Tomorrow the Glory

by Heather Graham

  “I was so afraid you didn’t love me . . . couldn’t love me, after what I did.”

  “Pulling the knife on me?” he queried softly. “I was irritated. You outfoxed me, love. And you did prove a point, I have to admit, it didn’t do much for my pride. But it didn’t stop the love I felt for you. Nothing could do that. I was afraid, and I was selfish. I couldn’t be there to protect you.” He paused, caressing her hair as he cradled her head against his chest and shoulder. “Kendall,” he said at last, his tone low and grave, “we’re in great danger now. We’ve a long, long way to go before we reach home.”

  Home . . . He meant Florida, but Kendall didn’t protest. Charleston was no longer her home. Charleston was a lifetime ago. So was New York. Vicksburg had just been a place to escape to.

  “How will we go?” she murmured.

  “South through Illinois. Then we’ll follow the Kentucky-Tennessee border roads to Virginia. The Union holds most of Kentucky now, but the people are still in sympathy with the Confederacy. But it will all be risky. We’re going to have to walk most of the way, staying off the main roads. Keep in mind, Kendall, that anyone you meet might want to kill you for a Rebel or turn you over to the Federal authorities.”

  Walk . . . from Illinois to Virginia. She couldn’t believe they would ever make it, never . . . but she would never have believed she could escape from Camp Douglas in a coffin, either.

  “Brent?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Did Travis help you get into Douglas?”

  He hesitated a long time, and then replied. “Yes. We lured him out of a cove in the Keys. Then I turned my ship over to Charlie and myself over to Travis Deland. I had to get myself captured.”

  Kendall felt a little thrill ripple through her. The sun seemed to warm her with a brilliant, radiating heat, yet she was sure the source of that heat was his touch . . . his softly spoken words.

  He had left his ship, his men, the Confederacy—to come for her.

  “Thank you, Brent,” she murmured, clutching the hand that rested around her waist and bringing it to her lips. “Thank you so very much.”

  She felt his whispered words against her hair and ear. “I had to come for you,” he told her. “I love you.”

  Tears suddenly rose in her eyes again. “Oh, Brent, you shouldn’t hold me. You shouldn’t be so close. You might get lice!”

  He laughed, gently, teasingly, putting her fears to rest. “Kendall, I love you, even with lice. Stop crying. We’ll get some good strong lye soap, and you’ll be fine. Now get some rest, my love. We’re going to have to travel quickly when darkness comes. John Moore will have half the Illinois militia after us when he discovers what’s happened.”

  John . . . he was so distant in time and in her mind, yet she had almost given up on life because of him. And now, in the midst of war and bloodshed, she was so happy. She lay filthy and tattered in a northern forest, but the warmth of the sun had never been so beautiful, and she had never felt so content merely to lie on the grass and feel a man’s arms about her.

  No matter what happened· in the days to come, she had this moment . . . and the knowledge that Brent had risked everything to have her at his side.

  “Kendall?”

  “Yes, Brent?”

  “We owe our freedom to your friend Deland.”

  “I know.” Kendall settled against his shoulder. “Brent, if this war ever ends, I’d like you to be his friend.”

  “The war will end, Kendall. Now go to sleep.”

  Kendall closed her eyes. There was still so much she wanted to talk about. She wanted to tell him she was so sorry about his father—and so happy that his brother was well and with them. She wanted to know how Amy and Harold Armstrong were, and she wanted to hear about Red Fox and the Seminoles and Mikasukis. But she was bone weary, and painfully aware that they would need to move quickly with the night to escape any traps John might set.

  There would be days and days in which to talk. And sometime in the future she could begin to dream again. Dream of a time when she would be clean and strong enough to reach out and touch him with her love.

  For now, she could find a respite from war and fear in the power of his arms and the shadow of his love.

  * * *

  Brent set a harsh schedule for them—one that would have done any Confederate general proud. Twenty miles a day was the goal they strove to achieve. It was of utmost importance that they leave Union territory, especially Illinois, behind them.

  Kendall had never imagined that a state could be so vast. Walking by night, resting by day, it seemed that nothing ever changed. They took circuitous routes to avoid cities and towns; they even walked extra miles to avoid farmhouses.

  Each morning when dawn broke she was exhausted, falling quickly into a heavy sleep. Brent worried over the ill health of his group, but he also knew they had to drive southward relentlessly.

  No one broke. Each day their muscles found new strength. Their food was meager. Despite the lush summer growth, they seldom dared steal from the farm fields, and they hadn’t enough ammunition to hunt forest creatures. Thanks to his time with Red Fox, Brent was adept at fashioning bows and arrows from branches and flint, and all the southerners were fine shots, but they had to hunt and cook their food discreetly and quietly. It was better than the prison ration, but they still went to sleep hungry.

  The many streams along the way provided an ample supply of water. To Kendall, the greatest luxury of all was bathing. Yet the sight of her own nudity was appalling; she still resembled a bean pole. She was glad they had companions on the journey home; she would have been truly horrified for Brent to see her pathetically thin body in the raw. Beau or Stirling always waited for her near the stream when she bathed, and she was grateful that Brent was always too busy to come near her. They had formed a strange relationship that enabled them to endure the long days. They were friends, not lovers. He barely spoke to her as they traveled by night, but he always held her tight when they slept.

  Sometimes Kendall worried about his restraint. Brent appeared as robustly healthy as always. His powerful frame was accustomed to exertion. As the weeks passed, he lost some weight, but only appeared to be more tightly sinewed. Lusty, vital, vibrant . . .

  And she grew more afraid. He was more tender than he had ever been, when he wasn’t being the blunt Captain McClain. But even his kindness sometimes frightened her; she didn’t want to be pitied. She wanted to be boldly, passionately loved, yet she wondered if that tempestuous love still existed within her. The war had left its scars on her.

  Summer turned to fall as they at last left Illinois behind them. They celebrated jubilantly on the October day when they crossed the state line. Beau and his Georgians broke into ecstatic Rebel yells; Stirling quietly reminded them all that wherever the people’s sympathies lay, Kentucky was largely in Union hands.

  Brent tolerantly allowed a time of rejoicing, not joining in the wild revelry, but watching as he leaned against a tree.

  “Gents, we should save this till we reach Tennessee,” he said quietly. “If we keep a steady move on, we’ll reach safety soon enough.”

  But nothing could stop the lightness of heart that had come to all of them. They were, at least, out of Illinois. It was quite a victory—especially since they realized the Yankees had surely combed the state for them.

  Late on the second afternoon in Kentucky, Kendall was awakened by whispering. She twisted about to realize that Brent was no longer beside her. Startled, she sat up and saw him speaking in hushed tones to Beau. Curiously she brushed her hair from her forehead and pushed herself to her feet and approached them.

  “I’m telling you, Brent, she’s an old farm woman all alone. And I’m telling you she’s a Reb.”

  “How the hell can you guarantee that, Beau?” Brent demanded skeptically.

  “Well, what can she do to us if she isn’t a Reb? Nine men and a young woman against one old hag? She’s offered us a decent meal, Brent. Hot cooked bread, coo
ked vegetables. Ham and grits and black-eyed peas—”

  Brent chuckled suddenly at the longing in Beau’s voice. “I guess I can’t blame you much, Major, for a hearty appetite. All right. We’ll stop at the old woman’s farm. But we’ll keep a couple of lookouts posted at all times.”

  Kendall at last stepped toward them. “What’s going on?” she asked them, her brow knitting in perplexity.

  “Beau went out scrounging something to eat and met an old woman in a cornfield. Seems she’s asked us all to Sunday dinner. I’m not sure I approve, but . . .”

  Kendall could almost smell home-cooked food. She threw her arms around Brent and tilted back her head to meet his eyes pleadingly. “Brent, what harm could an old woman do to us? Oh, please—”

  “The major has already used that argument, Kendall.” Brent shrugged; his eyes met hers with an indolent twinkle. “Seems there’s a creek nearby, too—and the woman has offered us all a bar of her best lye. Sounds like our evening is set.”

  Soap . . . what a luxury! “What are we waiting for?” Kendall queried anxiously.

  Again Brent shrugged, but he didn’t seem entirely pleased.

  “We go!” Kendall replied happily. She spun away from Brent. “I’ll wake the others,” she called over her shoulder.

  Minutes later Beau was leading them through a ragged cornfield to a weatherbeaten farmhouse. The countryside was still and autumn-beautiful, and they didn’t see a soul until they approached the house, the front door swung open and a tall, slender woman with iron-gray hair welcomed them with a broad smile.

  “Glad to see you again, Beau. These your friends?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Beau replied. “I warned you, we’re a bit of a crowd.”

  Her colorless eyes surveyed the group, but the old woman’s smile remained friendly and welcoming. “It’s so nice to see people these days; the more the merrier. Come in, y’ all come on in. I’ve been cookin’ and bakin’ all morning with the greatest pleasure!”

  “Thank you, that was right kind of you, ma’am.”

  “Name’s Miz Hunt, young man. Hannah Hunt.”

  In return, Beau pointed along their group calling out names. Hannah Hunt nodded to each introduction, then moved away from the door, indicating they should all come in. Beau started to walk up the entry steps, then hesitated, speaking softly. “Private Tanner, Sergeant Marshall, you two draw first watch. Hudson and Lowell will spell you shortly.”

  The aromas coming from the house were driving Kendall half crazy with hunger. Yet when she started to follow in Beau’s footsteps, a sixth sense made her stop and turn around. Brent was staring at the house, a puzzled look darkening his eyes and tautening his features.

  “Brent, what is it?” she asked.

  He shook himself slightly, as if startled by her question, then shrugged. “I don’t know . . . just nervous I guess.”

  “Captain,” Bill Tanner, one of Beau’s Georgians, said quietly, having heard Brent’s words, “believe me, sir, the sergeant and I know how to keep a sharp watch.”

  “I don’t doubt that,” Brent acknowledged. He shrugged once more, then slipped an arm around Kendall’s shoulders. “Let’s eat, Kendall, shall we?”

  “Definitely!” Kendall agreed with sparkling eyes. She was worried about Brent, and watched him carefully as they all sat around a large, rough wood table in Hannah Hunt’s huge farmhouse kitchen. She offered to help, but Hannah insisted she sit. And as huge platters of ham swimming in country gravy were passed around, Kendall relaxed as she saw Brent do the same. Compliments flowed from the table. Kendall was certain that it was the best meal she had ever eaten. Hannah kept up her side of the conversation, bemoaning the war.

  “I used to have ten hands to feed every day, till they all upped and joined the army. Some Yanks, some Rebs. And now all’s I gots is the armies threshing through my fields, robbing me blind. First those southern generals, Kirby-Smith and Braxton Bragg, stole everything in sight for their men. And now the Union men are back—” She broke off suddenly. “Dear me, how I do run on. And I baked you a great big blueberry pie.”

  Kendall couldn’t touch the pie. Her stomach had become too small, and she had already overstuffed it with ham and bread and vegetables. But she didn’t want to hurt the old woman’s feelings so she slid her piece onto the plate of the sergeant who was sitting to her right, winking as she did so. He returned her wink and consumed the pie with pleasure.

  A chair scraped, and she saw Brent rise. He moved about the table and whispered in Hannah Hunt’s ear. She laughed, and handed him something from a cabinet. A second later he was standing behind Kendall’s chair, and she glanced up at him curiously. She noticed that the tension had entirely left his features. There was a slight curl to his lip, and his eyes were an unfathomable smolder. He bent low to whisper against her ear. “Let’s take a walk.”

  He pulled out her chair, and she stood, wondering what he was up to. Brent excused them politely and took her hand. “Hudson and Lowell will be right out,” Brent told Marshall and Tanner as they passed by them.

  “It’s all right, Captain,” Bill Tanner called. “That nice Mrs. Hunt brought us out some pie.”

  “Yeah,” Jo Marshall guffawed. “And Tanner here ate the whole damned thing. Didn’t leave me a bite.”

  “You said you didn’t want to eat pie until you had some ham!” Bill protested.

  Kendall laughed at the two of them. They were both two years younger than she, yet they had become hardened soldiers. It was so pleasant to see them joking after such a painful and dangerous time.

  “Where are you going, Captain?” Tanner asked.

  “For a walk beyond the house,” Brent replied. “I want to enjoy the sunset with a full stomach for a change.”

  “Where are we really going?” Kendall asked a moment later as they entered a field of pines beyond the house.

  He gazed down at her and squeezed her hand as they walked. “To see the sunset.”

  Almost as he spoke, they came upon a brook, its bubbling flow providing light and pleasant music in the cool of the evening. Pines swayed about them, and the sun cast a ripple of gold over the running water.

  “Oh, Brent! How beautiful,” Kendall breathed, breaking away from him to rush to the water and shiver with delight as she cupped its coolness in her hands and dashed it against her face.

  “Yep,” he murmured softly. “I imagined it would be.”

  Kendall heard the husky timbre of his voice and turned around uneasily. His features were again tense; his eyes were dark as they lingered over her, following her form with subtle insinuation. He smiled as he caught her startled gaze and came to squat down beside her and pull something from his pocket. He presented it to her, slowly opening his fingers. On his palm sat a bar of soap. “How about a twilight bath, my love?”

  Kendall stared from the soap to his eyes, fighting a ridiculous fear of what lay ahead. “It’s cold, Brent. We’ll both catch pneumonia.”

  “It isn’t cold; it’s cool. And I’ll keep you warm.”

  Kendall stared back at the soap, held so lightly in his powerful hand.

  “Kendall,” he caught her chin with his free hand and gently forced her to meet his eyes. “I wanted to give you time to heal a little. Time to know me again. To trust me. But have mercy, darlin’. I’m going mad sleeping beside you night after night.”

  “I . . . I’m afraid,” she whispered.

  “Of me?”

  “Not of you. Because of you.”

  “Because of me?” he repeated, amusement and puzzlement playing in the smoky depths of his eyes. He sat down and drew her against him. “Mind explaining that one, my love?” His voice was soft as he ran his fingers along the nape of her neck to her shoulder.

  “You’re always . . . strong, Brent. Nothing changes you; nothing can break you. We’re half starving, yet it seems you become more powerful. Oh, Brent—”

  “Kendall,” he interrupted firmly, straightening her so that she sat facing the w
ater. She felt his fingers working the hooks at the back of her dress, yet when she nervously clutched at them, he caught her hands and pushed them away. “I have a growth of unkempt whiskers that looks like an untamed forest. Neither of us is fit for washed society.”

  “Brent, please, don’t. I—”

  “You are beautiful.”

  “No, I’ m not. You can count every rib—”

  “Kendall, I’m dying to count every rib.”

  His voice was a whisper, husky, heated, caressing the lobe of her ear as his fingers tightened over her shoulders and he moved close behind her. “Kendall, I feel like a brush-fire. I want you so badly that it’s consuming my thoughts. As I walk along daily, I forget where I am, where I’m trying to go, because I’m watching you and remembering what it was like to feel you naked against me, to touch your breasts with my lips, to have you move against me. My love, it’s an ache, a yearning, a fever. Don’t you ever feel it, Kendall? The need . . . the hunger . . .”

  Kendall swallowed and moistened her lips, shivering. She did—oh, yes, she did, now, with his words and touch igniting a trembling desire within her. But she was still afraid . . . of failure, of not being able to please him, of finding that she could not soar again . . .

  “Brent, sometimes all I can remember is the cries of the men in Camp Douglas. The misery, the filth. I can’t remember the things that were beautiful and—”

  “I’ll make you remember,” he told her. His words were firm but gentle, and then he was standing and drawing her to her feet. He turned her around and finished undoing the hooks. His hands slipped beneath the fabric and eased the gown off her shoulders. It fell in a cloud about her feet.