An Old-Fashioned Christmas Romance Collection Page 8

  If someone had been pointing a gun at her, she’d be shaking in her boots. That he could stand there, calm as you please, amazed her. What amazed her more was that he wore neither the arrogant smirk nor the malicious grin of those who’d come to Moorewood before him. The expression on his bearded face seemed genuinely gentle, seemed…

  Stop it, you little ninny! she warned herself. Could be he’s just a good actor, like your precious Ross Bartlett. Could be he’ll grab this gun and point it at you if you’re not careful!

  “I’m on your side,” he said quietly.

  Brynne knew better than to judge all Yankees by the behavior of a despicable few. Still, she refused to be fooled by this one’s friendly demeanor. “The last bunch of your buddies didn’t leave much behind,” she said, sneering, “but they generously left my eyesight, and I can plainly see that you’re wearing blue. You, sir, are not on my side!”

  Looking down at the brass buttons on his jacket, the soldier nodded. “I know this looks bad, ma’am, but I can explain. Y’see, I knew I’d be traipsin’ through enemy territory, so I sort of, uh, I borrowed this here jacket from a Union soldier.” Moving nothing but his pointer finger, he gestured toward the haversack at his feet. “My coat’s in there. Ain’t too perty after the last fight, but…”

  She was scowling by now. “Oh please. Give me credit for having some sense.”

  Shrugging, he sighed. “Reckon I can’t blame you for bein’ suspicious, ma’am. But you’re more’n welcome to check it out.”

  No doubt if she did, Brynne would find a Confederate jacket in the bag. But that doesn’t mean it’s his.

  Suddenly, something he’d said earlier gonged in her mind. “You…you stole that coat from…” Brynne swallowed hard. “From a dead man?”

  Wincing, he said, “‘Fraid so, ma’am.” In a more serious tone, he quickly added, “But I never kilt him; he was dead when I found him.”

  The mental picture of him peeling the uniform from a corpse sent a shiver up her back. Blinking rapidly, she took it all in: his shaggy blond hair and beard, the badly scraped boots, trousers that likely hadn’t been washed in an age, cuts and bruises on the backs of his hands…hands that had touched a fallen comrade. He’d wrapped those same hands around the handles of his bag…

  Wrinkling her nose with disgust, Brynne used the weapon as a pointer. “You open the bag. And take care not to pull any stunts,” she warned, narrowing her eyes, “this gun has a hair trigger…”

  She watched carefully as he crouched, unbuckled his knapsack, and withdrew the contents, item by item. First, a gray fez. A small and well-worn Bible. A pair of holey socks. And a bonafide Confederate jacket. The soldier stood slowly and held it out for her inspection. “In the inside front pocket,” he said, “you’ll find a letter from your pa.”

  A letter from Papa? Brynne repeated mentally. She whispered the words out loud, as though their meaning had some sacred significance that demanded hushed tones of reverence. Why, the soldier had said it as casually as he might have said, “Nice weather we’re havin’, ain’t it?” Her heart began to hammer so hard, Brynne could count the beats in her ears. She wanted that letter, and she wanted it now.

  But she had only two hands. How would she search the jacket and keep the soldier at gunpoint at the same time?

  Frustration got the better of her. “Here,” she said, handing him the rifle. “Hold this while I have a look-see.”

  The soldier obligingly exchanged the gun for the jacket. She paid no mind to the grin that split his face as she excitedly dug through the pockets. “It is from Papa,” she sighed, holding the envelope at arm’s length. “I’d know his handwriting anywhere!”

  Quick as it appeared, the joy that brightened her face dimmed. Flustered and furious at the same time, she grabbed the rifle from him and shoved the letter into her apron pocket. “How did you get this?” she demanded. “Did you pick through his pockets the way you went through that dead soldier’s…?” Brynne simply couldn’t finish the question. “If you harmed him,” she grated, “I’ll, I’ll…”

  He’d relaxed some when she handed him the gun. Now, as her agitation escalated, the soldier’s arms slid slowly skyward again. “Harm him! Why, I’da sooner been gutshot!” He shook his head. “Last words he said to me were ‘See that my family gets the letter.’ When my unit was captured by the Yankees, I slipped away. Coulda headed south, to be with my wife an’ young’un.” The soldier frowned. “Came here instead, on account-a I gave your daddy my word.”

  Brynne tucked in one corner of her mouth. His voice, his face, even his stance communicated sincerity. The man was either a very good actor or telling the truth. It was all she could do to concentrate on keeping him in her gunsight. She wanted nothing more than to tear open the envelope. She wanted to shout for joy, for no one had heard from her father in so long that the family had begun to think…A sob ached in her throat as the blood pounded in her ears. Brynne tightened her grip on the rifle’s burled wood stock.

  “The Colonel told me he hadn’t heard a word from home in nigh on to a year,” he continued, “but that didn’t stop him from writin’ y’all ever’ week. Weren’t no easy feat, let me tell you, what with pencils and paper in such short supply, and one confounded Yankee or another tryin’ to blow us to smithereens at ever’ turn.”

  Brynne said nothing. As he talked, she felt her resolve ebbing away. Still, she trained the gun on him.

  The soldier looked toward the shrub to the right of the porch. “Forsythia ought to be buddin’ soon.” Meeting Brynne’s eyes, he added, “Your daddy said spring is your mama’s favorite time of year. Your brother’s, too.” He brightened some. “Speakin’ of Edward, did he make it home all right? Last the Colonel heard, the boy had got himself shot down in Nashville.”

  Brynne’s brows drew together as she attempted to make sense of all he’d said. If he was the type who could steal a coat from a dead man, he was the type who could use force to extract personal facts from a dying man. “How do you know so much about my family?”

  Despite his raggedy uniform and haggard face, he stood taller to say, “Fought alongside your daddy ever’ day for a year. We had time a-plenty to talk ‘bout families. Got me a son back home, name of Ezra, like in the Bible.” His eyes took on a faraway look as he smiled wanly and added, “Weren’t even walkin’ when I left, but he’ll turn four in a month.”

  Brynne watched as tears glistened in his eyes. He shook his head, as if to summon his former control. He spoke with the dulcet tones of a southern gentleman, she couldn’t deny that. But what if like Ross, he’d been born with a gift for emulating accents? And where was his gun? Edward had told her that no self-respecting soldier went anywhere without his standard-issue six pounder. “Where’s your rifle, soldier?”

  He nodded toward the end of the long, winding drive. “Hid it in the bushes ‘longside the road,” he said, grinning sheepishly. “Didn’t think it’d be smart to come down here, wearin’ a Union coat and brandishin’ artillery!”

  Something told her he was everything he professed himself to be. Lord, she prayed, if he isn’t a Southerner, show me a sign; help me protect Moorewood.

  When a minute ticked silently by, and no such proof materialized, Brynne lowered the gun. “Tell me, soldier, when was the last time you had a decent meal?”

  Patience had never been one of Brynne’s strong suits. If the letter had been addressed to Amelia Carter instead of the whole Carter family, she would have waited to read it until her mother returned from the Andersons’. But this was Mary Anderson’s first baby, and Brynne knew how long it sometimes took to bring a firstborn into the world. Her mother might be away for hours yet.

  She lit a flame under the big kettle on the cookstove to heat up the vegetable soup she’d cooked for supper last night. Without any meat to flavor it, it was thin and watery, but she figured it would make a fine snack for the hungry soldier after his bath. Pouring herself a cup of tea, Brynne sat at the kitchen table and began
to read.

  December 1, 1864

  My dearest family,

  I can only hope this reaches you. It seems the only messages getting through these days are from general to general!

  No doubt you’ve tried to contact me since I left Moorewood in ‘62, but only the letter dated December 22, 1863 reached my homesick hands. I have read it so often, I could recite every word by heart.

  December 5, 1864

  Fell asleep at the General’s writing table, and was awakened by artillery fire to the south. This is the first opportunity I’ve had to get back to the writing.

  I’m sure you’ve heard by now that supplies are scarce for our side. I won’t insult you by denying it, but I will assure you I am fine. “Every cloud has a silver lining,” or so the sages say. One bright side of this dismal war has been that I’ve learned to appreciate cornmeal mush. Think what a good example I’ll set for our little grandson when at last I’m home again!

  I’m told the blame for our food shortage rests squarely on the shoulders of the governors, who demand “protocol” be followed to the letter. I have half a mind to run for office myself if this miserable war ever ends, and as my first official duty, I’ll pass a law making arrogance and self-importance illegal!

  Colonel William Lamb has been an able leader. Fort Fisher is the strongest fortification constructed by either side. We are nearly two thousand men strong and have fifty powerful guns at our disposal. All landward approaches are protected by palisades, with land mines buried around the perimeter. As I told you in one of my earlier letters, the only way the Yanks can get us here is if they should attack by both land and sea.

  Often, I find myself comparing our situation to that of our forefathers. When the Minutemen stood up against the British nearly a hundred years ago, they, too, lived off the land. Some of our boys are calling themselves “The Savages” instead of “The Confederates,” because they’ve taken to trapping varmints and eating them raw so the shooting and the cookfires won’t give away our position. I can almost picture you, my sweet Brynne, wrinkling your nose at that one!

  January 1, 1865

  Now, where was I?

  If we’re to believe the latest scuttlebutt, Southern agents are overseas, begging for shoes, clothing, medicines, ammunition, and firearms. If you ask me, this war is serving no purpose other than to make the French and the English rich! But enough talk of politics.

  I hope all is well in Spring Creek. I think of Moorewood and everyone there often. But it is you, my darling wife, that I remember most. In the dark of night, when all is silent, I picture your beautiful eyes. If I close my own eyes in the light of day, I can imagine myself touching your velvet-brown hair. When the skies darken with storm clouds, I have only to think of your smile, and I see blue skies. You are my heaven in the hell that is this war.

  Oh, how I yearn for the day when I return. That is the tonic that warms me when cold winds blow. And neither the cannons’ blast nor the rifles’ report can blot your loving voice from my memory.

  Your love has sustained me thus far, my darling, and it will keep me safe until this dreadful fight is won. I promise to move heaven and earth to come home to you. Please never stop believing that I will come back to you.

  Well, the bugler is blowing, and I must muster the troops. There’s a rumor afloat that the Union has sent ships to test our mettle. If that’s true, the Yanks are in for a rude awakening, for they’ll be “welcomed” by a fierce defense of the Stars and Bars!

  Sleep deeply and well, Amelia, and know that as you do, I’ll be dreaming of you. All of you are in my prayers—Amelia my dear wife, my beloved daughter Brynne, my brave son Edward and his sweet wife Julia, and last but not least, my little grandson Richie.

  All my love, eternally, to all of you,

  Richard

  Chapter 2

  Hours later, snuggled deep in the cushions of her window seat, Brynne drew up her knees. With trembling fingers, she held the pages on which her father had created a link between the scarred battlefield and his home. She brushed them against her cheek, as if the feel of them could replicate the gentleness of her father’s touch.

  Her dark eyes drank in every word that described the torment and suffering of war, as she hoped against hope that he would survive it, as her brother had. Yes, Edward had hobbled home on crude wooden crutches, but he would walk on his own again eventually.

  Something told Brynne she ought to put the letter away the moment she began reading the loving words her father had written to her mother. Tall and powerfully built, no one—not even his only daughter—would have guessed that inside this burly man beat the heart of an incurable romantic. Captivated by his endearments, by his confessions of the deep and abiding love he felt for her mother, Brynne read on, despite the fact that doing so made her feel a bit like an interloper.

  Will a man ever love me as Father loves Mother? she sighed dreamily.

  Quickly, she got hold of her emotions. Not very likely, she told herself, tucking the letter back into its soot-rimmed envelope. Ross Bartlett had been the only one to woo her, but he had tossed her aside for a fancy Boston-schooled girl.

  Like her father and brother, Brynne’s fiancé had gone off to war. But unlike Richard and Edward, Ross had decided to live by the code of the jungle: “Survival of the fittest” became his battle cry, and he sold himself to the highest bidder. With nary a backward glance, he turned on Virginia—on all the South—by putting his talents for mimicking accents to use as a double agent. Ross’s spying paid off quite handsomely, she’d heard. And one of his rewards had been the hand of a wealthy general’s daughter.

  To add insult to injury, Brynne learned of his marriage from Camille Prentice when the girl returned from Massachusetts where she had been visiting relatives when the war started. If Ross had given her the news in a letter, that would at least have been preferable to hearing it from Camille’s smirking lips.

  Common sense told her that her wounded pride would eventually heal, but her shattered spirit would not. Much as she yearned for it, Brynne believed she would never know love as her mother knew it. Because, to put it plainly, she didn’t trust her judgement when it came to men.

  Laying her father’s letter aside, she thought of her conversation with Trevor earlier. Because Richard had described Brynne as a strong young woman, Trevor had felt free to tell her the truth, with no frills or soft touches.

  “I did my best to bind his wounds,” Trevor had said quietly, reverently, “but he was bleeding badly. Last I saw of him, the confounded Bluebellies were loading him onto a wagon.”

  Trevor said that he’d hidden in the trees until the Yankees headed north. His intent was to follow them, and when they bedded down for the night, he’d set his comrades free. But he hadn’t eaten in days, and he carried a Union lead ball in his own leg. Bleeding and near starved, he’d hadn’t been able to keep up, he admitted dismally, and he lost their trail.

  The tears she’d blinked back earlier flowed freely now. Her wounded, weakened father had been roughly carted off to a prisoner of war camp. She’d heard about those places, so crowded and dirty that even younger, healthier men had died within their confines. He was dead, and suddenly she couldn’t continue to pretend otherwise.

  Brynne threw back her shoulders and lifted her chin. Drying her tears on the backs of her hands, she took a deep breath and rose from the window bench. Grieve Papa’s passing later, she told herself. For now, you must be strong and brave, for Mama.

  No doubt when Amelia returned from the Andersons’, she’d be exhausted. With one last sniff, Brynne marched toward the kitchen and started supper. After the rest of the family heard her news, only little Richie was likely to be hungry. But cooking would give her something to concentrate on besides her father’s letter.

  “Why so glum?” her brother said from the kitchen doorway.

  No point in telling the story more than once, she decided. Hopefully, by the time their mother returned, Trevor would have awaken
ed from his nap, and he could explain to all of the Carters at the same time.

  She felt him studying her face for a moment, and she worried he might want to know why she’d been crying. She prayed he wouldn’t ask.

  God saw fit to answer her brief prayer, for Edward lifted the lid of the pot she’d just sealed. “Mmm, smells delicious.” Then, wrinkling his nose, he added, “What is it?”

  “Potato soup.”

  “How many potatoes are in there? One?”

  “No, two. But there’s a piece of an old turnip, too.” She gave the back of his hand a gentle pat with her wooden spoon. “Now put the lid back on so the flavors won’t escape. I’m rationing the herbs and spices, you know.”

  Edward affectionately mussed her hair. “Anything you say, sister dear…provided I’ll get a bowl when it’s time.”

  The day Edward left to fight, Amelia had insisted that his wife and son move into the big house with her and Brynne. “What will we do with all this space, just the two of us?” she’d asked in her typical lighthearted way. “Besides, I wouldn’t sleep a wink, worrying about Julia and my grandson, alone over there on the other side of the knoll with all these Yankees prowling about.”

  Brynne had come to think of Julia as the sister she’d never had, and of four-year-old Richie as a young brother. If her brother and his family ever moved back into their own home, Brynne thought she’d die of loneliness.

  “Of course you’ll have a bowl.” She wiggled her eyebrows and winked. “And maybe, if you fetch me a bucket of water for my dishpan, I’ll dip you up a second bowl….”

  Grinning, he dampened her cheek with a noisy kiss. “What will two buckets get me?”

  “Sparkling clean dishes, that’s what,” she responded, grinning right back. “Now get on out of here before I take the broom to your backside!”

  Edward stood at attention and saluted. “Yes’m,” he said, and headed for the door.

  It still broke her heart to watch him walk—but not as it had when first he’d returned from Nashville in November of ‘64, minus his left leg.