“Oh,” Bridger said.
Once again, Caroline laughed. “Settle your horse in the barn, Mr. Winslow,” she instructed. “While I change out of this dress.”
“And then?”
“Then,” Caroline teased, “who knows what will happen?”
What happened, as it turned out, was this. Bridger led Orion to a stall, relieved the animal of saddle, blanket and bridle, brushed him down, made sure he had plenty of hay and ample water.
Caroline, meanwhile, went into the house, where she remained for so long that Bridger had time to bathe in the icy waters of the creek, dry off with his shirt, and put on the relatively clean garments he’d taken from his saddle bags, along with a sliver of soap and a folding razor.
When he got back from the stream, still shivering a little and covered in goose bumps, he heard Caroline bustling about in the kitchen house. She was singing, and her voice floated out through the open doorway into the yard, where Bridger stood, praying he wasn’t dreaming, sprawled on a bedroll in some army camp.
Rachel’s dog appeared in the doorway, watching him curiously.
Caroline materialized alongside the dog, smiling. Her hair was down, wheat-gold waves tumbling to her waist, and she was wearing a pretty summer dress, fashioned of thin cotton, tiny pink roses splashed against a pale green background.
Bridger, who had endured immersion in cold water for reasons that went beyond personal cleanliness, hardened again, instantly and, this time, painfully.
He groaned aloud.
Delighted, Caroline smiled. “Are you hungry?” she asked.
“God, yes,” Bridger ground out. He was, in fact, ravenous. But not just for food.
Again, she laughed. She knew exactly what she was doing to him, reveled in it. “Come inside, then,” she said. “I’ll have a meal ready for you in a few moments.”
“Caroline—”
She pretended puzzlement. “Is something wrong?”
“Come out here,” he said. “Please.”
“But I’ve just made sandwiches.”
“The sandwiches will keep. You’re driving me crazy, Caroline, with your hair down, wearing that dress and...where the devil are your shoes?” Bridger paused, exasperated. “You’re doing this on purpose, damn it. Wasn’t it punishment enough, losing the war?”
Caroline came to him then, stood close. Soft all over. Delicious.
“You said you wanted me to behave like a mistress,” she reminded him sweetly. “How am I doing?”
Bridger leaned in until his nose was nearly touching Caroline’s. “You’re doing just fine. If you’re trying to kill me, that is!”
“I’m not trying to kill you, you bull-headed fool. I’m trying to seduce you.”
“Caroline,” he warned. “We aren’t married yet.”
She actually batted her eyelashes at him. “We will be,” she said. “Won’t we?”
“Yes, if you don’t send me to the lunatic asylum first!”
Her smile was downright saucy. “We might both go insane,” she said, “if you don’t make love to me. Very soon.”
That was it.
He swept her into his arms. Carried her toward the house. Stopped.
Another man’s house. Another man’s bed.
But his woman.
Caroline rested one hand against his cheek, traced the contours of his lips with the pad of her thumb, and settled his dilemma with a single word.
“Hurry.”
33
Gettysburg
May 21, 1865
Caroline
Caroline stood in the spacious, airy bedroom of her childhood, clad in a simple frock of dusky rose, fashioned from one of her grandmother’s evening gowns, before the cheval mirror, turning slowly to one side, then the other. Her hair was up, pinned into a loose chignon, and in lieu of a bridal veil, she wore a crown of spring wildflowers.
Rachel and Jubie were seated side by side on the four-poster bed, Sweet Girl nestled comfortably behind them, on the pillows, watching them.
Gideon, walking now, squirmed on Jubie’s knee, one tiny hand resting on his mother’s protruding belly. In a few months, Jubie would give birth to a second child, hers and Enoch’s, and she fairly glowed with happiness.
“Down,” the little boy fretted. “Giddy, down.”
“So’s you can go right over to Miss Caroline and grab onto her pretty dress?” Jubie responded, bouncing her handsome son and holding him fast. “That isn’t going to happen.”
Rachel, in ivory lace, patted Gideon’s plump baby thigh and said, “You be good, Gideon, or you won’t get any wedding cake.”
“Rachel,” Caroline warned, distracted. “Stop it.”
“Will you quit your fretting, Caroline?” Jubie teased good-naturedly. Lush with pregnancy and the private joys of her marriage to Enoch, she was lovely in her best Sunday get-up, an emerald green dress she’d sewn herself. “You look right beautiful. You’re gonna set all them snooty Southern belles right back on the heels of their dancing slippers when they get themselves an eyeful of Mrs. Bridger Winslow.”
Caroline forgot the image in the mirror and stood facing her small audience, wringing her hands a little. If it hadn’t been for Rachel’s presence, she might have burst into tears on the spot. How was it possible for one person to be so happy, and scared half to the death at the same time?
Jubie put Gideon down, stood, and walked over to Caroline. Took her hands in her own.
“That man down there in the parlor, waiting with Enoch and the preacher and your grandmother? He loves you, Caroline. Except for my own husband, I’ve never seen a man look at a woman the way he looks at you. You know Enoch and me, we’ll take care of the farm, so you just go on ahead and let yourself be happy, stop looking for things you can worry about, you hear me?”
“I’m going to have a big room, big as this one, in our new house,” Rachel piped up, moving quickly to steer Gideon away from her mother’s skirts. She doted on the little boy, and Caroline wondered if she realized how much she’d miss him once they set out for Fairhaven, Bridger’s plantation outside Savannah, Georgia. Not yet six years old, the child probably had no conception of the distance. “I’ll have a pony, too. And we’ll come back to visit, soon as the railroads are fixed. My stepdaddy promised.”
Caroline and Jubie were smiling damp and misty smiles, still holding each other’s hands.
“It’s six hundred miles to Savannah,” Rachel chattered on. “We’re going in the wagon my stepdaddy bought, and some nights, when there aren’t any inns to stay in, we get to sleep in it.”
A light knock sounded at the bedroom door, and Geneva peeked in, then entered.
“My, my,” she said, admiring her granddaughter. “You are the loveliest bride, Caroline.”
“Am I lovely, too?” Rachel wanted to know.
Geneva smiled. “Yes, darling, you most certainly are.”
Jubie stepped back, squeezing Caroline’s hands once before she dropped them, corralled Gideon and hoisted him onto one hip, reaching out to Rachel.
“Let’s head down them fancy stairs to the parlor and get ourselves situated just right, so we can throw ourselves a weddin’.”
Rachel took Jubie’s hand, willing to be led, but cast a sideways glance at Caroline. “Are you and him going to jump over a broom handle, Mama, the way Jubie and Mr. Enoch did, when they got married?”
“No, sweetheart,” Caroline said, with a laugh. Jubie and Enoch were married at Hammond Farm the previous year, in a ceremony that included both a minister and the broom tradition.
Rachel looked disappointed. “Well,” she said, as Jubie tugged her toward the door, “when I grow up and get married, I’m gonna jump the broom.”
“Lord have mercy,” Jubie laughed. “That’s a sight I hope I live to see. And I reckon you’ll have
your way, too. Now, you come on, ’cause your stepdaddy, he’s down there waitin’, about to bust right out of his hide, he’s so eager to make your mama his wife and you his own little girl.”
The dog jumped down and followed them out of the room, and Jubie closed the door softly behind them.
Rachel’s voice drifted in from the hallway. “My new papa isn’t really going to bust out of his hide, is he?”
Jubie chuckled, and the sound was rich and resonant. “No, child,” she answered. “That’s just a way of saying Mr. Bridger, he’s ready to get on with things.”
Caroline accepted the handkerchief Geneva offered, dabbed at her eyes. “You’re sure you won’t come to Georgia with us, Grandmother?”
Geneva smiled and shook her head. “I’m too old to travel so far and, besides, there’s still plenty right here that needs doing.”
Caroline nodded. “I’ll miss you so much.”
“And I shall miss you. But we’ll write, and keep each other in our prayers, and we’ll be just fine, all of us.”
“I never thought I’d leave the farm,” Caroline confessed.
“I know you didn’t,” Geneva agreed. “It’s a grand thing you’re doing, though, for Enoch and Jubie, and for Rachel, too. Enoch and Jubie will have a good place to raise their children, a fair share of whatever the crops bring in when they’re sold, and a clear deed to twenty acres of their own. When Rachel comes of age, Hammond Farm will make a very nice legacy, whether she chooses to live here or not.”
“I hope I’m doing what’s right, that’s all,” Caroline fretted.
“Do you love that man you’re about to marry?” Geneva asked.
“Yes,” Caroline answered. “Very much.”
“Then you’re doing the right thing. It’s not easy to leave the people and places we know, Caroline, but sometimes life requires us to do it anyway, just hauls us off to someplace new, and we can sink or we can swim. If we make up our minds to be happy, though, we will be. No matter what.”
“Was it that way for you? When you married Grandfather?”
“It was,” Geneva said. “And I’m so glad I did. If I’d stayed put, afraid to take a chance on a handsome young doctor, poor as a churchmouse and positively crackling with love and ambition and a whole lot of other interesting qualities, I would have missed out on so much.”
Caroline sighed, smiled. “I’m not sure I’d have the courage,” she said.
“Nonsense,” Geneva replied. “You have it now. You had it when you were a child, and you lost your family. You had it when you searched a strange city for Jacob, and when you brought his body home. When you took Jubie in, and mothered your child and, most of all, when the war found our quiet little farming community and brought its many evils to our doorstep. And now you love a man you may believe you shouldn’t, a former enemy who will take you to live in a place that’s strange to you, among people who rebelled against your most cherished values.”
“Are you trying to talk me out of marrying Bridger?” Caroline asked, with a tremulous smile.
“Could I?” Geneva asked.
“No,” Caroline replied without hesitation.
“Then stop trying to talk yourself out of it. Go downstairs, take your place beside Bridger Winslow, and marry him, for heaven’s sake.”
A little thrill moved through Caroline, a sweet shudder. She linked her arm to Geneva’s. “Forward, then,” she said. “Into the storm.”
34
Gettysburg
Three days later...
Bridger
She was a marvel, his bride. She glowed, a goddess in calico and a bonnet, even as she bade Enoch and Jubie and young Gideon a tearful farewell in the grassy yard beside the stone house.
Enoch stood, weeping without shame as Caroline took his big hands in hers and rose on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.
Having said his goodbyes, Bridger stood apart, beside the loaded wagon.
Orion, tied behind, would follow.
Rachel, like Bridger, had completed the formalities, and she’d shown remarkable equanimity for such a small child. Eager to begin the grand adventure, she was already in the wagon with Sweet Girl, gripping the locked tailgate and bouncing on her knees. She was framed by the arch of crisp new canvas that would shelter them and the few things Caroline had decided to bring.
“Why doesn’t Mama hurry?” Rachel asked fitfully.
“Some things are too important to be hurried,” Bridger replied with a smile. “Be patient, Sugarplum. This is going to be a long trip, so right now is a probably a good time to practice.”
Caroline and Jubie were embracing, two babies between them, one yet to be born, the other wriggling and reaching for Enoch.
With a deep chortle, Enoch took the boy from his mother, grinning proudly as his son put a fat little palm to his wet face, trying to smear away the big man’s tears.
After the wedding, when Caroline had told Enoch she wanted him and Jubie to move into the main house so they’d have room for their growing family, he’d refused at first. Shaken his head and said, “No, Missus. It’s too much and, anyhow, the cabin is fine.”
To Bridger’s amusement, Jubie had elbowed her husband and informed him that if he was fool enough to live in one room when he could have that nice big place instead, with a kitchen house and a sturdy barn, he’d better get used to his own company again, because she wanted a real bedroom and a parlor and a place where she could cook without holding in her elbows. Furthermore, she didn’t intend to hike through the orchard to milk the cow, weed the garden and hang her wash on a clothesline, then haul her weary self back up that hill after working all day.
Wisely, Enoch had conceded the point.
“Gideon will be a big boy when I see him again,” Rachel announced. “That’s what Mama says.”
Bridger leaned against the tailgate, his arms folded. “He’ll be bigger than he is now, all right. You’ll see him sooner than you think, though.”
The goodbyes were almost over now; Caroline was beginning to tear herself away, promising to write often, reminding Jubie and Enoch that she expected replies. She wanted to know all about the new baby and Gideon, she told them for about the hundredth time. Oh, and if they couldn’t find this or that, they ought to ask her grandmother.
Bridger smiled again. There was a list, of course.
Caroline had seen to that.
She was coming toward him now, looking back, dashing away tears with the back of one hand.
Bridger held her with his eyes.
God, he loved her. He’d never dreamed it was possible to care for a woman the way he cared for Caroline Hammond Winslow. His wife, a lady by day, a wildcat by night, and so damn beautiful he could get lost just looking at her.
Smart, too, with a mind that kept unfolding into new territories of thought, a mind that explored his own in return, and opened door after door, letting in the light, stirring the dust, raising windows.
The whole exchange was fascinating.
She reached him, looked up at him. “This is hard,” she said.
“I know,” Bridger replied, kissing her forehead.
“Me and Sweet Girl are going to ride all the way to Georgia in this very wagon,” Rachel said.
Caroline laughed softly. “‘Sweet Girl and I,’” she corrected. “And, yes, you’re going to ride all the way to Georgia in this wagon. It’s much too far to walk.”
Bridger rested his hands on either side of Caroline’s narrow waist. “Ready?” he asked.
She beamed at him. “Oh, yes,” she said. “I am definitely ready, Mr. Winslow.”
“Well, then, Mrs. Winslow, we’ll be setting off.” He took Caroline by the hand, led her around the wagon, helped her onto the high seat.
Enoch, Jubie and Gideon stood, smiling and waving and weeping.
Bridger performed an
easy salute, made sure the tailgate was securely fastened and Orion’s long lead rope would hold. He patted the stallion’s neck, then rounded the wagon, climbed up beside Caroline and released the brake lever with one foot.
She had produced a handkerchief from some hidden place, inside a sleeve or tucked between the buttons of her bodice, and she was dabbing at her eyes.
“I’m so glad we’ve already said goodbye to Geneva,” she said.
Bridger took up the reins. The team was four horses strong, and the harnesses were stiff with newness. “If you want to see her again, we’ll stop in town.”
Caroline shook her head. “No. I’d only start blubbering, and then Grandmother would lecture me about taking hold of life with both hands and shaking every conceivable blessing out of it.”
He brought down the reins, and the team was in motion, heading for the open gate and the road beyond. “Sounds like a good philosophy to me.”
Caroline leaned into his side and lingered there. Then a thought must have struck her, because she sat up straight and frowned, turned to look into the wagon bed, past the quilts and the harpsichord and the trunks of clothing.
“Is Rachel safe back there?”
He put an arm around her shoulders, squeezed once, ignoring the twinge of pain from the sword wound. “She’s safe, Caroline.”
Apparently reassured, Caroline faced forward again.
“And so are you,” Bridger added, very gently.
They turned onto the road, and he glanced back, saw Jubie still standing in the yard, holding Gideon, and Enoch striding resolutely down the dirt track to shut the gate.
Caroline let her head rest against his shoulder again. “Tell me about Amalie, and about Fairhaven, and don’t you dare say you’ve already told me. I want to hear your voice, that’s all, and you can talk about anything except the war and the women you knew before we met.”
He kissed the top of her head, felt the fabric of her bonnet against his lips, and then he began.
“Once upon a time, in the kingdom called Dixie...”
35
The Yankee Widow Page 39