The Rebel Wife

by Donna Dalton

  Table of Contents

  The Rebel Wife

  Copyright

  Other Books by Donna Dalton

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  A word about the author...

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  The Rebel Wife

  by

  Donna Dalton

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  The Rebel Wife

  COPYRIGHT © 2012 by Donna Dalton

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Arial Burnz

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First American Rose Edition, 2012

  Print ISBN 978-1-61217-520-1

  Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-521-8

  Published in the United States of America

  Other Books by Donna Dalton

  The Cavalry Wife

  Irish Destiny

  Irish Charm

  Her Rodeo Man

  Blue Ice

  A Christmas Stalking

  The Gift

  Dedication

  This story is dedicated to my loving husband,

  who patiently puts up with field trips, neglect,

  and blackened meals,

  even though Cajun wasn't on the menu.

  ~

  I want to thank my critique partners

  Mary Ann Clark, Wendy Rome,

  Alleyne Dickens, and Pam Roller

  for helping me bring life to this wonderful story.

  And for all the support I receive from

  the members of the Virginia Romance Writers.

  Thank you all.

  Chapter One

  Southern Maryland

  1864

  “We can’t stay heah, Miz Lou. It’s too dangerous.”

  Louisa Carleton lifted her head. A dribble of sweat tracked between her shoulder blades. Until their task was done, every step would involve some shade of danger.

  Jeb hovered closer, the white of his eyes bright in his ebony face. He shifted the knapsack on his shoulder, then tossed a glance down the dark roadway. “We gotta go.”

  Labored gasps drew her attention back to the man lying at her feet. A pang stabbed her heart. This could be Lance, bleeding into the dirt, with no one to help or comfort him. “We can’t just leave him, Jeb.”

  “It ain’t safe. Too many soldiers hereabouts.” Jeb looked frantically back and forth into the thick woods on either side of the road. “The others might be lookin’ for him.”

  “But he’s bleeding, and...” She pressed down on his chest. Blood oozed through the rough wool of his uniform, warm beneath her fingers. She leaned forward and applied more pressure with the weight of her body. The soldier moaned softly, his eyes flickering open, then closing again. The circle of blood widened, darkening the blue uniform. A Yankee uniform. Yet he was still a casualty of this miserable War just like the hundreds she’d tended at the Richmond hospital and like many of them, dying.

  “There be trouble if ’n we’re found with him,” Jeb added. “You know how soldiers be nowadays. They shoot first and ask questions later.”

  “What if this were Lance lying here? I’d want someone to help him.”

  “But it ain’t Master Lance. We only puttin’ ourselves in danger by stayin’. What good we do your brother if we dead?”

  The woods lining the road were dark and still, the deadness broken only by the whir of the night insects. What little air stirred carried the scent of smoke. A campfire. Most likely built by soldiers. Was she putting their mission at risk?

  Fingers clamped around her wrist, cold and clammy and limp with the fading of life. A garbled whisper rose over the croak of a bullfrog. “Elsa...”

  She leaned closer to the fallen man. “What? I couldn’t hear you.”

  “Tell her. Tell my Elsa—” A harsh cough seized his words, and his body convulsed with the effort.

  She patted his hand, her heart torn between staying to help the man or leaving to keep Jeb and her safe. “You rest now. No need to strain.”

  “She’s new here...Immigrant. If I d-die...”

  “Shhh. Don’t talk like that. You’re gonna be fine.”

  “Please. Write her for me. Tell her...” He sucked in several ragged breaths, the air gurgling in his throat and rattling his ribs. His eyes rolled back until only the whites showed.

  An image surfaced of another man, his chest pierced by the prongs of a pitchfork. Blood and hisses leached through the holes. After what seemed an eternity, his body had heaved with a violent shudder, and then death had claimed him.

  No. Not this time. Peebles bit into her knees as she applied more pressure to the wound. “Hold on, soldier.” She looked up at Jeb. “Go. Find someone to help.”

  Jeb shook his head. “It’s no good.”

  “You must go. He needs a doctor; someone who can—”

  “He be dead, Miz Lou. Nuthin’ we can do for him now.”

  The rise and fall beneath her fingers had stilled. The soldier’s grip on her wrist slackened and dropped. Heaviness settled over her like an undertaker’s blanket. Another senseless death. She’d seen far too many of them since the War started. Would her brother be added to the growing pile?

  “You there! What’re you doing to that soldier?”

  She jerked her head around at the harsh command. The moon slipped from behind a cloud to reveal the man’s rifle, the blue of his uniform, his angry, purposeful approach.

  Jeb snagged her elbow. “Come on, Miz Lou.”

  “But...”

  “You did your best. We gotta go now.”

  Her throat thickened with regret. If only they’d stumbled upon the wounded soldier earlier. Perhaps she could have done more to stop the bleeding—saved him from an agonizing death.

  “Hurry, Miz Lou.”

  She swiped blood from her hands onto the soldier’s sleeve, gave his shoulder a parting squeeze, then shot to her feet and darted across the road. Like Jeb said, there was nothing more to do, except make sure they didn’t end up like the poor soldier, spilling their blood into the dirt.

  Footfalls pounded behind them.

  “Halt! Stop where you are.”

  Not while there’s breath in my body, Bluebelly. She fled with Jeb into the undergrowth. A shallow ditch hugged the edge of the roadway and might as well have been a thirty-foot ravine for all the ease she crossed it. Her foot slipped in the loose earth, and she stumbled. If not for Jeb’s hand on her elbow, she’d have fallen flat on her face.

  “They kilt Riley! Af
ter them!”

  Heart hammering, she yanked bunched skirts to her knees and clambered out of the ditch, pushing through the snarl of vines trying to spoil her escape. They couldn’t risk being caught. Not now. Not when they were so close.

  A gun barked, and a bullet ripped through the leaves. More angry voices and gunfire rang out. Others had joined the chase.

  She hunched over and ran, not daring to look back and slow her pace. Jeb’s hand stayed curled around her elbow, comforting, but unnecessary. She was more at home in the woods than a spinster in her musty parlor. That stumble in the ditch had been a freak misstep. It wouldn’t happen again.

  They crested a shallow rise and plunged over the other side. “Over heah,” Jeb urged, tugging her toward a thick tangle of brush.

  She crouched beside him, slowing her breaths and becoming a silent shadow in a forest of darkness. The sound of pursuit drew closer. She ducked her head to hide her face, a trick she’d learned years ago to avoid being spotted and tagged it by her brother.

  Footfalls rushed past and faded. She lifted her head. Nothing moved. Just blobs of firefly light winking in the night. She waited a few more seconds to make sure the bluebellies were good and gone, then turned to Jeb. “They think we killed that soldier.”

  “Hush now.” He gave her arm a reassuring pat. “I won’t let ’em hurt you.”

  “You won’t...no, Jeb. Promise you won’t put yourself in danger for my sake.”

  “Can’t do that.”

  “Jeb—”

  “I gave my word to Master Lance. Gotta watch over you.” He straightened and swung his knapsack over a shoulder. “’Sides, looks like we’re safe now. Let’s go, before—”

  The crack of a branch pierced his words. Then came a shouted warning, “They’re over here!”

  Jeb shoved her arm. “Run! I’s right behind you.”

  She gulped her last bit of moisture and raced for the safety of the dense woods ahead. Jeb’s footfalls thudded behind her as they weaved through the maze of trees and brush. Just a ways more and they’d disappear into—

  A shot exploded, then came a pained grunt. She turned to see Jeb stumble and plunge headfirst to the ground. A dark stain blossomed on the back of his shirt.

  “Jeb!” She skidded to a stop and dropped to his side.

  With effort, he lifted his head. “Keep goin’. I’ll be...” His words trailed away on a pained breath.

  “I won’t leave you.”

  “You have to. Won’t do no good...if both taken.”

  No. No. No. She sucked down a sob and tugged on his arm. “Get up, Jeb. Please.”

  “Can’t.” He gave a strangled cough. “Go. Save yourself. Save him.”

  The crackle of brush grew louder. The bluebellies were closing in. Hide. They had to hide. She nudged his shoulder. “Roll over,” she whispered. “Bury into those vines.”

  He grunted an agreement, and with trembling hands, she helped him into the cover of greenery. Not a great hideaway, but it would have to do.

  “Stay quiet and still as you can,” she whispered.

  He didn’t answer. His body had gone limp as soggy bread. She prayed it was from losing consciousness and not from losing his grip on life.

  Movement flicked in the nearby pockets of moonlight. The Yankees were getting close. Too close. She had to protect Jeb, had to lead the soldiers away from his hiding spot.

  She whirled and fled deeper into the woods. Branches lashed her as she ran, scraping her face, throat, and arms. She defended her bare skin as best she could and pushed onward, her footfalls thankfully deadened by a thick carpet of pine needles.

  Behind her, the noise of pursuit swelled—the crack of flattening brush, the jingle of spurs, a horse’s snort.

  “Don’t let her get away!”

  At the shouted command, she increased her pace. Shadows wavered around her, masquerading as bluebellies and startling her at every turn. Another sob threatened in her throat. How many times had she and Lance raced through the Virginia woods, laughing and playing tag? If only this were a game like back then, and not a life and death struggle.

  A thought took root. She’d once out-witted her brother with a daring cutback. Perhaps such a trick would work now. Her pursuers were gaining ground, their muttered oaths and the crash of brush getting louder. It was risky, but she had nothing to lose by trying.

  She darted into a thick stand of trees and crossed ahead of the patrol. A low-hanging limb snagged her hair, pulling so hard she barely stifled a yelp. She slid to a halt and with tears burning in her eyes, yanked free.

  “After her!”

  The gruff command was much closer than anticipated and spurred her forward. Tree trunks blurred into fuzzy columns as she flew through the forest. Her lungs burned with the sharp tang of pine and the effort to escape. As she spun to make a cutback, her boot heel caught a protruding root. She reached out, grasping at...

  The woods tilted.

  The pathway disappeared, and she crashed in a heap of skirts and bruises. Robbed of breath, she braced on her hands and knees and panted like a winded dog.

  “This way, men.”

  Oh Lord, they’ve gotten close. She inched under a bush as hooves thumped nearer. Fear climbed in her throat, almost strangling her. She bit down on the inside of her lip to keep from crying out and eased a hand to her left boot. Her fingers closed around the familiar and reassuring steel of a knife hilt. She’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but she couldn’t let the Yankees take her.

  Footsteps and shouting surrounded her, echoing as the soldiers called back and forth. No matter which way she turned, she expected any minute to see a blue uniform break through the cover.

  Dear God, please...please...

  Leaves rattled nearby. She froze, trying to listen above the pulse booming in her ears. Something rustled again, stopped for an instant, then skedaddled off in the opposite direction.

  “There she goes!” The fool Yankees plunged blindly after the noise, their pursuit taking them away from her hiding spot.

  She relaxed her grip on the knife and blew out a relieved breath. Thank you Mr. Fox, or Bobcat, or whatever you are.

  As the sound of the chase faded, she tucked the knife back into her boot and rolled upright. Her hands were scraped, and leaves and dank earth clung to her torn gown. Several dark stains streaked her skirt where she hadn’t cleaned all the soldier’s blood from her hands. Nanny Belle would have a fit if she saw her charge right now. Though it wouldn’t be the first time she’d looked like a hoyden.

  She brushed off stinging palms and peered into the darkness. Which way back to Jeb? The dark and the maze of trees had her all turned around. His pain-wracked face swam before her, and her vision grew misty. He would be fine. He had to. No one else would die because of...

  No. She swept at her burning eyes with the back of her hand. Such thoughts would not defeat her. Lance, and now Jeb, depended on her being strong. She’d let people down before. She wasn’t about to allow it to happen again.

  Using the moon as a guide, she headed in what she prayed was the right direction. She’d find Jeb, get his wound dressed, and return to their task. This was a minor setback. Nothing more.

  Cool night air played across her sweat-soaked skin. A shudder coursed through her, and she tugged her cloak tighter, reassured by the heavy thud against her ankles. She’d sewn all her hard-earned money into the hem. With any luck, the Yankee guards at Point Lookout Prison would be as corrupt as the Confederates in Richmond.

  A distant clamor echoed in the woods. The soldiers were circling back. It wouldn’t be long before they picked up her trail. She had to find cover. Fast.

  She hiked up her skirt and raced forward. A patch of white loomed ahead. She pushed through the brush and into a small clearing.

  A tent. Just the cover she needed.

  ****

  “Don’t move. Lay still.”

  The deep, soothing voice grew silent. Hands pressed on his arms, holding him down
. Something draped over his body, heavy and smothering...

  “Don’t move, son.”

  No. Can’t breathe...

  Jackson Porter jerked awake. Cold sweat coated his skin. Heaviness sat on his chest, making breathing a torture. He sucked in several deep slugs of air, working to chase the last remnants of the nightmare to the darkness.

  Dream. It was only a dream.

  Yet it seemed so real. As if he’d been transported back in time, back to the river bank where he’d been hauled from the mangled remains of a submerged carriage. He’d survived. His parents had not. His muscles twitched with the memory.

  “Don’t move.”

  Not the mellow voice from the dream. This one was harsh, though a bit delicate, almost feminine. He froze as instructed but sneaked a glance to the side. Just enough moonlight seeped through the tent walls that despite his sleepy haze, he could distinguish a petite silhouette hovering over him. A woman. He blinked and rolled up on one elbow. “What the—”

  “I said don’t move!” She shoved a knife under his chin.

  “Take it easy.” He kept his tone even and steady, though his pulse thumped like an Indian war drum. “I’ll keep still.”

  “See that you do.”

  Well now, wasn’t that interesting. They were deep in Union territory, but that was damn sure a Southern twang. He resisted the urge to dive at her. He was fairly certain he could take her. The shadow was a dainty thing. But better to fully knock the sleep from his head before attempting any risky moves. His trespasser appeared to be comfortable with that knife.

  He slowly eased back, away from the blade, and laced his hands behind his head, feigning a calm he was far from feeling. “What are you doing in my tent?”

  Hooves thudded outside, stalling her answer. Wonderful. Just what he needed—more company.

  “You, inside the tent.” The voice was gruff, authoritative, and definitely not Southern. “Show yourself.”

  The woman snapped her head around. She stared at the closed tent flap, then turned back, the knife steady in her hand as she poked a warning against his throat. “If you value your life,” she whispered, “you won’t give me up to them.”

  His gut seized in a nasty twist. What the hell had he gotten caught up in?