“Such concern,” he said, exaggerating his drawl. “A man might almost—almost—think you enjoyed his company.”
His reward was the instant flare of color in her cheeks, the spark of splendid fury in her eyes. Lord, he could have sparred with this woman for hours, days—the rest of his life.
Caroline glared at him for a long, perfectly delicious moment, then lifted her skirts slightly—far too slightly for Bridger’s liking—drew back a foot, and kicked the plate she’d just delivered, sending his neatly covered supper sailing. Cold chicken, sliced fruit and two biscuits flew in wildly disparate directions, while the checkered napkin wafted gracefully to the hay-scattered floor.
At that point, Bridger did the worst possible thing. He laughed.
“Go hungry, then!” Caroline said. But seconds later, she went still, raised her hands to her face and gave a strangled sob.
He went to her then, knowing it was a mistake, but unable to stop himself.
Drawing on the last of his restraint, he did not embrace her, but took her gently by the shoulders. Before he could apologize, she dropped her hands and he saw true suffering in her face, and bewilderment.
Bridger despised himself in that moment.
“I’m so sorry!” Caroline wailed. “I don’t know why I did that, why I kicked your plate and ruined your supper!” A few quavering breaths and some sniffling followed. “It was such a childish thing to do.”
Bridger cupped her cheeks in his hands. “Caroline,” he said, using his thumbs to smooth away her tears. “Don’t. Please. I was baiting you, and that was wrong. I’m the one who ought to be sorry, and I am. Truly.”
“I need to blow my nose,” she said.
“Yes,” he agreed, taking care not to smile. “Unfortunately, I can’t offer you a handkerchief.”
She stepped back a little, scrubbed at her face with her apron.
“My behavior tonight...” she said earnestly, smiling bravely now. “This is not like me, I assure you.”
He raised one eyebrow and moved right back onto the thinnest of ice. “Isn’t it?”
Caroline laughed, and the sound was beautiful. But then, in the next moment, she stopped laughing, dropped her forehead to his chest, wrapped both arms around his middle, and moaned.
It was very nearly his undoing, but some shred of control remained to him, and he merely held her, this woman who tried his sanity at every turn. He propped his chin on the crown of her head and ached for what he would never have.
She had just lost her husband.
She was a Yankee, through and through.
The war would go on, with no end in sight.
And the best friend he’d ever had, could ever hope to have, loved her.
“Why,” she blurted, in muffled tones, “am I acting like someone else, someone I don’t even recognize?”
Bridger knew the question did not require an answer. He went on holding her, rocking her gently, and said, “Shh.”
She clung to him for a while, a concession in itself, dampening his shirt with her tears, and Bridger thought he could have stood like that, with Caroline in his arms, until the crack of doom.
Presently, though, she drew back, stepped away. “I would ask one thing of you, Bridger Winslow,” she said, “and nothing more.”
“I’m listening,” he said, his voice hoarse.
“If you must go, say goodbye first. Don’t just ride away.”
He tried to reply, couldn’t. So he simply nodded.
The small distance between them seemed infinite to Bridger, uncrossable terrain, as fraught with peril as any battlefield.
Caroline watched him in miserable silence from the other side of the chasm, then, finally, turned and walked away; Bridger did not follow, although everything in him compelled him to do exactly that, despite the risks. He stood where he was, there in the thickening shadows of the barn, and mourned her as deeply as if she’d died.
* * *
The next morning, after a sleepless night, he rose from his bed of straw, stepped outside and began to walk, testing his strength. He went all the way to the gate, stood looking out at the road for a long time, and then went back.
He washed up at the pump outside the kitchen house and walked inside, where he found Enoch at the stove, frying eggs and pork and potatoes, all in the same skillet. There was coffee, and Bridger found a cup, splashed some into it.
He thought, with bitter amusement, that the aftermath of an emotional encounter with Caroline Hammond was not unlike that of a three-day drinking binge. He felt hollow, as though his insides had been scraped out with a surgeon’s scalpel and summarily discarded. His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat, and he craved solid food even as he doubted it would stay down.
“You want to tell me about that horse, Enoch?” he asked, after a lengthy interval of silence and strong coffee. “Why you won’t take anything for him?”
Enoch studied him for so long that Bridger was beginning to think he wasn’t going to reply at all, when he said, “I’m not inclined to say. Not just now, anyway. You need a horse, and I gave you one, such as he is, and that’s the sum of it.”
Bridger drank more coffee, pondering Enoch’s answer. He decided not to pursue the matter for the present; instead, he would wait for a loophole to open.
“Where’s Caroline?” he asked, not quite casually.
Enoch turned back to his cooking, jabbed at the potatoes with the end of a battered spatula. “Reckon the Missus might be sleeping late this morning. High time, if you ask me. She hasn’t lived an easy day since before that man of hers took a notion to answer the call.”
“What was he like? Hammond, I mean?”
“Mr. Jacob was a fine man. He was good to me, and so were his folks. Weren’t for his pa, I’d still be picking cotton—or dead.”
“Was Jacob good to Caroline?” It was an intrusion, that question, but Bridger needed to know, and he had nothing to lose by asking.
“He loved her,” Enoch said. “And his little girl, too, of course. He did the best he knew how.”
“But?” Bridger prompted carefully, for he’d noticed a hint of reticence in Enoch’s answer, an unspoken qualifier.
The man was under no obligation to elaborate, and for a while, he didn’t say anything at all. He pushed the skillet off the heat, took two plates from a shelf, heaped one with steaming food and handed it to Bridger, then proceeded to fill his own.
Finally, Enoch said, “Sit down and eat, Mr. Winslow. You’re as pale as if you just woke up in a coffin and climbed out of the hole.”
“Thanks,” Bridger muttered wryly, taking the plate, helping himself to a knife, fork and spoon from a nearby drawer. “For the breakfast, anyway.”
They sat across from each other, eating in silence.
Bridger was half-starved, and after the first few bites, the pounding in his head began to subside.
Enoch chewed thoughtfully, swallowed, jabbed the tines of his fork into a wedge of potato, fried crisp.
Bridger ate, too, between swigs of coffee.
He was going to miss real coffee, once he started south. Because of the blockades, the army cooks had long since resorted to innovative substitutes, only slightly more palatable than birds’ nests boiled in yesterday’s bathwater.
He’d probably do no better at Fairhaven, where he meant to go first. Now that his father was gone, Amalie was alone, except for Rosebud and a few field hands.
He would ask for leave once he saw how things were, go to General Lee himself with his petition, if that proved necessary. Should he refuse permission—a strong possibility, given the current state of affairs—Bridger knew he would do so regretfully, being a compassionate man, capable of such deep empathy that Bridger had seen him all but broken by the ravages of war. The general seemed remote to those who didn’t know him well, but there was r
eal suffering behind that dignity and decorum. He grieved for the fallen, wounded or slain, despaired over hungry men and starving horses, and constantly pleaded with President Davis, mostly in vain, for vital supplies, boots and tents and blankets, quinine and laudanum and morphine, flour and cornmeal and beans.
For all that, Lee was a soldier, first, last and always. To him, duty was paramount; he spared himself no sacrifice, and he expected the same of officers, enlisted men and volunteers, right down to the lowliest private or drummer boy.
His own sons and a favorite nephew addressed him as “General,” when they happened to cross paths, and received no special treatment.
No, General Lee, family friend though he was, would not hesitate to turn down Bridger’s request for a furlough, brief or otherwise, if circumstances dictated.
Wrapped up in his musings, Bridger was startled when Enoch spoke. “From the looks of you, you’re thinking some mighty serious thoughts,” he said.
“Are there any other kind?” Bridger countered.
“Not these days,” Enoch conceded. He’d finished his meal, and he doubtless had plenty to do, but he lingered. The expression on his broad face was solemn. “What’s behind those questions you asked before, about Mr. Jacob and his dealings with his Missus? And don’t say you were just curious, because I can tell there’s more to it.”
Bridger didn’t know how to answer without lying through his teeth.
He respected Enoch, and owed him a debt, not only for the use of a horse and saddle, but for his help and company when Bridger was confined to bed, and for all those games of checkers. He’d grasped the fundamentals of chess, even without the proper pieces, poring over the diagrams, asking intelligent questions.
Now he rested his forearms on the tabletop and leaned forward a little. Everything in his face said, “Well?”
Bridger sighed. He trusted Enoch, and if the favor wasn’t returned, that wouldn’t be surprising, all things considered, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.
“If I’d met Caroline at another time, under better circumstances, I would court her,” Bridger said.
Enoch smiled, a bit sadly. “But you didn’t,” he said.
“No,” Bridger confirmed, feeling miserable.
“The Missus will have suitors aplenty when this war ends and folks come to their senses again,” Enoch observed. “Her time of mourning will be over, and those left standing will be knocking at her door before the echo of the last bugle fades away.”
“If you’re trying to make me feel worse,” Bridger said, “you’re succeeding.”
Enoch chuckled. “Reckon that friend of yours, Captain McBride, may try to have a ring on her finger before any of the others get a chance to tip their hats and say howdy.”
Bridger groaned. “Is this some kind of revenge? Because if it is, I’m only one Southerner, not the whole of Dixie.”
“Lord, no,” said Enoch. “I’m a free man. I’ve got a woman and a child now, earned wages in my pocket, plenty to eat and a good house with my name on the deed, thanks to Mr. Jacob’s pa. That’s all the revenge I need.”
“You and Jubie?”
“Soon as she’s better, we’re going to marry, Jubie and me.”
Bridger grinned. “That’s good,” he said. “Does Caroline know yet?”
“Yes. Jubie told her a little while ago,” he replied with a nod. “The Missus seems happy about it.”
“I’m sure she would be.”
Enoch nodded once more. “That baby needs a father, and Jubie needs a home, somebody to protect her. Besides we get along. We care for each other. As for me, well, I’ve been lonely for a lot of years, so if I can go back to that cabin after a long day and hear a voice that isn’t my own, that’ll be enough.”
“You’re a good man, Enoch.”
Again, they were quiet, thinking their own thoughts, but it was an easy silence, and a comfortable one.
Bridger stood, after a time, took up his empty plate and Enoch’s, carried them over to the work table.
“Right now,” he said, with his back to Enoch, “I’m not much use to anybody, but I have property and a few connections. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, or for Jubie, write me at Fairhaven, outside Savannah.”
Enoch’s chair scraped the floor as he stood. “You’re not going back to the army?”
“I am,” Bridger told him. “But I want to go home first, make sure my sister is well. If you write and I’m not there, Amalie will see that your letter gets to me.”
“That’s kind of you,” Enoch said, but he didn’t sound convinced. No doubt he didn’t put much stock in the promises of a stranger, especially when that stranger was a Confederate cavalry officer, with a plantation and slaves. In his place, Bridger wouldn’t have taken the offer at face value, either.
“I meant what I said, Enoch,” Bridger said.
Enoch considered that statement for a moment, and when he spoke again, Bridger knew he’d gained the man’s trust, at least in part.
“There’s a woman who owned Jubie. She put a price on the girl’s head after Jubie ran away. Sent some slave catchers after her, and one of them caught up to her, right here on this farm. I dealt with him, had to, and that’s how I came by the horse, and the saddle, too. That’s all I mean to say about it, but I don’t reckon you’ll have much trouble putting the pieces together.”
“My God, Enoch,” Bridger broke out, stunned. “You do need help, whether you know it or not.”
“Oh, I know it. Jubie’s scared, and not without reason. The Missus, too. They both figure this isn’t over, and I have a real bad feeling they’re right.”
“I’ll stay,” Bridger said.
But Enoch shook his head. “No. The Union men, they’ll be back for their dead any day now. They find you here and there’ll be no end to your troubles—or Captain McBride’s, either.”
Or Caroline’s.
“This woman,” Bridger said. “The one Jubie ran away from. What’s her name? Where does she live?”
Enoch slumped a little. “I asked Jubie, but she wouldn’t say. She’s half again too scared, and she doesn’t want me or the Missus tangled up in it.”
“There might be something I can do,” Bridger reiterated. “But I need a name, and whatever other information you can get out of her. If she won’t tell you, ask Caroline to try.”
“Ask Caroline to try what?” Caroline was standing in the doorway, wearing her customary calico dress and a starched apron with ruffles, presumably not to be employed as a handkerchief. Her thick hair, gleaming from a recent brushing, billowed around her face. It was already threatening to break loose from its pins and combs and spill to her waist in glorious disarray.
Bridger was too besotted to formulate a response, so Enoch explained.
When he’d finished, Caroline turned slightly puffy eyes to Bridger, full of questions, none of which found their way to her tongue.
She did step out of the doorway, though.
Reaching back to tighten her apron strings, she approached the stove, moved the skillet Enoch had used, then selected a pot, poured water into it and added salt.
“How are Jubie and Gideon this morning, Enoch?” she asked, opening the stove and prodding it with a poker before tossing in another chunk of wood.
Bridger and Enoch exchanged puzzled glances.
“They’re fine, Missus,” Enoch said, after a brief delay. “They were still sleeping when I left the cabin, but Jubie’s bound to wake up soon. I was about to head back and fry her some eggs.”
“That’s a good idea,” Caroline said. Then, pointing at a crockery bowl filled with eggs, she added, “Help yourself.”
Enoch took several and hesitated. “I guess I thought you’d offer an opinion, Missus. About getting Jubie to tell us about her...owner and all.”
Caroline
’s spine stiffened visibly. “I am through with sharing my opinions,” she said coolly. “They invariably get me into trouble.”
Bridger suppressed a sigh.
“You’ll talk to Jubie?” Enoch asked. “If she won’t tell me what we need to know?”
Caroline reached for a canister, set it close at hand. “Yes,” she said with a sigh. “In fact, I think you should leave the entire conversation to me. I will pay another call on Jubie after breakfast.”
Enoch nodded and rushed out, eggs cradled in one large hand.
Caroline continued to bang things around—stove lids, the canister, a tin of cinnamon.
“What have I done now, Caroline?” Bridger asked. They were alone, but not for long; Rachel and the dog could be heard playing in the yard, drawing nearer.
He saw her shoulders droop beneath the weight of her thoughts, prayed she’d turn around and allow him to catch—and hold—her gaze.
She did.
“It isn’t what you’ve done,” Caroline said sadly. “Well, mostly not, anyway. It’s what you are, Bridger. It’s who you are.”
“A Rebel?” he prodded. “A slave holder? An avowed rake?”
She was taken aback, if only for a moment. “You own slaves,” she said. She might have meant the phrase as a question, but it was probably meant more as a reminder to herself.
“My father did. I’ve inherited them, apparently, along with the land.” If the old man hadn’t already been dead, it likely would have killed him to see the least-loved of his sons take over Fairhaven.
“Will you set them free?”
“I will,” Bridger said. “But I can’t guarantee they’ll actually leave the plantation.”
“You honestly believe they would choose to stay—and remain in bondage?” The idea clearly affronted her. Caroline was intelligent, but naive in so many ways. Raised in the North, hardworking but relatively sheltered all the same, steeped in the lofty philosophies of Quakers and Presbyterians and Transcendentalists, thoroughly familiar with Mrs. Stowe’s novel and others like it, she couldn’t be expected to grasp certain realities.
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