She watched him until he noticed her and set his knife aside and got to his feet.
“Before you ask,” he said, still smiling, “Jubie is fine, and so is the boy.”
“Are they resting?”
He nodded. “Sound asleep, both of them.”
“I won’t disturb them, then,” Caroline said, extending the small pile of linens.
Enoch cleared his throat, took them, then remained in place. His smile wavered a little. “I’m obliged, Missus,” he said, in his gravelly voice.
Caroline tilted her head to one side. “Enoch, what is it you want to say?”
He looked away from her, then back. “Jubie and I, we mean to marry, jump the broom, so to speak. When she’s able, that is.”
She nodded. “Jubie told me a little while ago. I’m very happy for you both.” Pausing, she asked, “Where does that expression come from?”
“It’s a term slaves use, down South,” Enoch explained. “They can’t get hitched the same way white folks do, with a license and a preacher and all. In the South, that’s against the law.”
“Oh,” Caroline said, oddly flummoxed by Enoch’s announcement. “Why?”
Enoch laughed quietly. “Why is it illegal for slaves to marry?” he asked.
“Why are there slaves in the first place?” she countered, not expecting an answer. Wanting to make herself understood, she blundered on. “I know you’ve been lonely, Enoch, probably for a long time. If you want to take a wife, you should.”
He didn’t respond, and she continued. “It’s just that Jubie’s a runaway. We know almost nothing about her. She’s been a great help, with Rachel and Br—Captain Winslow—and those poor army men, and I couldn’t be more grateful. Slavery is a dreadful thing, and I don’t blame Jubie, not one bit, for escaping, but—”
Enoch’s expression was kind. “What is it about Jubie that concerns you?”
“She’s so young, Enoch. Yes, she’s a mother, but that doesn’t mean she’s ready to be a wife. She’s been through a lot, including escaping slave catchers. You remember how frightened she was, before the battle, when all those Confederate troops rode by the farmhouse.”
“I was pretty scared that day myself,” Enoch said mildly. “I guess I got used to living as a free man all these years, with nobody hunting me down, nobody wanting to drag me off to some cage or whipping post. I didn’t have to be afraid anymore. I’ve had a good place to live, and I get paid for an honest day’s work—in money I can spend or save as I see fit. But when I saw all those men in gray coats, it came back to me, what it meant to be a slave, and I wanted to crawl into that hole in the floor, the secret room, and bring Jubie with me. Only difference is, I didn’t let on how afraid I was.”
Caroline said nothing; her throat felt as if it had been tied into a knot.
Enoch went on. “You’re right about Jubie being a little too young to be a real wife,” he said. “I won’t ask that of her. I just want to keep her as safe I can and be a father to that baby boy in there. And then, when she is ready...”
“What if they’re still after her, Enoch? Slave catchers, I mean?”
“If there’s trouble, then I’ll do what I have to do,” Enoch said, averting his eyes now, gazing at something far off in the distance. Caroline knew he was remembering the man he’d killed that day, in the creek.
They were both silent for some time, thinking their own thoughts.
Then came the muffled squall of an infant.
Enoch smiled, lifted the sheets and towels he was holding. “I’ll go on inside with these,” he said. “I’m thankful to you, Missus Caroline, for these things here and a whole lot more, too.”
It was a dismissal, although a very polite one. Enoch, Jubie and little Gideon were already becoming a family and, for now, Caroline had done all she could for them.
She felt strangely alone as she nodded a farewell, turned and started back across the clearing, careful to keep her shoulders straight and her head high.
Reaching the orchard, she paused, looking up at the leaves stirring in a breeze passing high overhead, casting light and shadow onto the soft, sheltered ground in constantly changing patterns.
Caroline loved the orchard most at this time of year; it was cooler there, quiet except for the occasional trill of birdsong and the faint, tumbling chatter of the creek running behind Enoch’s cabin.
Here, she found peace, could almost forget there was a war being fought.
When time allowed, Caroline came to this place and stood among the trees, finding solace when she was troubled, quiet companionship when she was lonely, abundance, or the promise of it, when funds ran low.
In every season, the trees were beautiful, lush and fragrant with pink and white blossoms in spring. They wore a hundred shades of glorious green for summer, reminding Caroline of courtesans in rich velvet or elegant matrons gathering for afternoon tea. In autumn, they donned garments of fiery yellow and russet and crimson, soon to be shed, and all the lovelier for it.
Even in winter, when they stood stark against the whiteness of the landscape, like swift, sharp lines drawn in charcoal, they were gravely splendid, traced in glittering frost or dripping snowy lace.
Sudden hunger ended Caroline’s reverie, reminded her that Bridger was in the kitchen house, if he’d made it that far, endeavoring to prepare a meal. Rachel was surely with him, probably getting underfoot, eager to help, reaching, perhaps, for a pot of boiling water or a hot skillet. The image set Caroline in motion, walking fast at first, then running, the sides of her skirts bunched in her hands.
She burst, breathless, from the orchard, her heart pounding with alarm.
And there was Rachel, playing happily with Sweet Girl in front of the kitchen house. The little girl turned and, when she saw Caroline dashing out of the trees, looked frightened.
“Mama!” she cried, hurrying toward her. “Is there a bear after you?”
“No,” she managed to say as the child reached her.
She gathered up the child, laughing, kissing her on one cheek. Over Rachel’s head, she saw Bridger standing in the doorway of the kitchen house, watching. He gripped the framework on either side, and Caroline saw his grim expression relax into the semblance of a smile.
Sweet Girl ran in circles around mother and child, making plenty of noise.
Caroline tried to tear her gaze from Bridger’s face, and could not.
It seemed to her, not for the first time, that something passed between them... Slowly, she set Rachel down, straightened the child’s bonnet, shushed the dog, all without looking away from Bridger.
“No bear, then?” he asked lightly.
Caroline shook her head, ignoring what might have been mockery.
The reality was that he’d been a threat to her presence of mind from the first, but for more reasons than the obvious ones—that he was a Confederate officer, an avowed enemy of all she believed in, an incriminating, perhaps even treasonous presence in her household. But now she understood that those were the lesser of the dangers Bridger Winslow represented.
He had only to smile, or look at her a certain way—or kiss her—to sway her from the course she had set for herself. That of a strong, principled woman, a widow and a mother, with a war to get through and a farm to run. Even with help from Enoch and her grandmother, none of it would be easy; she would have to pray hard and work harder to get the fields plowed and the crops planted every spring, see them through the growing season, past such perils as drought and hail and rampaging soldiers and finally, harvest the corn and grain and get a decent price for them.
She had to be vigilant, she decided, as Rachel took her hand and half dragged her toward the kitchen house and Bridger.
“Mr. Captain Windlesnow said we couldn’t eat a single bite till you got back.”
Rachel tugged at her hand so hard, Caroline nearly stu
mbled.
Caroline corrected her briskly. “Captain Winslow, Rachel. The man’s name is ‘Captain Winslow.’”
“That’s what I said,” Rachel insisted.
Bridger laughed, then turned from the doorway and went inside. His gait, Caroline noticed, had improved in the short time she’d been away.
There were plates on the table, and the knives, forks and spoons lay in their proper order. Bridger had sliced bread and smoked ham, opened a jar of sweet pickles, put out the butter dish. Fresh-picked lettuce from the garden, crisp and damp from washing, filled a small bowl.
When Rachel climbed into her accustomed chair, he filled a jelly jar from the milk jug and set it within her reach.
Then Bridger drew back Caroline’s chair and waited politely for her to sit.
She delayed by washing her hands and insisting Rachel do the same, but the process didn’t last very long.
When she turned from the basin, towel in hand, Bridger was still standing behind her chair. There wasn’t a flicker of impatience in his eyes; in fact he was the personification of social grace and good manners.
Caroline flushed and sat down.
She lowered her head, closed her eyes and folded her hands.
“Mama,” Rachel informed Bridger in a loud whisper, “is going to talk to God.”
Caroline cleared her throat. Then she offered thanks for the meal before them, the safe delivery of Jubie’s baby and all other blessings, known and unknown, remembered and forgotten. Past and future...
When she paused to draw breath, Rachel added an exuberant, “Amen!”
Bridger chuckled. “Amen,” he confirmed.
Caroline prepared Rachel’s plate, cutting a small slice of ham into manageable pieces, quartering and then buttering her bread. She speared a sweet pickle from the jar, added that and passed the food to her daughter.
Rachel waited until everyone had been served before picking up her fork, looking very pleased with her own deportment.
For a while, everyone ate silently, including Rachel who, Caroline noticed, was slipping a morsel of ham to Sweet Girl for every two that went into her mouth.
When the meal was finished, and once she’d washed and dried the dishes, she would put Rachel down for an afternoon nap.
Bridger, Caroline noticed, seemed preoccupied. He ate distractedly, his gaze turned to whatever inner world engaged him.
In a certain way, she felt relieved by his silence now...
And yet, undeniably, she recognized the unsettling truth—that she dreaded his going as much as she yearned for it, and for many of the same reasons.
Soon enough, Rachel was nodding in her chair, heavy eyed and full of good food and ready for a nap.
Caroline, who had wept more in recent weeks than in the whole rest of her life, was weary of her own mewling and sniffling and carrying on. Never mind that it had all been justified, she felt another crying fit coming. “Will everything, always and forever, be sad?” she suddenly asked. She had meant only to think the question, not give voice to it.
To her utter surprise, Bridger simply rested one of his hands atop one of hers and said quietly, “No. You won’t be sad forever, Caroline. You are too smart, too strong and far too beautiful to be unhappy.”
She hesitated for a long time before pulling back her hand, and she did it slowly, even then. Stay, and argue with me, let me sharpen my mind against yours, she thought. Stand behind me, when I’m washing dishes or making supper or pressing a shirt or an apron or one of Rachel’s little dresses. Put your arms around me, and brush my neck with your lips.
She moved away from the table, through the door and across the yard to the house. She took her daughter and led her to the house.
Bridger didn’t speak, or follow.
Her bedroom was cool and dimly lit; Caroline had pulled the curtains to keep out the heat.
She lifted Rachel, set her on the side of the bed, then crouched to unlace the child’s shoes and pull them off.
Sweet Girl sank onto the hooked rug with a contented sigh.
“No covers,” Rachel murmured. “It’s too hot.”
“No covers,” Caroline agreed. “Lie down now, and go to sleep. Before you know it, it’ll be time to get up again.”
“Mmm.” Rachel stretched out, closing her eyes.
There were so many things to do. Carrying water for the garden, pulling weeds, washing dishes, planning supper, going over household accounts.
Verbally sparring with Bridger Winslow.
Caroline moved to the other side of the bed and sat down to take off her own shoes. Then, with a yawn, she settled herself across from Rachel, closed her eyes and immediately fell asleep.
25
Hammond Farm
August 10, 1863
Bridger
Late in the afternoon, Bridger took his few belongings—the letter from Amalie, that damnable blue uniform, the good Yankee currency, backed by Federal gold, that Rogan had sent him, plus a scrap of paper and the stub of a pencil—and moved from the house to the barn. If he’d been asked for an explanation, in that moment of decision, he wouldn’t have had one to offer, except to say it was time Rachel had her room back.
Caroline brought him supper, the plate covered by a red-and-white-checked napkin, crisply pressed. “It may be cold,” she said, “When you didn’t come to the kitchen house, I thought perhaps you weren’t feeling well.”
He was cleaning a saddle, glad to have something to occupy his hands. His right shoulder pained him with a mighty vengeance, but that was to be expected; healing, like most blessings of God and nature, didn’t come without cost. So he gritted his teeth through the worst of it and kept on brushing the dirt and mud from the worn leather.
“Thank you,” he said, keeping his eyes on his task, marveling at the sorry state of the saddle Enoch had given him. He’d seen plenty such gear, covered in trail dust, blood-stained, too, after a battle, but this relic was so filthy it might have been buried in the earth, or found in some rank old tomb, still cinched to the skeleton barrel of a long-dead horse.
He hadn’t said anything about its condition to Enoch, of course. Beggars couldn’t be choosers.
Caroline approached, set the plate down nearby. Then she stood in a shaft of light, the last of the day, specks of dust moving around her, glittering like tiny stars in some distant galaxy.
With a sidelong glance, Bridger saw that her eyes were wide. He wondered if she recognized the saddle, if it had belonged to her late husband, perhaps, since it seemed to be the object of her attention.
“You can’t be very comfortable out here,” she finally ventured, “even if you are regaining your strength.” Her voice shook slightly. “You’re welcome to sleep in the house.”
Bridger shook his head and looked up at her, then remembered his manners and stood. He regretted that he hadn’t told her he was moving to the barn. He was finding it too hard to lie alone in that narrow bed, knowing she was only a room away.
How could he have told her that it was agony, the desire to hold her, bury his face in her hair, to kiss her, to pleasure her? That, as he grew stronger, the impossibility of doing any or all of those things was harder and harder to bear?
She would have been insulted, scandalized. Maybe even afraid.
“Is something wrong?” he asked. She was still staring at the blasted saddle, almost as if she expected it to come to life.
“That saddle,” Caroline said, meeting his gaze at last. “Where did you get it?”
“Enoch gave it to me,” Bridger replied. “Along with the horse.” He indicated the bay, standing in a nearby stall, with a gesture of his right hand. Winced at the resulting flash of pain, centered in the wounded shoulder but spreading along his arm and down his side. “Said he wanted rid of the critter, and the saddle, too.”
“Oh,” Car
oline said, and she relaxed slightly. Almost smiled.
“I promised I’d send him money as soon as I could,” Bridger told her, wanting to keep the conversation going for a while, so she would stay a little longer. “He said he wouldn’t take any payment—that I’d be doing him a favor, since he never wanted to lay eyes on the animal again, or the saddle, either.”
She nodded, said that made sense.
Against his better judgment, Bridger took a step toward her. Stopped. “Caroline,” he began, frowning now, “that horse might not be anything special, but he’s sound. Why is Enoch so eager to see the last of him?”
“If you want to know that,” she said reasonably, “you’ll have to ask Enoch.”
Bridger sighed. “That’s all you’re going to say?”
“About the horse? Yes.”
Strange, Bridger thought, but he knew it would be useless to press the matter. “All right,” he said. “We won’t discuss the horse.”
“No,” Caroline agreed. “We won’t.”
“What, then? Because there’s something else, isn’t there?” Easy, he thought. Don’t push.
Caroline was reluctant but, thank God, she didn’t appear to be scared, the way she had at first. “It wasn’t anything important,” she told him.
“If you have something to say, I want to hear it,” he insisted.
“Unless, of course, you don’t agree,” Caroline said, with that singular directness he so admired. “Should my opinions happen to differ from yours.”
“Whatever it is, I won’t argue. You have my word.”
She thrust out a breath, and he tried not to notice the rise and fall of her calico-covered breasts.
“Very well, then,” she relented, though not sweetly. “Clearly, you intend to leave soon, and I was going to say I don’t believe you’re well enough to take to the road. Not yet.”
He had just given her his word, and already, he was about to break it. So much for Southern honor. Caroline was fetching in any mood, but when she was irritated, he couldn’t resist her.
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