Heather Graham's Haunted Treasures

by Heather Graham

  Lenore moistened her lips, fighting for new courage. She slipped around one of the stones and headed for the fence before the road.

  Suddenly, she realized that she was not in the cemetery alone.

  A shadow raced just before her, using the cloud's cover of the moon.

  A shadow, someone else, something else...

  She hung back, flinging herself behind a stone, breathing hard. Someone else could be on an errand just like her own.

  The shadow had seemed so strange, not quite the shape of a man, not...

  It was the moon, the night, playing tricks on her. Perhaps it was the siege, or the whole damned war. She remained braced against a headstone for a moment, biting her lip, realizing the grave was a new one.

  There were a number of Confederate graves here. Men killed in distant places, but their bodies found and sent home. The stone she leaned against hadn't been here the last time she came through. It belonged to a Sergeant Peter Barnes, born 1841, deceased 1862, aged twenty-one years, seven months, three days. Her fingers moved over the etched numbers in a sudden strange motion. He had been killed when Bruce had been killed, same day, same battle.

  His loved ones had been lucky. He had been returned to them in a box, even if it took a year to have a proper burial.

  She had received nothing but paper, and the promise that Bruce was or would be buried with his countrymen somewhere, in some communal grave.

  She pulled her fingers away from the stone and told herself sternly that her nocturnal activities were rattling her mind. She had to make it the rest of the way through the cemetery. If some other mercy runner was sharing the sanctuary of the graves with her, then God bless him, and Godspeed. She had to move again herself. She had reached the edge of the enemy lines. She would be running into Yankee pickets very soon, and she would have to keep her eyes open and wary, and pray as well, so that she could avoid them and capture. The area ahead of her might well be closely guarded.

  She looked around her stone, and even as she did so, the cloud that had covered the moon shifted. She caught her breath. Beyond the stone wall, she could see tall figures with rifles converging. Pickets, meeting after walking their rounds. She counted them. One, two, three... four, five.

  She fell back against her stone again, breathing hard. If they started to move again, she would never get around them. She had to go now, and go fast.

  She stood, ready to fly.

  Yet even as she did so, a harsh voice cried out in the moonlit night.

  "Halt! Who goes there? Halt, or I'll shoot!"

  She froze, afraid to turn around.

  They would shoot her, they would have to shoot her. They wouldn't know who she was, they'd only know that she was the enemy.

  Yet even as she started to turn, she heard an ear-shattering shriek. She fell to the ground as she spun around in a panic, desperate to see what had happened.

  The Yankee who had cried out the warning had fallen. He lay upon the ground. And even as she stared at him, she heard another cry, a choked off scream...

  She nearly cried out herself, she was so terrified. There was another shriek, yet it was farther away, and then another, farther still.

  She stared at the fallen Yankee, then realized that his comrades were all fallen around him. She leaped to her feet in terror.

  She looked around and saw nothing but the silent stones within the graveyard, and the swirl of the mist around them.

  "Dear God!" she prayed aloud in a whisper. She gave up all thought of secrecy for the moment, plowing at high speed through the rest of the cemetery, tripping over stones, feeling them tug at her skirts, running so blindly that she couldn't even avoid the tree branches that leaned down to rip at her hair, threatening to pull her back.

  She reached the wall and leaped over it. The Yankees lay before her, all five of them, the first alone, then two sprawled atop each other, two more about six feet away. She stared at them in uncomprehending terror, then, despite herself, she felt her feet being drawn to the first, the man who had called out in his husky voice to warn her to halt...

  He was upon his back, his eyes open. Unseeing, staring, the greatest horror imaginable seemingly reflected in their terrified blue depths...

  "Oh!" Her hand flew to her throat, and she choked back a scream, then swallowed hard, determined that she would not become ill.

  He was a Yankee, the enemy, he might well have captured her, he might have shot at her...

  But he was a human being first. And so many Yanks had been her friends before the war.

  She started backing away from the corpse with its still staring eyes, fighting an overwhelming sense of panic.

  The shadow!

  Had she really seen a shadow, running through the graveyard, lithe, furtive, moving in the night? Had it been real, saving her from certain capture? And yet...

  Yet done this. This awful horror.

  And did it lurk nearby? Had that shadow seized upon these victims, and would it now seek others?

  She had never been more terrified in her life. War was horrible-—she had seen it. She had stood by Dr. Claiborne and the others, and she had witnessed the things that war could do, and she hadn't thought that anything could be more terrible.

  But this...

  This was. This hinted of something dark, of something alive in the mist, of something evil...

  The night was not evil! she tried to tell herself. It was war, and war was the evil, the killer, the maimer that destroyed the country now, piece by piece.

  But she wasn't convinced. She couldn't think straight, and she couldn't reason. She turned from the sightlessly staring Yank, and started to run. Blindly. Down the path, into the trees.

  She heard the sound of her own breathing. She saw the stones from the graveyard to her left, surrounded by the mist. They seemed to be moving. She thought that she could hear a cry on the wind again, the cry of a wolf, ragged, mournful, alone, the cry itself reaching upward to the bone-white moon.

  Then she heard movement behind her.

  Heard the rush of air, the crashing of the trees and brush behind her.

  She heard it! So close! A sudden thunder against the ground, or was it her heart? The night was alive with a vicious wind...

  No, it was her breathing, so ragged, so desperate!

  Because of that shadow...

  "Halt!"

  She heard the word, felt warmth, energy behind her. She screeched in wild panic as something fell upon her shoulder.

  "No!" she cried, running still, desperate. But the earth was pounding so hard around her now...

  And then she shrieked again because something fell, as heavy as the night, as powerful. Fell atop her, catapulting her to the earth, where she rolled in the dirt and the leaves and the tufts of grass. Blinded, she closed her eyes against the dry, flying earth. Her arms were caught; she was thrown back.

  She screeched, fighting wildly. Her arms were caught, endless weight was atop her, and she screamed again.

  The shadow...

  "No!" she cried, and her eyes flew open.

  And she gasped as she stared into the hard crystal gaze of her attacker...

  Chapter 1

  His eyes were blue, a deep, dark, rich blue, enhanced by the detestable blue of the uniform he wore. They were eyes she recognized, for to her amazement, the Yankee officer straddled over her was not a stranger.

  Nathaniel McKenna. Colonel McKenna, so it seemed now.

  She'd met him at a dance in Richmond at least five years ago, before she and Bruce had been married. It was strange seeing him now, very strange, because she had noticed him the moment that he had walked in. She had been on Brace's arm, speaking with an artillery captain and his wife, when she had looked up and seen him.

  Impossible to miss. He was a tall man, well over six feet, with thick waves of auburn hair; those very striking blue eyes, broad shoulders; a handsome, powerful build; and an equally handsome, ruggedly chiseled face. That very first time she had seen him, she
had tightened her hold on Brace's arm, perhaps with some instinctive or defensive gesture. She had loved Bruce, and he had been an equally striking man, tall, slim, blond, so quick to smile, so very, very quick to make her laugh. They had been engaged a year, their wedding was forthcoming, she was eagerly anticipating it, and they would be setting up housekeeping on land her grandfather had given her that adjoined land his father had given him. She was very happy then; things seemed wonderful.

  But it was, in fact, that very night when she had first realized there was really going to be a war. And Nathaniel McKenna had actually had something to do with that realization.

  She had danced with him once. And it had been a fascinating, exhilarating experience. The feel of his hands on her, the very energy of his movement...

  And his eyes. The touch of them invaded her soul, seemed to read her mind. A minor flirtation with such a man, a classmate of her betrothed's, had not seemed such a terrible thing...

  But when the conversation had turned to her wedding, when she had swept her lashes over her cheeks and promised him an invitation, he had suggested that she hurry her arrangements—before the war waylaid the ceremony. And, as far as that situation went, she might not want him to attend.

  "Perhaps the South will secede from the Union, Major," she had told him, for he had been a major back then, before years of war had caused swift promotions among the ranks, "but I do believe that the North will quickly realize that our gallant young men do mean to stand up for their rights and independence just as our Virginia forebears—such as Mr. Washington and Mr. Jefferson and Mr. Madison—did. Do I take this to mean, sir, that you will not be on our side?"

  He looked down at her with his handsome features tense and his cobalt eyes unnervingly steady. "You've underestimated the determination of the North, I believe, and men such as Mr. Lincoln. There will be war."

  "You didn't answer my question, sir."

  He shrugged, looking across the room to Bruce. "What about your fiancé, Miss Tyler? What do you think he will choose to do?"

  "Side with the South, of course."

  "And if he did not?" he demanded, a dark brow arched. Then he smiled, and his tone was mocking. "Ah, Bruce Latham would not be your fiancé if there were even the least bit of doubt in your mind!"

  "You're being excessively rude for a Unionist standing in the middle of a Richmond ballroom," she assured him.

  He shook his head. "Alas, no, Miss Lenore Tyler, for the Old Dominion will perhaps leave the Union with her brethren to the south, but she will do so painfully, and only when there is no turning back."

  "This is no matter for jest—"

  "Ah, that we did jest! For, Miss Tyler, I fear that it will come to war."

  "Over in a matter of weeks—"

  He stopped the dance, and bowed to her. "So I pray, Miss Tyler, but I do have my doubts."

  "Perhaps you should return me to my fiancé—"

  "Perhaps, indeed, I should. Perhaps it is even a very fine thing that we should, by circumstance, be enemies. Or perhaps it is even a pity that it is not the other way around, that Bruce Latham is not staunchly behind our government, and I am not the hero of your cause. For, then, I must admit, I'd be most tempted never to return you to your fiancé, but rather to hold you ever tighter. There was something in your eyes the moment I entered the room, something—"

  "Something of enormous conceit from within your heart!" she charged, but she was breathless, and he was not. He swirled her very easily in the dance, not letting her go at all.

  "I did not say what it was within your eyes at all, Miss Tyler. I am quite spellbound, I admit."

  "You're no gentleman—"

  "Oh, but I am in a way. An honest one." Those blue eyes settled upon her with their dark candor. "There is no chance that I might sweep you away. Certainly, since I count Bruce among my friends, I would not do so, even if you weren't staring at me with beautiful outrage and stunning if very indignant fury."

  "Your manners—"

  "My manners!" he interrupted softly, and a mild chuckle left his lips. "Indeed, they leave a lot to be desired. What is it with you lovely ladies of the Old Dominion? I can feel you tremble beneath my touch, there's such startling warmth and passion within you! But you'd deny it to the very day you died, since it wouldn't be quite proper."

  "I demand that you return me to my fiancé! And if you say no more, I will refrain from mentioning your remarks—"

  "You will refrain, Miss Tyler, because you do not care to see his blood spilled—though, certainly, you wouldn't mind the sight of mine at all."

  "You're so incredibly sure that you would best him—"

  "I am incredibly sure that such a fight would be foolish, for he is my friend, and against such a stalwart son of Dixie, I am surely no threat."

  "I find you to be a horrid man—"

  "And you are also, Miss Tyler, a beautiful daughter of Dixie. I am sorry to count you among my enemies here tonight. You need say no more. I will return you to Bruce immediately."

  And so he did, still sweeping her across the floor, for all outward appearance, as much a dashing cavalier as any man there.

  She had hated him then.

  She had tried to hate him.

  But she had remembered him. Remembered his face. Remembered those moments when he had held her. Remembered the heat, the feeling of energy... Of passion.

  That had been so long ago. She'd married. She'd been a good wife. She'd held fast to her Cause.

  She'd become a widow.

  And she'd seen that he had been right, that his cynicism had been well placed. The North had gone to war, and the war had gone on and on.

  And been horrible...

  Now, he truly was her enemy. And he was straddled over her, fierce, tense, determined. There was no mercy in his features, rather, there was raw anger mirrored within them.

  "My God!" he breathed. "Lenore!"

  She swallowed hard, clenching her teeth. Him. Of all the hundreds of thousands of Yankees who were fighting against them...

  Yet, at the same time, she had another thought. A ridiculous one, she tried to tell herself. But there. Oh, God, there, nevertheless.

  At least he was a Yankee. A man. Not a shadow...

  "Major—ah, Colonel McKenna!" she spat back. "I do realize that war has proved quite trying, but do you still believe that you need such violent effort to capture one small woman?"

  He didn't smile, didn't bend, didn't flick an eye.

  "What are you doing out here?" he demanded.

  "Trying to get home."

  "Smuggling—"

  "No!" she lied swiftly, then was stunned by his further accusation.

  "Murdering Union soldiers?"

  She inhaled on a gasp, feeling the blood drain from her face. Those men... those Union soldiers, so savagely killed, they were among his men.

  And he seemed to think that she could do such a thing.

  She shook her head wildly. "You can't believe—my God, how? I carry no weapons, you can see that!"

  Maybe he did see it. He rose, unwinding his long, powerful length from her body. He reached down a hand to her, but pride kept her from accepting it. She pretended not to see it and struggled carefully to her feet, trying to make sure that none of her medicine vials clanked together.

  His hand clamped upon her wrist. She felt his eyes again, and looked into them.

  "Why were you running, so terrified?" he demanded.

  Her mouth went dry. "Because," she lied, "I know quite well that the area is teeming with Yankees—"

  "You knew that when you came out smuggling," he told her impatiently. "Why were you running so swiftly now?"

  She shook her head again. "We're at war—" she began again desperately.

  "You saw something," he said harshly. "You know who the murderer is!"

  She shook her head again. "I can't tell you anything—"

  "You'd carry your Rebel loyalties this far!" he exploded furiously.

  "No!
Yes—what difference does it make if men die by cannon balls on the field, or a sword or knife off! Dead is dead! They perish, they—"

  He exploded in a startling oath, pulling her along. She saw quickly that he had moved so very swiftly upon her because his horse was on the trail just behind them and he was now leading her toward the animal.

  "What—" She gasped, only to discover herself thrown up atop his handsome, well-fed Union bay. And looking down at him, she stared into those endlessly blue and relentless eyes.

  "Let me show you the difference, Mrs. Latham!" he charged her.

  A second later, he was up behind her. She felt the wall of his chest at her back, the power of his arms around her. She felt his breathing, the pounding of his heart. She started to tremble, and despite him, despite herself, despite her awful fear of him as a Yankee...

  She suddenly felt safe. Safe and yet...

  He nudged his bay hard. He whirled the animal around. He was racing furiously back toward the wall of the cemetery.

  Back to the place where the men had been killed...

  He pulled in on the bay. She could see that others were there now; his troops had come out in number. At least three companies had come, searching the foliage, bringing blankets to wrap their dead.

  But the one sentry still lay, his sightless eyes staring at the golden glow of the moon sitting so high above the night.

  "Dead is dead!" he said harshly behind her.

  She inhaled on a ragged sob, and as if he was suddenly sorry, he spun his bay again.

  "Colonel!"

  One of his men rushed forward, gravely noting the captive before him with a nod of acknowledgment. Then he was speaking rapidly again. "A slaughter, sir! Each one of them dead, bleeding... Oh, the blood, sir!"

  He broke off, staring at Lenore, his eyes widening again.

  "Sir, this—lady—is the one you caught in the foliage?"

  "Indeed, Lieutenant. The lady is actually an old—I dare not say friend!—but she is an old acquaintance. She is not our murderer. She is merely smuggling, I believe."

  "Sir—"

  "See to these men, Lieutenant," Nathaniel McKenna said very softly, a deep pain in his voice. "I will see to our captive here."