by Donna Dalton
“Fine. In any case, we don’t want to slip up regarding your name and cause anyone to become suspicious.” He studied her, cocking his head from side to side, humming softly as he thought.
She shifted under his scrutiny.
“What about Kitty?”
“Kitty? That makes no sense.”
“Certainly it does. For those amazing, green cat-eyes of yours.”
“Oh...” Her chest tightened, thick with sudden self-awareness. No one had ever called her eyes amazing. “It’s silly.”
“It’s perfect. I’ll have no trouble remembering it.”
“Most people...” She paused, wondering if she was getting too comfortable. Talking to this man came so easy. She needed to keep up her guard. “People usually call me Red.”
“Nope, too obvious. And from what I’ve seen in the short time I’ve known you, I suspect you wouldn’t like that name.” He poured coffee into the tin cup and handed it to her. “I prefer Kitty. That will be ours.”
Chapter Four
Porter reined Socks around a large limb lying in the road. “You mentioned corruption at the Richmond prison. What do you know about it?”
She swayed with the horse’s motion, wishing she could swap places with the bedroll and tent secured behind the saddle. Riding sideways in the newspaperman’s lap was much too intimate and conjured up too many painful memories. Yet, if it got her to Lance, she would deal with the torture.
“Mostly what I heard in rumors.” She braced herself on the pommel. “Just this past January, one hundred Yankee officers escaped from Libby prison during the night.”
“One hundred.” He gave a soft whistle. “That’s a sizeable amount for one night. How’d it happen?”
“They tunneled under the prison.”
“Tunnels are a usual method. A man’s got nothing but time to burrow out of his cell.”
“They didn’t dig out of their cells. The tunnel entrance was clear across the prison. They had to sneak through a hospital room and down a stairway to get there. Surely someone would’ve noticed three months of such goings-on.”
“It does sound suspicious.”
“The tunnel ended in the yard of a nearby, unguarded warehouse. That smacks of outside help.”
“Or inside. Were the guards questioned?” He shifted his weight in the saddle, reaching to brush a horsefly off Socks’ neck.
Firm thighs bunched and relaxed beneath her backside. For a second, she forgot what they were talking about. “Uh...yes. The guards on duty that night were arrested, but no proof of bribery or wrong-doing was found. They were released and returned to duty.”
“Hmmm. Something that significant, I’m surprised I hadn’t heard about it before. I generally have a pretty good nose for such things.” He swept the fly off her shoulder. “How’d you hear the story?”
“Little bit of gossip, like I said.” The horsefly buzzed around her head, no less bothersome than Porter’s questions. How much did she really want to tell him?
“It’s been my experience that you need to be at the right place at the right time to hear decent gossip,” he went on smoothly. Likely the voice he used for his fancy newspaper interviews. “What took you to Libby? You know somebody being held there?”
She flapped at the fly, which had lighted on her ear. The back of her hand smacked into Porter’s face. He howled and grabbed his nose. The reins dropped to trail in the muddy road. Socks, as well-schooled as he claimed, slowed to a halt.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to...” She wiggled around to see if she’d actually hurt him. There didn’t appear to be any blood.
“For God’s sake, can’t you keep still?” He rubbed his nose. The horse snorted in what sounded like agreement. “You’re squirming worse than a worm in hot ashes.”
His comment tickled at her. She chuckled. “That sure is a funny way of putting it.”
“My grandfather used to say that when I was little.”
She got a quick image of him as a small boy, dressed all clean and proper, seated at his desk, nose buried in a book, one foot swinging back and forth as he lapped up word after word. Certainly not squirming like a worm in hot ashes.
“I’ve never heard that before. It’s an odd saying.”
“No odder than the man himself.”
She never knew any of her grandparents. They’d all died before she was born. “Did you spend much time with your granddaddy?”
“Entirely too much.” With no warning, he bent forward, pushing her against the horse’s neck. Porter’s face filled her vision, his nose inches from hers. His breath smelled of the bitter coffee he’d drunk earlier at the campsite.
Her mouth went dry. “What are you—”
“Just a minute...need to get...” He stretched. His arm slid across her back and pressed damp muslin along her shoulder blade. She was sweating more than she’d realized in the hot, unmoving air.
He straightened and gathered the retrieved reins. “Damn, what a mess.” He wiped the leather across his knee, leaving a dark smudge on his britches.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered. “I’ll try to be still.”
His faint grunt could’ve meant either it mattered or it didn’t. He nudged Socks forward.
For a long while, they rode in silence. Sunlight poked through the treetops, dappling the surroundings with bright, golden spots. The horizon shimmered with heat. She swiped a trickle of sweat from her brow. Looked like they were in for a roasting. A pang of longing stabbed her. She and Lance and Jeb would’ve sneaked off to the river on a day like this.
“You were going to tell me about your family,” she said. Maybe talking about his folks would take her mind off her own.
“Was I?”
“You said you spent time with your granddaddy.”
“Yep.” The arms around her tensed.
“Do you see him much anymore?”
“Certainly are full of questions this morning.”
“Just trying to be friendly. I was thinking maybe—”
Socks stumbled, tossing the words from her mouth. She jerked forward, then back and collided into Porter’s rock-solid chest. She let out a squeak of surprise.
Strong arms folded around her in a steadying embrace, and her body hummed with warmth that had nothing to do with the heat of the day. Lordy, but she reacted to this man so easily—a temptation she couldn’t afford. Even if her body didn’t remember the pain, the guilt of Bart Lawrence, she certainly did.
Hands on his chest, she shoved upright, putting some space between them. Not that there was any place to move, trapped together on horseback like they were.
His shirtfront was dark with sweat, his face flushed and tight. “I heard you cry out. Did you hurt yourself?”
“No. I’m fine.” She slid her hands to her lap and folded them into a tight ball. “That stumble just caught me off-guard is all.”
“Yes, well...according to the directions I obtained in Saint Mary’s City, there should be a farmhouse up ahead. We, um...” He cleared his throat. “We can stop and rest. Give us a chance to eat something.”
And give me a chance to rein in this body of mine.
“While we’re there,” he added. “We ought to see about getting you another dress. That one won’t do.”
Good. He was thinking about her wardrobe. That arm curled around her waist didn’t mean a thing except to keep her from falling in the mud.
“You’re right.” She fingered the torn, stained muslin. Might as well be flying a banner—Here’s your fugitive, Yankees. Come and get her. “This gown is little more than a rag. Unfortunately Jeb has the knapsack with my spare clothing.”
“Jeb?”
“We were traveling together.”
He reached out to push aside a low hanging branch. “The man the Lieutenant mentioned.”
“Yes. They shot him.” She could picture Jeb where he dropped in the woods. Hear the strain in his voice as he urged her to go on, clear as if he were here with her right now. She sw
allowed around the thickness welling in her throat. Had the Yankees treated his wound? Did he suffer? She squashed the darker thought that tried to surface. Jeb was alive. To think otherwise would be to invite ill luck.
“I’m sure the soldiers are taking good care of him.” Porter squeezed her waist in a quick gesture likely meant to be reassuring.
Heat rose soft and unexpected beneath her ribs, spreading outward. She drew in a much needed breath. Dealing with intimate closeness of Porter was turning out to be quite a difficult task, in more ways than one.
“How’d you come to be traveling with him?” he prodded.
She faced the road ahead, not wanting him to see the effect of his touch. Given his nosey nature, it might cause him to ask questions of a more personal breed. “Guess it must look mighty funny to you. Southern lady and a black man.”
“It’s been my experience that people have all types of reasons for doing what they do. I try not to make judgments until I know the facts.”
“Judge not, lest ye be judged, huh?”
“Something like that.” He dug a fresh white handkerchief out of his saddlebag and offered it to her.
She gave him a grateful smile and swiped the sweat from her forehead. The day had grown too stifling for anything to move. Even the birds were still. “How far to that farmhouse?”
“Not much further. Another half mile or so.” He accepted the handkerchief back, mopped his own brow, then swapped it for the canteen. “Would you like some water? It’s a bit stale, but there might be a few swallows left.”
“Yes, I would.” She took the canteen. He sure was acting the gentleman. Scarcely resembled the mule she’d argued with yesterday. “Thank you.”
“So, tell me about this Jeb.”
She uncapped the canteen and took a long, soothing swig, buying some time before she replied. “You sure are interested in my business.”
“You’re an interesting lady.”
“More like you’re just plain nosey.”
“It’s my livelihood to be nosey, as you put it. Stories are my stock in trade. And you are interesting. Traveling under the cover of night, alluding Yankee patrols, sneaking into tents with strange men. You’d make a fine heroine in one of Wilkie Collins’ novels.”
Books again. The man was full up with them. Not being familiar with Wilkie Collins or his tales, she wasn’t sure how to respond. When this was over, she’d ask Lance about Collins. She took another pull on the canteen.
“So, back to Jeb,” he said. “You must trust him.”
“He’s a good friend.” No harm in telling some of it, as long as she kept the particulars of Lance’s troubles to herself. “He came along to help with my brother.”
“You already knew him then?”
“He was a slave at Spivey Point Manor where my father was overseer.”
“Jeb’s a runaway?”
“Abandoned is more like it. The owners fled north soon as the fighting drew close. Left us all to fend for ourselves.”
“Never heard of Spivey Point. Who owns it?”
“Family named Lawrence. It’s a large tobacco-growing estate east of Richmond. Sits up on a bend of land overlooking the James River.” Or it once did. Was it still there with its wide porches and elegant columns? Or had the War come through and ruined the rose gardens and the grand old oak trees that ringed the house? Whatever had become of the place, it would never be her home again.
She cleared her throat of the lump that had sprouted of a sudden. “On a summer morning, before it gets real hot, you can sit out on the point and watch the barges piled with all sorts of goods and supplies, coming ’round the curve down from the terminal.”
“Heading to the bay.”
Heading to the bay and to places she’d only dreamed of seeing. Though she loved Spivey Point, she’d itched to explore beyond the estate. To touch and hear and taste new worlds, not just what she could see in a picture book.
She passed him the canteen but held onto the cap so he could take a drink. “There’s just a little bit left. And you’re right...water’s not real fresh.”
He tipped back his head and drained the contents. Sure did have a nice neck. All tanned and sleek. Except for that tiny scabbed-over nick. One she’d put there.
He lowered the canteen. “You live there long?”
So many prying questions. The nick on his neck pulsed. A moneylender calling in its dues. She prodded her stingy tongue. “All my life. Lance and I were born at Spivey Point. We’re twins. We lived in a small cabin just up from the main house.”
“You were comfortable there, I take it? Happy?”
There being no simple answer, she just nodded.
“And your father?” He gave her a questioning look. “As overseer, he managed the labor?”
“He was in charge of the slaves, if that’s what you mean.”
“Don’t get prickly. I wasn’t asking—”
“Sure you were. Or you were going to.” She squared her shoulders as that old familiar resentment crept up her spine. “That’s all you Northerners can see when you look at us. Haven’t met a Yankee yet didn’t think every one of us feeds on hate and mistreatment. You don’t know there are respectable folks out there, trying to do right. Good overseers who stay on, working for ignorant masters, so they can guarantee decent care of those poor souls.”
She fisted her hand around the metal canteen cap, squeezing until it bit into her palm. Nobody outside of Spivey Point would ever know of Papa’s charity or the risks he’d taken.
“Your father sounds like a conscientious man. Can’t imagine he thinks too fondly of his daughter running off on a foolish quest.”
“My father’s dead.”
“I’m sorry. Was it recent?”
Some days, it seemed like years ago. Other days, when the grief snuck up on her, it felt like it’d just happened. “He died this past winter.”
“And your mother?”
“Dead, too. For a long time.” Tears burned in her eyes. She combed her fingers through Sock’s mane, smoothing, straightening. Tidying.
Porter gave her another quick, unnerving squeeze. “I just keeping sticking my foot in my mouth, don’t I? That leaves just you and your brother.”
“Here.” She thrust the canteen cap at him, almost striking him in the nose again.
“Kitty, I didn’t mean to—”
“Oh look,” she blurted, pointing to the white-washed structure taking shape through the greenery ahead. Thank heaven for small favors. “That must be the farmhouse.”
He grunted in agreement and shifted around to stow away the canteen.
“I don’t know about you,” she added. “But I could use a break. Stretch my legs. Get the blood flowing again.” Get away from all these pestering questions. And all that muscle and heat and that rich voice rumbling through her with every word. “That canteen needs refilling, too.”
He grunted again, apparently having decided he’d eaten his own hoof enough for one day. Another gift from above. She settled her skirt. Nothing would be gained by telling him everything. What little he knew should be enough to get her to Lance.
She’d deal with the rest.
He guided Socks off the roadway and onto a narrow, rutted lane. The path opened up onto a large clearing occupied by a two-story, white clapboard farmhouse, several outbuildings, and a barn. Half-a-dozen chickens pecked at the sun-dried grass dotting the yard. Papa had often spoken of buying a parcel of land to farm. Had even mentioned building a big, white farmhouse. Her chest tightened. He’d never have the chance to realize his dream.
The squeal of hinges rang out, and a slender woman toting a rifle stepped through the doorway and onto the front porch. Narrowed eyes glared at them from a time-worn face. “That’s far enough,” she called out, leveling the gun barrel in their direction.
Jack reined Socks to a stop. “We mean you no harm, ma’am.” He tipped his hat. “Name’s Jackson Porter and this is my wife. We saw your place from the road and th
ought you might be able to help us.”
“Help you with what?”
“Water, for one thing.”
The woman jerked a nod at the side of the house. “Well’s over there. What else?”
“Last night’s storm spooked my wife’s horse. He dumped her and took off with her belongings. We haven’t seen hide nor hair of the beast since.”
“No horses here. Yankees conscripted ’em all. Even took my plow mules.”
He patted Socks’ neck. “We can make do with this one. It’s not much further to the garrison at Point Lookout.”
The farmwoman frowned and stepped to the edge of the porch. A yellow tabby brushed past her skirt and darted down the stairs. “You don’t look like a soldier. What business you got at Camp Hoffman?”
“I’m a journalist for The New York Herald. I’ve been assigned to write a piece on the treatment of Confederate prisoners being held there.”
“The prisoners. Hmmph. Ought to be writing about how poorly the Yankees treat innocent folk outside the prison. Trampling their gardens. Raiding their livestock and larders.”
He gave an understanding nod. “I’m sorry to hear about your troubles, ma’am, but as you can see, my wife’s dress is ruined. We were wondering if you might have a spare one we might purchase.”
Wary brown eyes focused on her. Louisa smoothed down a wrinkle, hoping the stains looked more like dirt from where the rifle-toting woman stood.
The farmwoman lowered her weapon. “Get yourself a cool drink from the well. I’ll see what I can find for your missus.”
As the woman disappeared through the doorway, Louisa slid from his grasp and slipped to the ground. She hurried toward the well, her skin tingling from his intimate hold. Yes, she definitely needed some water—a whole pail full to pour over her rebellious body.
Footfalls and the clop of hooves thudded behind her. Ignoring the newspaperman’s approach, she grabbed the wooden pail and lowered it until a faint splash echoed up the well shaft. She began hoisting, a difficult task now that the bucket was heavy with water.
“Let me help you.” Porter leaned over, spooning his chest along her back.
Flames licked at her spine. She twisted sideways to break the contact and lost her grip on the handle. The lever spun wildly and nipped her fingers. She yelped and cradled her throbbing hand to her stomach.