“He axed me to come see to you. Said to stay with you.”
There it was again—a new suspicion about Walker’s keeping things from her. Assigning Ora Lee to watch her. “I was thinking I might saddle Pilot and go for a ride,” Libbie said. “It won’t get Malachi into trouble if I go while he’s at church.”
“But it’ll get you into trouble. Plenty of trouble.”
Libbie shrugged. “I don’t care.” She looked about her at the room. “Well—I won’t care so much if I can find the key to my bedroom door.”
Ora Lee’s soft grunt reminded Libbie of the way Annabelle had found to comment or disagree without actually saying anything. But Ora Lee had something to say. “Seems to me it’d take more than a key to keep Mr. Blair from doing something, once he put his mind to it.”
Libbie raised her palm to her face. She didn’t dare go riding now. Walker would take everything out on Ora Lee. Tears gathered, but she blinked them away. “You’re right. He’d just take it out on you.”
Ora Lee seemed to ponder the idea for a moment. Finally, with a glance in the direction of the back door, she said, “I could just go back to hear the rest of the sermon. If he asks, I could say you was sleeping.” She nodded. “Yes’m. You was sleeping and so I thought I’d come back and hear the rest of the sermon. He’ll like that. Mastah has that preacher readin’ about how slaves is to obey they masters. He’ll like it if I come back in time to hear the sermon. Won’t be nobody in trouble—’cept you.” She hesitated. “You sure you want to do this, Miss Libbie?”
Libbie nodded. “I do. More than anything. Never mind about the key.” She took a step toward the door.
Ora Lee turned to go, but then she paused in the doorway. “I don’t know ’bout keys, Miss Libbie, but I do remember Betty sayin’ that Robert knows a lot about this here room Mastah Blair wishes he didn’t. Betty like to boast about it.” As she turned to go, she pretended to stumble on the threshold and put her hand out to catch herself. Something clicked. “Would you listen to that,” she said. “Creaky old house. Secrets, Betty said. This house got all kinda secrets.” She patted the panel where’d she caught herself and headed back outside.
After Ora Lee was gone, Libbie pressed on the spot where the girl had placed her hand. A decorative panel popped open to reveal several keys of varying sizes hanging on nails pounded into the lathe. Cobwebs thick with dust clung to the slats and to the keys. What on earth—what were they all for? She reached for one, but then hesitated. If one of these was to her bedroom door, and if she ever actually used it—Libbie shuddered to think what Walker would do to Robert. To every single house slave, until one of them told him what he wanted to know. With a trembling hand, she closed the false panel. She felt more trapped than ever, as if the house itself were in league against her. She had to get away. If only for a little while, she had to be free.
Her heart pounding, Libbie hurried out the front door and alongside the house, using a hedge to shield her movements.
It was probably her imagination, but Pilot seemed glad to see her. He whickered low when she opened the stall door, and stood quietly while she saddled him. He took the bit without any of his usual tossing of the head and dancing about, and remained still while she mounted. Once she was in the saddle, though, he let it be known that he was ready to run. She would have to let him have a bit of a chase. They headed up the road first, keeping the house and buildings between them and the worship service. Once she was certain they were out of sight, she gave Pilot his head. They would run for a bit, and then she would settle him and ride along the river. They’d take the path that led away from the landing and through the woods. She might even brave a return to the old lookout for a few minutes.
As for the rest of the day… as Pilot cantered down the road, Libbie realized that the ride could give her an excuse for her bruised and swollen face. Pilot was so frisky—why, a little ole leaf blew across the road and that crazy horse shied. He nearly threw me, but I managed to stay on. I’d just about righted myself when the top of Pilot’s head slammed against my cheek. Lord have mercy, I saw stars. Can you believe what a ninny I am? I should-a been payin’ better attention. If anything, Walker would be relieved that she’d come up with an excuse for her bruises that would enable her to be seen in public. And she would be seen. Seen and heard.
Upon her return, she would visit the encampment to encourage the men and perhaps see what she might do to provide a special meal for them later in the week. It had taken everyone’s considered effort to keep them fed—even with the neighbors helping and supplies arriving down at the river landing. The Ellerbe ladies would help her organize something. Perhaps they’d even have a social of some kind. She’d ask Sheriff—no, it was Major Green and she must remember that—she’d ask Major Green to escort her to the Ellerbes’ this afternoon. She’d hang on his every word over the evening meal, and wrangle an invitation to walk after dinner. As for the moment when she’d be most vulnerable to Walker’s anger—when she retired after supper, she would block her bedroom door with a piece of furniture. And if she wanted to take a ride by the river tomorrow, she would do it.
Reining Pilot in, Libbie let him pick his way down to the path by the river and headed for her lookout, humming as she went. I’ve got peace like a river…
With a last look toward the plantation house in the distance, Colt dropped out of sight behind the ridge. He lay still for a moment. Listening. He glanced over at Jack, who was positioned on the same ridge a few yards away. After a moment, the men nodded, sliding backward across the grass on their bellies, making as little noise as possible, ever aware that pickets or lookouts or militia or snipers could, at any moment, detect their presence.
They’d just reached the bottom of the hill when they heard singing—men’s voices carrying from the outdoor church service taking place just this side of one of the brick outbuildings behind the two-story house. For a moment the two of them sat still, listening. Am I a soldier of the cross… Colt recognized the tune… must I be carried to the skies on flow’ry beds of ease… while others fought to win the prize and sailed through bloody seas…
How odd it was to hear rebels singing a hymn he’d heard in his grandparents’ home church; men he might have to kill before the month was out. The thought made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Don’t think about that. Think about—the earthworks up along the road; the obvious signs that the plantation owner was involved in a lot more than just smuggling arms to the rebels gathering in southwestern Missouri. Everything pointed to the Confederates in Lafayette County preparing for action right here in their own part of the state. There might even be a larger plan in play that, if executed properly, could put the Irish Brigade in the untenable position of having to fight Confederate forces on two fronts.
Captain Quinn had said something about a message from the editor of the newspaper in nearby Littleton; something about rebel militia patrolling the streets of town. But he’d said nothing about an encampment at a nearby plantation. Was it possible he didn’t know the scope of what was going on just a few miles away? Jack seemed to think so. Colt supposed anything was possible these days. Nothing was sure in Missouri. Not anymore. A neighbor might be harboring the enemy, and the definition of that word, enemy, could change with the crossing of a property line.
Colt and Jack hunkered together at the bottom of the hill, water lapping at the riverbank just a few feet away. They’d spent much of yesterday gathering information before rolling up in their blankets for a long night on a ledge overlooking the river—a hideout Jack had known about. This morning, they’d watched the plantation’s private landing, which was now guarded by a dozen militia who’d created what looked like a semipermanent camp there. It was a perfect place for steamboats to slip in and unload weapons. Troops. Horses. Supplies. The men guarding it had dug in and were obviously expecting to stay for a while.
Jack said that no fewer than half a dozen steamboats landed at the Littleton levee on most days. It didn�
�t take any imagination at all to expect that more than just that one shipment of Henrys they’d discovered at Boonville was expected at Wildwood Grove. His sister had witnessed one. None had arrived since Jack and Colt had been watching, but they were going to have to leave soon. Captain Quinn and the rest of command needed to know about the encampment here.
It was the common belief that most of the rebel troops were in the southwestern part of the state, biding their time until enough troops had amassed there to launch a major campaign to move back north and recapture the river that traversed the entire state in a rough east-to-west line. Now, though, it looked like something more might be going on. It was hard to know for certain. Jack seemed to think the plantation owner was a lot more interested in protecting his personal property than in actually fighting for “the cause.” If that was the case, then the troops camped here might be only defensive. If the fight came to them, they’d be ready.
Walker Blair had political aspirations, Jack said, and Colt knew there was nothing like a uniform and a few medals to win votes. More than one politician had crowed about his involvement in the War of 1812 to curry the favor of voters. As for what was going on here at Wildwood Grove, it was hard to know for sure. It certainly seemed like more troops were gathered than a man would need to defend one plantation. It would be up to command to interpret what they reported. All Colt and Jack could do was provide the information.
The hymn singing ended, bringing Colt back to the moment. As he and Jack sat hidden beneath the arched branches of a blackberry thicket, he looked to Jack for confirmation of what they’d learned so far. “Three… four hundred?”
Jack nodded. “At least.”
“No artillery, though.”
“Not yet.”
Colt pointed toward the river. “Probably on its way.”
Jack nodded.
“Wish we knew when.”
Jack thought for a moment. He smiled. “Too bad we didn’t bring Maggie with us. She’d be free to nose about in town without raising anyone’s suspicion.”
Maggie. The more Colt was around her, the more the woman fascinated him. Who would ever expect a woman to run through gunfire to supply men with ammunition? She hadn’t hesitated, and once things calmed down, she’d settled back as if nothing had happened. A lesser woman would have fainted dead away. Colt looked over at Jack. “Your sister.” He paused. “Is she—I mean—is anyone courting her?”
“Maggie?”
It didn’t take a genius to understand the meaning behind the way Jack said the name.
Colt frowned. “She may be your sister, but—she’s also a fascinating woman.”
“Fascinating? Maggie? You’re joking, right?”
“If I were,” Colt snapped, “I’d expect you to be doubling up your fist right now to teach me some respect—whether I’m your superior officer or not.”
Jack frowned. He looked over at Colt, clearly mystified. “Maggie.” He spoke the name, but then he said nothing for a moment. When he did, his tone was… careful. “Maggie’s… different. Unique. She’s… strong. Not delicate.” He swallowed. “She’s just not the kind of woman men notice. In the way you mean. Men who are looking for someone to court, I mean.”
Colt grunted and looked away, struggling to hide just how happy he was to learn that Miss Maggie Malone was unattached. He scratched the back of his neck. Brushed an imaginary bit of dirt off his sleeve. “Guess you answered my question. No Irish farmers plighting their troth, then.”
“None.” He paused. “On the subject of troths and such—do you think we should try to sneak into town after dark and talk to some folks? Dr. Feeny can be trusted. So can the man who runs the biggest mercantile in town. Both of them are in the perfect position to learn what people are seeing and hearing. Ed Markum can be trusted as well. He’s editor at the Leader.”
Colt pondered for a moment. “We need to report what we already know. We don’t know that they mean to do it, but if the troops camped here march south within the next few days, they’ll intercept the Irish. Our men could end up being caught in the middle.”
“You’re right,” Jack said. “The thing is, if we do a little reconnoitering in Littleton, we’ll be able to give a more complete report.”
Colt nodded. Finally, he pointed toward the overhang where they’d left their horses tethered out of sight against a concave rock wall. “Let’s tuck in up there. After dark, I’ll head east to tell the captain what we’ve already seen. You sneak into town and see if you can learn anything more.” Jack nodded, and set off for the overhang.
Colt waited, listening for the signal that he’d reached the horses and all was well. The cry of a hawk meant it was safe to head that way. If a crow cackled, he’d slide into the river and float downstream. Jack would do his best to spook Blue and send him tearing off into the woods along the water. After that, it would be up to Colt.
Chapter 13
I’ve got joy like a—whoa. Libbie stopped mid-sentence and pulled back on the reins. Pilot stopped. There was a man crouched by the spring. Libbie was just about to make a run for it when Pilot whickered. The man jumped up, spun about, and snatched the forage cap off his head.
“Wait. Miss Blair.” The words wouldn’t have carried much farther than the trail, but the tone was urgent. Pleading.
Libbie hesitated. Pilot took another step, and a gray horse came into view, standing broadside to the rock wall jutting out of the hillside. She glanced up to the top of the ridge. Clever. No one would see the gray from up above. Or the bay behind him. Two horses, standing nose-to-tail. Where was the other rider?
“It’s Jack Malone, Miss Blair.” The soldier stood still, his cap in his hands, the expression on his handsome face wary. “Please don’t scream. I was just getting a drink here at the spring. You nearly scared me to death. The last thing I expected…”
While Jack Malone rambled, Libbie looked past him toward the horses. The gray was a fine animal. She couldn’t remember ever seeing a Malone astride a horse, though. What was going on? Something crackled just behind her on the trail. Pilot danced sideways, and another soldier stepped up. He must have been up above them. Had she ridden right past him without seeing him? He moved quickly, and before Libbie had time to react, he’d pulled her out of the saddle and clamped a filthy hand over her mouth.
She struggled against him. Pilot threw a fit. Jack Malone grabbed the reins, barely preventing the horse from bolting. Grabbing the bridle, he backed Pilot up until his hind quarters were practically touching the wall of rock, trying to calm him down. The soldier who was holding Libbie forced her into the shadow of the rocky ledge.
Pilot settled down, but Malone kept hold of the horse’s reins while he spoke to her. “Don’t scream. We aren’t going to hurt you, but we can’t let you sound an alarm.”
Libbie grunted a response. Struggled some more.
“If the sergeant lets you go, promise me you won’t raise the alarm.”
Libbie stopped fighting. Nodded. The hand came away from her mouth. She tried to pull free. “I’m not going to holler,” she hissed. “Just. Let me go!” The man must have been looking at Malone, for when the Irishman nodded, the soldier released his grip.
Libbie whirled about. She glared up at him, but she kept her voice low as she spoke. “Who in tarnation are you?” She looked over at Jack. “And what do you think you’re doin’? Don’t you know there’s men guarding the landing not half a mile upriver? You could get yourselves killed roamin’ around Wildwood Grove.” She looked toward the river. “Where’d you come from, anyway?”
Malone and the other soldier—a sergeant, Malone had said—exchanged glances, and Libbie realized. Lord have mercy. They were spyin’ on the Guard. She noticed Malone’s bandaged hand. “You’re hurt.”
Malone looked down at his hand and then back up at her. Something flickered in his blue eyes. He tilted his head. “So are you.”
Libbie’s gloved hand cupped the left side of her face. “I—uh—I fell.” Now
why couldn’t she remember the story she’d already concocted? She swallowed, suddenly aware of being thirsty. She cleared her throat. Nodded at the bubbling spring. “All right with you if I get a drink?”
Malone handed Pilot’s reins to the stranger and retrieved a tin cup from the saddlebags on the other horse—the one half hidden behind the gray. Libbie looked over at the sergeant. “I don’t recall ever seein’ the Malones ride. Is the gray yours?” He didn’t answer. She shrugged. “He’s a beauty.” Malone dipped his cup into the spring and then handed it to her. While she drank, the silent sergeant led Pilot over and let him drink, too. Libbie handed the cup back to Jack Malone and thanked him.
She looked over her shoulder at the river, then back at Malone. “I heard what happened at your farm. I’m sorry.” She glanced at the silent sergeant. “I truly mean it.”
The words were out before she realized that Jack Malone might not know about it, but he must have read her expression, for he said, “Thank you.” He held up his bandaged hand. “When I was reported as wounded, Maggie tracked us down. Came all the way to Boonville.” One corner of his mouth curled up as he said, “She told us about the farm in the middle of giving both Seamus and me a very thorough scolding for not writing to tell her I was all right.” He paused. “I hadn’t stopped to think there’d be a list of the wounded in the paper.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re all right,” Libbie said, and she truly meant that, too. She supposed it might seem strange for a Southerner to say such a thing about neighbors who’d decided to stand with the Union, but how could anyone wish ill on hardworking people like the Malones? As for considering them her enemies, she didn’t think she could.
Maybe she’d feel differently if Walker or someone else she cared for had been hurt.
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