And One Rode West (32 page)

Wine was served. A Bordeaux that they had carefully packed with them for special occasions. To Jeremy’s surprise, Christa drained her glass immediately.

It was refilled. The men were serving them without a flaw.

“Mrs. McCauley,” Sherman complimented Christa, “you have done remarkably well with practically nothing to work with here in the wild.”

She was sipping her wine again. She smiled sweetly. “Well, I’ve years of training! I am a southerner, sir, very accustomed to doing the best one can with nothing! And even that nothing was so easily snatched away!”

“She should have been in the field,” Jeremy said pleasantly, his fingers curling tightly over hers. Their eyes met. Christa flushed, snatching her fingers away.

Once again, silence fell over the table. Sergeant Jaffe and his crew served the main dish.

Christa’s wineglass was refilled. She wanted to drain it once again. She was a Cameron. Southern belle or no, she had shared wine—and whiskey—with her brothers on plenty of occasions.

Since the baby, it made her ill. She needed it tonight. She couldn’t do more than sip at it.

Jeremy asked the general to join him in a whiskey, and it was brought.

“Lord, but whiskey is in plenty out here in the wilderness! And to think it was not so long ago there were places we had none and soldiers screamed beneath the amputation saws!” Christa said.

It was shocking dinner conversation.

“She’s so accustomed to her brother being a doctor!” Jeremy said, slipping an arm around her. His fingers threaded tightly into her hair. He smiled icily
while turning her beautiful face toward his. “Beat you, eh?” he whispered softly. “I’m going to tan you to within an inch of your life!” he promised.

She smiled, gritting her teeth against the pain of his hold.

“Of course, it’s true,” she told Sherman sweetly. “We did survive much better in my part of Virginia than did those who lived off the land farther south. All of that deprivation, in comparison, makes the trail much, much easier to endure!”

Jeremy started to step into the breach, but inadvertently Clara Jennings did so.

“Well, I don’t think that I shall ever be happy on the trail. The bugs! The rain. The terror of the Indians!”

“All trials the good Lord sends for us to endure, so that we see to the error of our ways!” Mrs. Brooks advised.

“Ah, well. The good Lord seemed fond of sending us southerners many trials!” Christa murmured, with a smile that seemed to make light of her comment. “We were ever afraid of Yankees invading, especially after having heard that our good General Sherman was on the march. Having lived with that fear so very long, I cannot worry too much about simple heathens like Comanche!”

“But as you said, you are a Virginian, Mrs. McCauley. I cut my path through Georgia and Carolina.”

“We were ever in sympathy with our more southernly sisters!”

Her eyes were wide. Her tone was innocent. Christa knew how to cut to the bone. Sherman might long to strike her, Jeremy thought.

But apparently, the general had taken her on as a challenge. He leaned closer to her, speaking softly. “I swear to you, Mrs. McCauley, I fought a war the best, and oddly, the most merciful way I knew how. I offered generous terms of surrender. So generous that
Secretary of War Stanton slandered me, calling me a traitor in numerous publications. I renegotiated with Joe Johnston as I was ordered, ma’am, but I was ever sorry that my original terms did not stand, for they were right, honest, and good.”

Christa appeared just a little bit pale. Maybe Sherman had managed to touch something inside her.

“I’m a soldier, Mrs. McCauley, not a politician. It’s to the politicians now to reconstruct state governments. It is to the sorrow of all good men when those chosen for such tasks do not prove themselves equal to them.”

“Reconstruction is a bitter thing!” she said.

Jeremy stood, thinking that this company would be fool enough to stop him if he did set his fingers around her throat. He dragged her to her feet nevertheless.

“We’ve music. Shall we dance while the plates are cleared and dessert is served?”

The suggestion was well met. He pulled Christa along with him over to Nathaniel. “Nat, how about a jig on that fiddle for me, please. A lively dance tune.”

Nathaniel nodded. A private who had been standing in the shadows behind the spinet piano stepped forward and took a seat.

The music was coming a little early. It didn’t matter. Nat and the private broke into a lively rendition of “Turkey in the Straw.”

Jeremy held Christa in his arms, whirling her through the song. Beneath the cover of the music, he gave her fair warning once again.

“One more thing, Christa. Just one.”

Her eyes were blazing. The wine was giving her courage. She tossed her hair back. “And what?” she challenged. She didn’t let him answer but rushed on. “You had no right to do this! No right at all to expect me to meet that man—”

“He’s been exceedingly gracious. He’s made every attempt to be pleasant—”

“And that atones for what he did to my people?” she said incredulously.

“Christa, the war is over!”

He felt a tap on his shoulder.

Sherman.

There was nothing to do but relinquish his wife to the general.

He did so, then stepped back, watching the pair. They talked animatedly throughout the dance. What was being said?

The music ended. Sherman led Christa back to him. Just as she reached him, her back went very stiff.

The men were playing a new tune in honor of their guest.

It was called “Marching Through Georgia.”

The company began to sit. Christa’s eyes were on his. He led her back to her chair, but she didn’t sit.

“I think that I shall help with the entertainment,” she murmured, pulling away.

He watched her walk to the spinet and speak with the private. He rose, and she sat.

She started off gently. As strawberries and cream were served, Christa played and sang.

She sang “When This Cruel War Is Over,” a song so heart-wrenching that many commanders had ordered that it not be played in camps, for desertions often followed its playing.

It went well enough. Both troops embraced the song. She went on to “Amazing Grace.” She had a beautiful voice, crystal clear, sweet, and pure, and she played just as beautifully.

Of course she played beautifully. She’d been bred and trained to play beautifully, to sing like a lark, to flutter her eyelashes, to rule like a queen. She’d spent years learning all the subtle arts so as to marry a man
like Liam McCloskey, to supervise his household, to entrance his guests.

Perhaps she had prepared more for a military life than she had ever intended. The whole tent seemed enraptured. They were seldom treated to such a lovely display in the wild. She was doing it all on purpose, he knew.

She had them all!

She slipped into a song called “Southern Girl,” a song in defiance of the Union, and went on to “I’m a Good Old Rebel,” a song for those Rebels determined to die in rebellion. To make absolutely sure that no one could miss just where her loyalties lay, she broke into a soft, heartrending edition of “Dixie.”

A wondrous finale. He couldn’t say a word about it. Lincoln had ordered it played in honor of the South before that fateful night at Ford’s Theater. Jeremy’s own troops had played it before they left Richmond.

While the last echoes of the music remained on the air, Christa rose from the spinet.

Celia Preston began the applause.

General Sherman seconded it mightily.

Christa bowed low in a mocking curtsy. She rose and her eyes met Jeremy’s. He could have sworn that for a moment she was very still, and that a slight tremor swept through her.

“Gentlemen, ladies, you will excuse me?” she pleaded politely, offering one of her beautiful smiles to the whole group. “I tire so easily!”

They all tripped over themselves to excuse her!

Jeremy awaited her at the exit from the tent, arms crossed over his shoulders. A flush suffused her cheeks as she looked up at him. Her lashes quickly lowered. “Excuse me.”

He caught hold of her arm. To anyone viewing them, he might have been whispering the sweetest endearments.

“They might have excused you, my love. But be forewarned. I most certainly do not! When I get my hands on you, Christa …”

He let the warning trail away. She pulled away from him, her eyes blazing. She was flushed. Was it the wine, was it her temper, or the heat?

“Good night, Colonel.” Her words were definite. Mistress of Cameron Hall definite.

He smiled, his fingers itching to touch her. If she had been determined to single-handedly destroy his career, she was well on her way tonight. It was good that Sherman, remarkably, had a sense of humor.

He still blocked Christa.

“I said, good night, Colonel,” she enunciated carefully. “The night is over!”

His smile deepened. “Oh no, Christa,” he assured her. “The night has just begun for you.”

She pulled away from him and exited the tent. He let her go.

He would find her in time.

She had nowhere to go.

Fourteen

Christa did find somewhere to go.

Jeremy remained with the company of officers and their wives while Nathaniel began the strains of “Beautiful Dreamer.” A number of the ladies patted their fans and assured him that they understood Christa’s exhaustion.

He refrained from telling them that Christa had spent perhaps three weeks with some discomfort, but since then had seemed to feel more healthy than most of his men. He listened gravely to Sherman’s warnings about the Indians, and he danced with a number of the women including Clara Jennings, a feat that did not in the least ease his temper.

By the time he left, he’d heard half the company cluck over what a beautiful and brave figure his wife was, poor child, always doing her best to make do.

That didn’t improve his temper much either.

He was not far from his own tent. When he had said good night to the last of the guests, he strode the few feet to it, angrily jerking open the flap.

She wasn’t there.

Fear drove into his heart, and while it did so he tried to assure himself that nothing could have happened to
her. They were too large a camp, too well armed for the Comanche to attack.

He spun around, nearly crashing into Robert Black Paw. “She is by the river, some distance from the tents. I left Private O’Malley to guard her. I didn’t know whether to bring her back or not. She is beyond the circle of our night guard. I’m afraid she strays too far.”

“I’ll bring her back myself, Robert. Thank you.”

The scout nodded and disappeared into the blackness of the night. Jeremy started the long walk down to the river. Near its edge, he found Private O’Malley and sent the young man back to camp. He walked through the trees himself, amazed that Christa would have come here, so far from the camp. He saw her, standing with one foot upon a log, staring into the cold black water. The folds of her skirt fell elegantly about her, her hair cascaded down her back like a wing of the night. If any young Comanche brave had come upon her so, he would have thanked the gods for his incredible good fortune.

The thought spurred his anger, and he thrashed on through the trees, his eyes narrowed on her. She heard him coming and spun around, her eyes wide. The look on his face must have been as savage as his temper because she turned to run, when there was nowhere to run. She had barely taken a step before he was upon her, swinging her around and against a tree trunk.

“Get your hands off me!” she commanded him quickly.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

She interrupted instantly. “Jeremy, your swearing is excessive—”

“And you can swear with more ferocity than any mule driver I know. I repeat, what the hell are you doing?”

“Looking at the river. I needed some fresh air.”

“So you just walked away from the camp?”

“All right, I needed to be away from you. And your Yankee company!”

“And you didn’t give a damn that I’d come back, worried sick, wondering if the Comanche hadn’t walked off with you?”

“I—” She faltered for just a second, then lifted her chin. “I thought that you’d be occupied, impressing the great general! The man who won a war by starving innocent women and children.”