick gray clouds had choked out the sun. And the temperature had dropped considerably. A smattering of snowflakes drifted with the breeze. Just their ill luck—the fickle mountain weather was taking a turn for the worse.
“Looks like a storm is brewing,” he said. “Let’s get off these tracks and back onto the trail.
There’s an old abandoned cabin a few miles ahead that one of the trappers mentioned. We can take shelter there.”
They’d be alone and confined in a small intimate space. He’d saved her from the wolves. Could he protect her from the hungry beast inside of him?
****
Sitting on a pile of furs in front of the hearth, Abigail warmed her hands in the heat from the fire. Outside the window, wind and snow bashed against the closed shutters. Luckily they’d found the cabin before the storm worsened—though it wasn’t much of a shelter. Icy drafts leaked through the cracks between the logs and under the door. The night promised to be long and cold.
Not to mention awkward.
The one room shack offered little in the way of privacy. Just a few feet away, the major sat at a rickety table, his jacket unbuttoned and his legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. He looked as comfortable as a bear in his cave. And she was his mate. Heat that had nothing to do with the fire blazed in her cheeks. She had to get such thoughts out of her head. Theirs was a business arrangement. Nothing more.
She shifted her attention to the fur covering her legs, tucking it tighter against the chill. “Certainly is getting colder. Will the mule and horses be all right?”
The rhythmic shush of cloth polishing gun metal quieted. “They should be fine. I cut pine branches and lashed them to the sides of the lean-to. That should give them some protection from the wind and cold.”
“What about the wolves?” Her gaze trailed back to him like an ant to sugar. “Do you think they might have followed us here?”
“If they did, the horses will let us know. They’re just on the other side of that wall. We’ll hear if they get agitated.” He snapped the pistol cylinder shut and rubbed the rag over the grip. “I wouldn’t worry overmuch about the wolves. They’ll probably hunker down until the storm lets up.”
His knowledge of the mountain had been accurate so far; no need to let doubts creep in. She pointed to the kettle slung over the fire. “Would you like some more stew? There’s a little bit left.”