But it was quickly gone. He blinked, and once again his gaze and expression revealed nothing to her—nothing except hardness and determination. She stood quickly, aware then that she had done a good job of soaking herself. Her calico day dress was glued to her breasts.
“What now?” he asked a little bit desperately.
She was startled when he suddenly walked over to her. He lifted her left hand. His eyes were like blades on hers as his fingers moved over the simple gold wedding band there.
“Husband?” he asked her.
She felt a rise of color flood to her cheeks. She wrenched her hand free. “Dead,” she lashed out.
“The war?”
“Yes.” Then she realized that he meant this war. “He was killed in Iraq,” she said swiftly. And despite herself, she heard bitter words fall from her lips. “Friendly fire.”
“His own artillery?” he demanded.
Her eyes widened. At least he understood that. She nodded.
“Iraq?” he queried.
She sighed. Oh, he was good. There hadn’t been any such place known as Iraq during the Civil War. Or the War Between the States, as Gramps was determined to call it.
“Never mind,” she said wearily.
“Which army was he fighting for?” he demanded.
With a groan, Vickie sank down on the damp stream embankment. She shook her head. “We just have one army now. Just one.”
He knelt down before her. He touched her chin, lifting it so that he could see into her eyes. “Which army?”
“The United States Army,” she said wearily. “You don’t believe me.” She shook her head again, trying desperately to understand how this attractive, masculine and appealing man could be a maniac. “You must be a business exec who has snapped,” she said flatly. “Hey, I understand, the pressure today can do it. People do just snap.”
“I haven’t snapped,” he said angrily. “And I don’t believe you! We haven’t surrendered. We fight better. It’s our homeland. And Stonewall wouldn’t surrender us.”
“Stonewall is dead,” she said flatly.
He wrenched her up suddenly by her shoulders. “What?” he demanded fiercely.
“Stonewall Jackson is dead. But then again, so is Lincoln. Lee is dead, Grant is dead! Heck, Jefferson Davis survived them all, but damn it, he’s dead now, too!”
“Stop it! I don’t believe you, I don’t believe any of it—”
“We’re in the midst of the 1990s—”
“It’s 1862—”
“No, no! You’re all pretending that it’s 1862! Please, get a grip on it all!” Vickie pleaded. “I’m telling you that it’s—”
“And I’m telling you to stop it! Stop it now!” he cried angrily, rising. “It’s 1862. This battle is still going and I’ve got to find my brother! He’s hurt, he’s injured and he’s going to die—”
“No one will let him die!” Vickie cried. “There are emergency vehicles all over—”
“If the Yanks take him, he will die!” he cried passionately, silver eyes raking her once again.
To her amazement, she felt tears stinging her eyes once again. Mad or not, he believed it. He believed every word that he was saying to her.
“I don’t know how to convince you!” she whispered miserably. “No one will hurt your brother. They’ll help him, I swear it.”
He was silent for a moment, then he turned away. “I wish that I could believe you,” he told her.
His hands were on his hips. Vickie saw a glint there. She didn’t know why, but she was standing suddenly. She strode through the shallow water to where he was standing, heedless of her boots. She reached for his left hand. There was a plain gold band there, too.
“Wife?” she queried, feeling as if she had choked on the word just a little bit.
She felt him go tense, swallowing hard. “Dead,” he said huskily. And he added quickly, “And I don’t know where the fire came from, a Yank gun or a Rebel gun. We had a home out on the peninsula. An old place,” he added in a rush. “Built before 1700.” He turned around, squinting as he stared up the mountain. “Well, it’s burned to the ground now. And my wife is buried nearby.” His eyes touched upon Vickie’s. “It isn’t very friendly fire, is it?”
She shook her head. Then she realized that she was agreeing with this man. He had told her that his wife had been killed by stray fire in the middle of a battle, a Civil War battle, and she was agreeing that it was possible.
She hurried over to him suddenly. “Listen to me, please listen to me. You’ve got to understand. You need help—”
“Oh, indeed! I need help, lots of it.”
“You believe all this, don’t you?” she whispered.
He was reaching into his pocket, pulling out something square and whitish. He broke it with a hard snap, offering her half. Hardtack. She’d seen the stuff in museums all her life, and Gramps even had a few scraps of it in his prized collection of Civil War memorabilia.
This was so very real….
Reenactors made it, she reminded herself. Just like they made clothing, and guns and swords. Just like they pitched tents, and sang songs.
“It’s not much, but it’s all I’ve got,” he told her. He walked over to stand by one of the trees, looking out over the valley. He took a crunchy bite out of his hardtack. Vickie looked down at the chunk of supposedly digestible food she held. Her stomach rumbled. She was starving. She hadn’t eaten much last night.
“Eat this…?” she murmured. But just then, she thought that she saw something very tiny within it moving. Something the same whitish color. Something like a…
A weevil. A creature. A maggot. She didn’t know what. Something completely horrible.
She shrieked and threw the piece of food high into the air, backing away from it.
Instantly he was at her side, taking her into his arms, and looking anxiously about. “What, what is it? Where?” He held her close, protectively, against him, drawing a gun from the holster at his side. It was a repeater, Vickie realized. She didn’t know guns that well, but she thought that it was one of the Colt repeating rifles. It was large by current-day standards for a handgun….
But then, once again, she’d seen the like in Gramps’s precious glass-encased collection shelves before.
He stared at her hand. “What happened? Is there a snake? Have you been bitten? What is it?”
She shook her head wildly, staring at him. “A thing, a white thing. In that piece of food you gave me. It moved.”
Now he was looking at her as if she were the one who had gone absolutely mad.
“What?”
She shook her head, feeling sick.
He walked across the grass and found the piece of hardtack. He stared at it, then turned to look at her, troubled.
“This is pretty good,” he said, studying her with a puzzled frown. “Why, there’s only a maggot or two in it.”
“A maggot—or two?” she whispered. “Oh!” she said, turning around, clutching her stomach.
She closed her eyes tightly. His hands were on her shoulders and he spun her around. “I’m sorry!” he said gruffly. “It’s all I’ve got. I’ll catch you something later. But for the moment—”
She shook her head violently. “I’m not hungry anymore.”
“I’ve got to find my troops,” he told her softly.
A breeze stirred. His hands were still on her shoulders; he seemed incredibly tall, broad shouldered, strikingly handsome. His silver eyes were passionate, the lean hard planes of his face and the square of his jaw all spoke of determination and a curious valor. “I’ve got to find the Yanks, and I’ve got to find my own troops.”
“And you’ve got to have me to do it?” she whispered.
He nodded gravely.
“I can’t let you go. You have to see that.”
“I wish you’d believe me,” she said. She wished she could help him snap out of his delusion. She wished he would suddenly be quite normal and they could start all ov
er again. She wished…
What was she thinking?’
“Come on,” he said softly, “let’s go.” But his hands were still on her shoulders. And suddenly he brushed her cheek with his knuckles. The motion was infinitely tender, and she closed her eyes for a moment, savoring it.
Then she swallowed hard, pulling away from him, her eyes lowered.
Even if he wasn’t a complete lunatic, he certainly wasn’t all there. And he’d already accused her of enough things!
Her eyes raised to his, and she was ready with a quick retort. It died in her throat. There was that desperate emotion in his eyes! Pain, determination…tenderness. She shook her head, with no voice to speak.
“I don’t even know your name,” he told her huskily.
“Victoria,” she murmured softly. “Vickie.”
“Jason,” he murmured.
“Not colonel?” she inquired.
“Only if you intend to follow orders,” he said with a curious, almost wistful smile.
“Well, I don’t follow orders,” she informed him.
“Then,” he said, bowing formally, “I suppose I’ll have to ask you politely to help me find the enemy troops—and my own.”
“And if I refuse?” she said.
“Then I’ll have to order you around,” he said, catching her arm. “It’s time to move on,” he insisted, “Victoria.”
Her name was soft coming from his lips. So soft.
His hand on her arm was absolutely insistent.
And once again, they were moving over the mountain.
CHAPTER THREE
Vickie had always thought that she knew the mountain better than the back of her own hand; however, that day, she seemed to lose her own bearings, too.
Gramps’s house should have been to the west and the encampments should have been down in the valley to her extreme south. When she walked toward what she thought should have been the Rebel encampments, she realized that she had led him down a trail that was way too far north.
And walking on these slopes and inclines was much harder than riding over them. She had led him around in silence for hours, it seemed, when she realized her mistake. And then, of course, he stared at her as if she had done it all on purpose, and was trying to get him captured or cause something even worse to happen to him.
The strangest thing about the afternoon was that she was beginning to believe him. What he was saying couldn’t possibly be true, and yet he was incredibly sincere and passionate and he just…
He acted so different. He looked different. He talked different. He was different. From anyone she knew. And no matter how she fought against it, there was something so compelling because of those differences.
His hand suddenly fell upon her shoulder. He pulled her to a halt. She whirled around and looked at him. A trickle of sweat slipped down the handsome planes of his face. A deep sandy brow arched to her and those hard silver-gray eyes of his seemed to fix her where she stood.
“Where are you taking me?” he asked her.
She lifted her hands and shook her head, “I’m trying. I swear it, I’m trying.”
“To get me where?”
“To the Rebel encampment.”
A cloud fell over his eyes. One of suspicion. “Hmm. So it seems.”
“Damn you! Damn you!” she cried to him suddenly, slamming her fists against his chest and actually pushing him back with her force. Taken by surprise, he caught her wrists, and she was pulled up flush against his body again, held there while their hearts hammered together, her head cast back, throat arched, eyes blazing into his. No matter how he held her, she was determined to speak. “I’m just dying to get you to the Rebel encampment—sir! I’m dying for someone else to tell you that you’re a madman, that this war has been over—I’m dying for you to believe me!”
Something in his hold seemed to ease. Yet he didn’t release her. But the way that he stared at her changed. And the way that he held her changed, too.
“And I’m dying for you to believe me,” he said very softly.
She relaxed in his hold. There was a trembling beginning deep within her. Truly, she was the one not in her right senses. When he held her, she wanted him to continue to do so. She wanted to rest her head against his shoulder, test the texture of his cavalry shirt. She wanted his hands to fall upon the length of her hair and soothe her.
And then…
Then she wanted more.
She felt her cheeks begin to burn as she tried to keep her stare level with his. This was really madness. She knew so many nice young men. All the fine young fellows Gramps kept bringing around so persistently. Friends. Friends of friends. All of them so usual, normal—and sane.
But since she had lost her husband, she hadn’t felt the first spark of desire….
Until now. Until she had come upon this silver-eyed madman. Now she was feeling a surge of responses she had thought long buried, along with a handsome young man in a very different soldier’s uniform.
She opened her mouth to speak, trying to shake the startling sensation of warmth that had filled her. No words came at first. She struggled. “I—I must believe you in a way,” she said. “I believe that you believe what you’re saying, anyway.” She spun around quickly, eyes suddenly, inexplicably, filled with tears. “Come on. I’ll get us somewhere, I promise.”
She had barely begun walking when the day seemed to darken. She looked up. The morning had been beautiful. It had suddenly turned gray. Dark, billowing clouds raced across the sky. She had never seen clouds move so rapidly before. They made her uneasy. Just like that strange cry in the night had made her uneasy. She gritted her teeth, fighting the strange—and ridiculous—sensation of fear.
“We’re in for some weather,” she cried. What was the matter with her? She felt so cold. The world seemed so strange. As if she was treading where she shouldn’t be treading, walking through a graveyard at midnight. She had a strange intuition, telling her she’d crossed some forbidden line. She was seeing things she wasn’t meant to see. But again, she tried to assure herself that she was being ridiculous.
But Jason, too, had been looking up at the wild, darkening sky. His eyes touched hers. There was a strange expression in them, as if he had seen this strange “weather” before, as if he, too, had felt cold slivers of ice in the pit of his stomach. But he nodded to her, a smile of reassurance quickly curving his lips as he read her expression.
“There are a few caves near here. Let’s get to one!” she said.
He reached for her hand. Just as they touched, a tremendous bolt of lightning flashed down near them, so blindingly visible that it was like watching ancient Zeus cast down a jagged streak of fire. The thunder that rolled and clashed in its wake was instant and alarming.
Vickie looked up. The sky was nearly black. It had happened in a matter of minutes.
“Jason!”
“Come closer!”
His arm was around her, as if he could combat invisible dragons, yet she was delighted to be with him, glad of his arm, of the comfort and the security.
Oddly, against the tempest of the sky, the rain that started then was light. Almost a mist. Of course, it could be just heralding the real storm to come. Right now, it was soft, cool. Like the breeze, it seemed to wrap around her with invisible threads, a spider’s web to hold and haunt her. Despite the softness of the rain, the look of the day was still wicked, the black sky churning and spinning.
“Let’s go!” It was Jason who started moving.
The wind began to whip anew. Vickie realized that in the sudden darkness, they were running blindly once again. She didn’t know where they were going.
The caves were…to their left?
“This way!” she cried out suddenly, certain of her own direction. But was she? The trees were dipping and swaying, bowed down beneath the strength of the wind. They seemed to form a maze in the darkness.
The two ran through the lashing trees. A field of electricity snapped and crackled around
them. It seemed that they ran forever, and then they burst into a clearing.
She could see. The wind still lashed at them, the day seemed stranger than ever. The sky roiled. But the blackness had somewhat abated, and she could see before her. Horsemen were coming. Relief filled her. Men were practicing for the reenactment battles still to come. They were riding toward her and Jason now. All she had to do was cry out and wave to them. They would get her home. She would bring Jason. Introduce him to Gramps, and Gramps would know what to do. All that she had to do was cry out, and she could get home. The danger had passed.
She slammed to a stop with Jason right behind her. She felt his fingers on her shoulders, digging in.
“Jason! They’ll help us—” she began.
“Help us, my foot!” he cried. “Look at the uniform!”
Yankee. She tried to explain. “Jason, they’re reenactors. They’re not going to—”
She heard an explosion, then felt the heat as something whistled by her cheek. There was a flat, slamming sound behind her. She swirled around, white and stunned.
She could see where the bullet intended for her had embedded into a tree.
The men in the mist were really shooting at them. Real Civil War soldiers, shooting real bullets….
It couldn’t be! Only ghosts could travel these mountains—ghosts and memories—and neither could shoot real guns. Perhaps they were reenactors after all, intent on murder.
Dully, she thought, no. No motive. Men didn’t go crazy all in a group.
A second whistle caressed her cheek. Another bullet whizzed by, just missing her.
“Get behind me!”
“But they’re not real—”
“The hell they’re not!”
She was behind him, shoved there, with the bulk of his body protecting her.
The Last Cavalier Page 5