by Caryl McAdoo
“Easy, girl. How old are you anyway, Lacey Rose?”
“Stop calling me that. The name’s Alexandra.” She took a deep breath and shook her head. “Twenty-five. What’s it to you?”
“Now, Lacey, didn’t your mother teach you the evil of bearing false witness? Alexandra…with her hair up just right…and plenty of face paint…maybe. But you’re what? Eighteen?”
She lowered the gun. Sure didn’t want to go chasing all over hunting Jack with only a hundred dollars in her purse. Besides, why would she want to do that anyway? She never wanted to see him again!
Maybe she should hear the old fool out. Except Harold Longstreet was one of the smartest men she’d met short of her Uncle Henry.
“I’ll be twenty in the fall.” She spit the words.
“The new dress has a lot of ruffles that hides an opening in your lap. The harness holds two decks of cards. Go on now and change. We’ll have our first lesson in palming a cold one.”
She stared. What a mess to be in.
Oh, Charley, why didn’t you love me?
Well, anyway she looked at it, she was on her own.
“Are you going to sit right there while I change?”
“Yes, ma’am. I give you my word. I coerced you and Jack for that most wonderful of nights, and I do cheat at cards, but I am no rapist.” He held his hands out. “I’m harmless, Lacey Rose. You can trust me.” He smiled. “There’s too much at stake for both of us for me to go and mess it up. Never had a partner like you.”
The biggest part of her didn’t like the whole idea, but another part—the one that seemed to be in charge too much of late—nodded. “I appreciate your words, but I’m certain you can appreciate my trust in any man is woefully lacking. Be aware, the gun will be by my side the whole time I’m in there.”
“Understood.”
She backed toward the bedroom door. “I hate Jack, but I hate you more, Harold Longstreet.”
Chapter Ten
Charley, along with Bart and Houston on each side, pushed the cotton bale into place then whistled for the men on the end of the block and tackle to lower it. He stepped back and looked toward the south.
They’d surely come from that direction, best he could figure. He moseyed over next to his honorary uncle. “What do you think, Major?”
“Way too hot for March.”
“Whew! No arguments there. But I meant, what about the cotton bales Colonel Benavides wants us to stack?”
“Two high is good, but we need to be out of town, in the corral.”
Charley moved closer and lowered his voice. “Did you tell him that?”
Wallace’s face hardened, and he nodded ever so slightly. “The Colonel is a good man. Did you know he used to be the mayor here in Laredo?”
“No, sir. Hadn’t heard that.”
“You tell the boys what I want them to do?”
“They ain’t too happy about it.”
“Well, you can tell them I ain’t happy about fighting Yankees without Levi Baylor watching my back either.” Wallace threw his chin north. “They both got an extra mount ready?”
“Yes, sir. All seen to, just like you ordered.”
“First word, you get them going.”
“Yes, sir. Now about the cotton.”
The rest of that morning the bales were arranged into a fort of sorts, then right after a nice nap—Charley loved that Mexican custom—one of the Colonel’s kin rode in reporting a thousand bluecoats coming up the river, on the Mexican side.
Shading his eyes, he scanned the horizon. Sure enough, a dust cloud about where the man claimed the Yanks would be. He faced his boys.
“Go on now, you two. And don’t spare the horses. We’re going to need Pa for sure, and Rip, too, if he’s a mind to come.”
Houston first, then Bart, glared and kicked the dirt then shook their heads. But both would follow their orders. At first, they only sulked away. “Hey! We need reinforcements! Get a move on! And don’t stop until you get there!”
The younger boy sprinted past Houston, like he finally understood the quicker they got gone, the sooner they could get back. Might even be a Yankee or two left for them to shoot.
The initial wave of blue attacked the corral in groups of forty or so and got bloodied bad. Charley figured the Texans gave back way more lead than was sent their way. Wallace confirmed the Yanks were hit hard.
But then they surged again. Bless the Lord, their mini balls fell short or flew overhead. Again, they retreated, dragging their wounded.
Yet not a defender had been hit, much less killed.
In the following quiet, the Colonel suggested a counter attack, but the Major convinced him to hold the position. The winning argument—appeared to Charley—boiled down to the five thousand bales of Confederate cotton that needed to be protected.
The fallback position remained if needed.
“Here they come again.” Someone hollered.
Hitting the dirt, Charley laid his rifle on the bottom rail but waited until the men in front drew closer. At a hundred paces out, he picked a grizzled looking vet. Kill the leaders, and the shave tails will break and run. He’d heard that more than once. Aiming, he squeezed the trigger. The man fell.
Charley pulled the rifle back, rolled onto his back, and reloaded. Lightning fast, he got her done and revolved back over. He threw his weapon on the rail again and found the next one.
For better than an hour, the Yankees charged, then finally as the sun dipped below the horizon, their bugler sounded retreat. Charley allowed himself a smile. They’d done it. For that day anyway. A moan pulled his eyes to the right. The Major sat in the corral’s dust with his back to the rail.
Holding a bloody hand on his right leg, he tried to stop the bleeding, but dark blood stained the gray britches from hip to shin already.
The curse word got to Charley’s teeth. He gritted them though to keep the thing in, refused it voice. He jumped to his feet then pointed at the closest group congratulating themselves.
“Couple of you men come help me here. We need to get the Major back to the Plaza.”
Other than that first groan, Wallace Rusk didn’t utter a word, not until the doc pronounced the thigh bone shattered.
“Here take a big swig of this. I got to get it off.”
Wallace took a big drink from the bottle then grabbed the man’s coat. “I’ll break your neck if you so much as scratch my leg.”
“Sir, there’s nothing else I can do. The bone’s shattered. It’ll never heal.”
The Major looked to Charley. “Get me to San Antonio.”
“Yes, sir. But you don’t figure on riding, do you?”
“No, hitch four horses to a wagon, and let’s get gone.”
Charley looked to the doctor. “How much of that stuff you got?” He pointed to the pint bottle Wallace had been sipping on.
“Five more.”
“Good.” He patted his uncle’s hand. “I’ll be back.”
Heading off, he found the three men of his squad still in Laredo and got the wagon ready. Leaving out at night wasn’t his idea of smart, but if Wallace Rusk ordered him to it, then… He allowed himself a shrug.
“Keep him alive, Lord. Give us safe passage.”
The moon, not quite full, but bright enough to travel by, shone through the few high clouds drifting by that night. He hated leaving with the Yankees still out there, and not knowing where.
But if Houston and Bart found Levi, then there shouldn’t be much of a threat. He kept the team at an easy lope, six mile an hour pace he figured.
The Major slept through most of the night, only waking up to nurse on the medicine the doc gave him.
Mid-morning, he made the Dilley ranch and traded his spent team for a fresh one. The settler added a gallon jug of home brew to the bargain. Though he didn’t say a word while there, once awake and on the road again, Wallace moaned and groaned with each bump and jostle.
About broke Charley’s heart for this to happe
n to his partner. He had a few fond memories of the Comanche, but other than those, most all his good ones included Wallace Rusk.
He understood the man not wanting his leg cut off, not if there was any way to save it, but it sure might come to it.
That night, he reined the team to a stop in the plaza in front of the General’s quarters. The man himself flanked, by his clerk, rushed out. Soon Charley helped the growing crowd get Wallace inside.
Once their doc went to working on his leg, he found his Uncle Henry and came to attention.
The great man hung his head through the telling of his reason for being back.
“Some said a thousand, but the Major and I figured around two hundred Yankees attacked. We repelled them. My partner didn’t get hit until the third and last charge, right before dark.”
“What about Colonel Baylor?”
“We sent Houston and Bart to get them at first sight of the bluecoats.”
“But you don’t know for sure of their outcome?”
“No, sir. The Major refused flat out to let the Laredo doc cut his leg off and ordered me to bring him here.”
His uncle nodded. “You did good, Son. My surgeon says he has a chance, but the leg may still have to come off.” The General stepped closer and put his hand on his shoulder. “You did real good, Charley. Now get some rest.”
Lacey Rose woke that next morning—or was it afternoon?—the twenty-first day of March in 1864 to the sound of the street’s hustle and bustle outside her hotel window.
If she’d known about the man she’d wanted to be her father getting his thigh bone shattered over two thousand miles away, things would have been so different.
But in her ignorance, life couldn’t be grander.
Like Jack said, Harold was the best. He’d fleeced the big guns, and they never suspected a thing. She especially liked it that she didn’t have to palm a cold deck after all.
Her playing the cards he dealt her was one thing, but having to switch decks without looking, entirely another. Allowing herself a few more minutes in the feather bed, she went over what all needed doing.
Finally, she swung her legs over and stretched. Guess time had come to get packed; had a train to catch.
Albany to Fort Edwards then on to Glen Falls. Twenty-two hours sounded like pretty good time.
Couldn’t complain though even if it took twice as long. Traveling first class was the only way to live.
As always, she waited to be the last off, letting the shoe clerks and crumbums jostle each trunk, carpetbag, and box. Those in such a big hurry could hustle on home is what Jack said. She was in no rush.
To her surprise, Longstreet—who’d traveled ahead—stood on the station’s platform, holding a bouquet of flowers. “Hey, sweetness. You’re looking quite lovely. How was your trip?”
“Sir.” She lifted her chin. “I’m afraid you have me confused with some other weary traveler.”
“No mistake.” He smiled and held out his gift. “We’re not playing here.”
She took the offering. “Why’d we come then?”
“You’ll see. Come on. I’ve a carriage waiting.”
An hour later, she did see. Winding up a beautiful road through the woods, a huge rock and timber house came into view.
Nestled in the lush forest of trees she couldn’t name, but loved, its grandness almost took her breath away. Mountains guarded its back, like Jack was supposed to guard hers. Except…so far, she hadn’t needed him one time.
Could she make it without him? Maybe the time to launch off on her own had come.
“It’s lovely, Harold. But…why have you brought me here?”
“You’ll see. Do hurry along. My driver will bring our things.”
Acting practically giddy, he jumped out first then extended his hand toward her. Strange to see an old man behaving in such a manner. She took it, but once grounded, when he tried to keep it, pulled it back to herself.
Soon, just he and she stood in the big center room. Wow. The ceilings went almost to Heaven they rose so tall.
And huge windows, as big as those in a fancy hotel, comprised the back wall, looking out onto nature.
She grinned. “I still have that Derringer in my purse.”
“I know. As well as we both know you’re not going to shoot me or anyone else.”
“Don’t be so certain, sir. Corner a stray cat, and anything is liable to happen.”
“You, my dear, are no stray. You are safe here, Lacey. No one would ever be allowed to put you in a corner in this place.”
“And where is here? Exactly?”
“Glen Falls.”
“So why have we come?”
“I needed a break. Figured you did, too.”
“Then why not stay in Albany? Or press on to Saint Louis? This seems a long ride to get out to the middle of the woods.” She strolled to the windows.
The driver brought in another load of her belongings. Once finished, Harold, spoke in the man’s ear, gave him some cash then busied himself kindling a fire. After it caught, he joined her by the window, keeping a respectful distance.
She faced him. “It is beautiful, but it’s –”
“Home.” He nodded toward an overstuffed chair close to the fireplace. “Have a seat, won’t you?”
An older man carried a tray in set with tea. He set it on a table and left without a word.
She complied, studying the portrait hanging over the mantle as she moved to the chair. “Who’s that man?”
“My caretaker. He’ll return shortly. His wife is preparing our supper.”
“And in the painting?
“My grandfather.”
“Then this is your home? Where you live?”
“It is.”
“And do your servants live here as well?”
“No, ma’am. They have a cottage a half mile or so south of us.”
“And is that your carriage?”
He nodded. “You and I have one more stop before arriving in Saint Louis on the seventh, a fair-sized game in Philadelphia, but…” He exhaled, cleared his throat, then smiled. “Do you like my home?”
“I do. Yes, very much.” She didn’t like him being so flustered, so unusual for him. Either he had bad news or…had he heard from Jack? Serve the toady right if something awful had happened. Leaving her on a lie.
Probably trying to double deal before his fingers were ready. Was he dead?
“Would you like it to be yours as well?”
“What?” Not about Jack at all, his question shocked her. She studied his not-so-poker face.
The man looked plum silly. “Your home, Lacey Rose.”
The magnitude of what he was asking dawned on her. She pushed back and bit her bottom lip. A false tell she’d been working on.
“You don’t have to bite your lip. Remember? I’m the one who told you to do that.” He smiled.
She returned the gesture, more uncomfortable by each tick of the grandfather clock. “Spell it out, Mister Longstreet. Tell me exactly what you’re talking about. And please, leave nothing to speculation.”
“Would you have me get on one knee? I’m willing if you’ll tell me ahead of time I’ll get a yes.”
“Don’t ask yet then; let me think on it.”
“You don’t love Jack, and he’ll never marry you.”
She studied the fire as its flames grew. Sitting by a blaze, watching it dance, she thoroughly enjoyed. Never got to do much sitting back home, especially by a nice fire. For sure, she didn’t love Jack. That was true enough.
Not the way she still loved Charley, but he was just kin, and… She faced Harold. “Did Jack say something to you? About not wanting to marry me?”
“No, but he’s already married. Told me you’d met her the morning after he got his hands busted up.”
“Yes, she was in his bed alright, and naked as a newborn, but he said she was his ex-wife. Are they still married?”
“While I hate being the bearer of bad news, yes, d
ear. Indeed they are. They have a weird sort of love-hate relationship from what I’ve seen. He…” Harold held his hand up “Forget I said anything. This isn’t about him. It’s about us. Right this minute, you’ve paid back the thousand and covered all expenses and have seventeen hundred forty-seven dollars and change due.”
“You keep good books. I can sure say that about you, sir.”
“But that’s a pittance compared to what you can have. I’m fifty-four years old. At most, I might enjoy another ten, maybe twenty more years. You’ll still be a young woman. And a very rich widow. Think about that. Still plenty of your life left to live, and all the money you’d ever need.”
She closed her eyes. Before Jack tricked her into the trip, she would have sworn on a stack of Bibles she loved him…and him her. But now…being Mis’ess Longstreet had a certain ring to it. “I don’t love you, Harold.”
“I not only understand your repugnance, especially after the way…uh…under the circumstances of our first meeting. Hopefully, these last few weeks, I’ve lessened your initial reaction. I’m not foolish enough to think I might win your heart, Lacey, but I do hope you might come to care for me at least a bit. We’re good together, and –”
“What about you? Do you…”
He shook his head slightly. “I’m not sure if I love you, or if it’s more the fact you’re so much like my Myra. I do know I enjoy the pleasure of your company immensely. You’re intelligent, very beautiful, and quite an accomplished poker player. I’d be proud to have you at my side, on my arm.”
Her mother’s sawed board house with Jean Paul flashed through her mind’s eye. Nice enough but on Buckmeyer property. The many places she’d lived in with Jack followed. She could do worse.
First class all the way. The old man proved himself a marvel at the poker table. Polite, well mannered, articulate….
“Why do you cheat at cards?”
He chuckled. “I hate to lose.”
“Who doesn’t?” She giggled, pleased for a little break in tension that filled the huge room.
“Talked to a soldier once who’d fought at Bunker Hill.” He shrugged. “Said he was never so scared or alive in his whole life. Remarked that he hated missing the War of 1812. Guess it’s kind of like that. I love fleecing a mark, some wise guy who’s full of himself. There’s a certain thrill.”