Honor Bound (Shades of Gray Civil War Serial Trilogy Volume II)

by Jessica James

  Hunter saw Andrea’s eyes light up at the comment as if that somehow made the enterprise even more enticing. Then her green eyes grew turbulent as she stared at him impatiently. “I will assume the risk.” She stomped her foot to confirm her agitation at his reluctance.

  Hunter stared at her thoughtfully for another long moment. “In light of your excitable temperament,” he finally said in his calm, monotone voice, “I think it best to keep gunpowder out of your hands.”

  He stood back and waited for Andrea’s reaction.

  “Excitable temperament?” Her face turned red with emotion and she threw her arms up in the air in disgust. “Why must you go through life under the illusion that you can handle everything alone?”

  Hunter suddenly tossed the weapon toward her roughly. Andrea caught it with one hand, as he knew she would, though it was so heavy she nearly lost her balance in the process.

  “The same illusion you are under, Miss Evans?” He turned his back to her and began reloading one of his revolvers. Andrea was apparently too elated to hear the sarcasm in his voice.

  “I know you are not accustomed to having your judgment contradicted, Major,” she said with something of triumph in her voice as she stared at the large weapon in her hands, “and therefore I must heartily applaud your indulgence.”

  Hunter flung her a look of disgust.

  “I would make every effort not to fire that if I were you,” he said. “It is loaded with buck and ball, and has quite a little power.”

  That comment elicited nothing but another smile, as Andrea stared at the gun with a look of excited awe and admiration, as a child beholds a shiny new toy.

  “Do you not think I can stand a little kick, sir?”

  Hunter gave her an agitated glare of bewilderment and then changed the subject.

  “Confound it, why do you insist on always calling me, sir,” he said with a tone of annoyance.

  “I’m sorry…Major Hunter.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” He shook his head in frustration. “Never mind.”

  Andrea just shrugged, and then calmly picked up one of the revolvers still lying on his desk. “I’ll feel more comfortable with this as well.”

  Hunter wheeled around and grabbed her wrist.

  “Not so fast,” he said, as he took the weapon back, shaking his head at her boldness. Unlocking a small drawer in a cabinet in the corner of the room, he pulled out a revolver, turned, and held it out to her. “Here, you may have this one.”

  Andrea actually squealed like a child when she saw the instrument. It was the Colt revolver that J.J. had given her. The one she had been forced to drop the night she met Hunter in the farm lane on Stump.

  She stared at the gun in his extended hand, obviously thinking it had been lost forever.

  “Take it,” he said, thrusting it toward her again.

  Hunter watched as she took the large weapon with her small, feminine hand, wrapping her slender fingers around the handle with the expertise of one who is perfectly familiar with its weight and balance.

  “Looks like Cinderella has been matched with her slipper,” Hunter said sarcastically.

  Truth be told, he still found it hard to believe that the bold, fearless rider of that night and the young lady in front of him were one and the same. How could that slight figure have controlled a half-ton animal that he himself had trouble restraining? How could that blond-haired beauty have ridden so brazenly into Stuart’s camp, conversing with his men as casually as if she were a socialite greeting her guests?

  “Thank you Major,” she said, ignoring his comment and checking the weapon for rounds. “I think we are both well aware of the great persuasive properties of a six-shooter.”

  She laughed lightly and then looked him in the eye. “Do you remember telling me that victories can be won by moral force? That is to say the terror of death rather than death itself?” Andrea thrust the gun casually into her skirt pocket with the handle conveniently exposed, and did not wait for his reply. “That fear is my intent.”

  “Unfortunately Miss Evans, you do not have the self-control that inspires confidence in satisfying that intention,” Hunter responded as he studied her bold—bordering on reckless—expression.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I allude to your temper.”

  “My temper has nothing to do with the exercise at hand.”

  “On the contrary,” Hunter replied, his voice strained. “Your excitable temperament requires a restraining influence, which I suppose will have to be me. And I entreat you to use discretion.”

  Andrea smiled as she lightly touched the gun in her pocket as if for reassurance. “Do not fret. I have the reins well in hand.”

  In the words she spoke and in the tone she used, it was clear that the restraining influence to which he referred would be unheeded. She would accomplish the deed her way or not at all.

  “For once Miss Evans, please allow reason to hold the reins.”

  When Andrea turned abruptly to leave the room with no further comment, Hunter took a step to block her path.

  “Much as you apparently relish the smell of burning powder,” he said with a tone of forced calm, “may I impart on you the necessity of caution.”

  Hunter believed that perhaps she had a particular aversion to the word itself, and her next comment confirmed his suspicion.

  “Oh, la…I prefer to believe that boldness—like honesty—is the best policy.”

  Hunter put his hand on her shoulder, and spoke in a voice that he hoped was calm, yet stern. “As I said, I prefer that you use some discretion and prudence.”

  “I will do everything in my power not to unnecessarily discharge my weapon,” Andrea snapped. “But rashness is not a crime. And boldness is not incompatible with caution.”

  “Says who?” Hunter asked, cocking his head to one side skeptically.

  “I am not a child, Major, though I dare say you think me so,” she fired back in a resentful voice. “Haven’t I already proven I know how to shoot?”

  Hunter looked into her eyes and noticed they were shining with something akin to eagerness. Preparing to face danger had managed to bring new vitality to her soul, and his heart started a panicky beat against his chest. She apparently had no more sense of fear than a man-eating tiger chasing down its prey. He wanted to retract his authorization, but knew the resulting clash would not be worth the effort.

  “You needn’t worry about my discretion.” She smiled at him now, as if to put him at ease. “I’ll take no unnecessary chances with my firearm.” Then she lifted her chin with a characteristic gesture of defiance, turned in a flurry of skirts and headed toward the door. It appeared she was trying to walk calmly, but more closely resembled a horse straining against the bit.

  “I am more worried about the discharge of your tongue than your weapon,” Hunter said under his breath, in a tone not meant for her ears. But Andrea heard nonetheless, stopped in mid-stride and reeled to face him, her face livid.

  “You would be wise to place your fears with her royal highness instead of me,” she said through gritted teeth, nodding toward the upstairs. “I would not want her majesty’s squealing, should she be somehow disturbed from her bawling, to interfere with my aim.

  She spoke no more, but turned away with proud defiance. With a shotgun in one hand and a cane in the other, she walked confidently from the room.

  “Be careful,” Hunter said again. But Andrea showed no disposition to heed his warning. In fact, it appeared she would be more likely to pick a battle with the devil himself—just for the thrill of the fight.

  Chapter 38

  If passion drives, let reason hold the reins.

  – Benjamin Franklin

  By the time the outlaws rode up the drive, Andrea was leaning nonchalantly against the front pillar of the home for support, the heavy shotgun resting comfortably on her hip.

  “May I help you gentlemen?” she asked p
olitely, her voice as clear and sweet as if she was asking if they desired a cold glass of tea. One could not suppose by her tone or countenance that her pulse was accelerated in the least by the unfolding event.

  “Came to get some horses from you secesh,” the leader said. There were four others behind him, but this too seemed to initiate no cause for concern from Andrea.

  “I can assure you that is not the case. Everyone in this home is loyal.”

  Hunter, who was watching from the front parlor window, noticed she didn’t elaborate on who everyone in the house was loyal to—and that she no doubt took great pride in the fact that she hadn’t had to lie.

  “Anyway,” she said, nodding towards the paddocks. “As you can see, others have been through here before you and taken our best stock. There’s nothing left but the broken down mounts you see there.”

  As everyone’s attention was turned toward the paddocks, Hunter noticed a movement in the doorway of the barn. He knew it was a signal from Carter that he was in position to help if the necessity arose.

  Hunter’s gaze went back to the leader of the small band, who had dismounted. He stumbled slightly as he walked toward Andrea, making it obvious that liquor was a supporting factor in his courage.

  “Well now, young lad-ee, no need to get alarmed.” The unshaven man licked his lips as he talked as if anticipating an extreme pleasure as he began to walk toward her. “Maybe we’ll just take a little look around anyhows.”

  The others started to dismount as well until Andrea raised the gun, leveling it from her hip to the first man’s midsection. Hunter could see the side of her face, and it appeared she regarded the approaching deserter to be about as menacing as a curious calf, for she still carried upon her face a perfectly composed smile.

  The man walking toward her paused as if he too noticed the look and was not expecting it.

  “Now, how would a purdy little thing like you know how to use a big ‘ol gun like that?” he asked laughing, looking over his shoulder at his comrades for support. They nodded and laughed as well, their expressions smiling, yet sinister.

  “To tell the truth,” Andrea responded, leaning forward as if confiding in him, “I’ve never shot a gun such as this in my life.”

  She lowered the weapon.

  Hunter’s heart began pounding so loudly he didn’t think he’d be able to hear anything else. Now is a grand time to start telling the truth!

  He cocked his gun and held his breath, certain he was going to have to get involved now. She had not bothered to inform him she had never fired a shotgun. Cautious? Ha. That girl obviously did not know the meaning of the word.

  “But,” Andrea continued without missing a beat, “I can shoot the head off a hummingbird with this.” Pulling the revolver out of her pocket as she spoke, and without pausing to take aim, she fired a shot toward the ground that appeared to split apart the leather at the tip of the man’s boot. He yelped and jumped backward, raising his arms over his head, no longer venturing to doubt the assertion of her acquaintance with firearms.

  Hunter let out his breath. She was grace under fire. There were few men who could use a gun as dexterously, and he knew that that shot was solely for his benefit.

  “And,” Andrea continued in a sweet-toned voice, as she nonchalantly put the smoking revolver back in her pocket. “Even a purdy little thing like me knows she can hit you from here with this.” She lifted the shotgun back to her hip, and gurgled with a sort of half-suppressed laughter. “With my eyes closed.”

  The man looked dumbfounded, but seemed to be trying to decide if she was bluffing.

  “There will be no more warning shots.” She brought the gun up a little higher, and spoke in a low voice as if to him alone. “If you take another step, you and I will both have the pleasure of discovering the power and effect of this gun.”

  Hunter closed his eyes. Her tone belayed to him, and no doubt to the men, that she wanted to see just what the gun would do—and that she would rejoice in having the chance to find out.

  “We don’t want no trouble, ma’am.” The man definitely sensed it too. He kept his hands in the air.

  “Then I propose,” Andrea said calmly, “by the power vested in me…” She glanced down at the gun and placed her finger on its trigger, so they could all be sure from where the power came, “that you take advantage of one of two choices.”

  Andrea’s voice was no longer sweet and the men no longer looked so menacing.

  “You can get back on your horse and ride out of here, which I strongly suggest.” She paused for effect. “Or you can prepare to meet your Maker.”

  The voice she used now had a loud, bone-chilling quality about it. That, coupled with the fact that she had raised the gun up to her shoulder, caused the dismounted man to look to his comrades for help, but they were already turning their horses around, and signaling to other men who were still riding up that they were not planning to stay.

  “Have a good day,” Andrea said, as he backed to his horse, mounted, and then galloped out the lane at a noticeably faster pace than he had come in.

  Hunter strode out of the house without speaking and took the gun from Andrea’s grasp.

  “I’ll go get the horses,” was all he said as he started down the porch steps. He was beginning to understand her. Danger to her was like a drug. She seemed to need a dose of it as oxygen.

  “Tell me,” he said, turning back around and giving her a look of perplexed consternation. “Do you feel most comfortable when standing on the edge of eternity?”

  Andrea seemed confused by the question.

  “That was nowhere near the edge, Major. In case you did not notice, they elected not to engage.

  Hunter stared at her in silence for a moment, trying unsuccessfully to read her mind. “Then I suppose you consider what you just did as being the most prudent and cautious way to accomplish your means.”

  Andrea’s jaw dropped in surprise and annoyance. “Of course. A reckless person would never have given them the benefit of a warning shot.”

  She gave him a devilish smile then as she nodded toward the shotgun, her mind already on other things.

  “Perhaps you will allow me the honor of firing that some day,” she said. “It need not be at a man…necessarily.”

  Hunter did not answer, just shook his head and walked away.

  If death had a form, he thought to himself, she would laugh in its face and spit in its eye.

  Chapter 39

  What wound did ever heal but by degrees?

  Othello, William Shakespeare

  The sound of a kicking, squealing horse caught Hunter’s attention the moment he entered the barn a week later. He knew without looking that it was probably Justus. The horse, now fat and sleek, never disobeyed the inclination to lunge at the bars on the door at the sound of human footsteps, kicking the backboards at the same time out of pure belligerence.

  “Now there’s two of a kind if ever I saw them,” Hunter said under his breath as he compared the horse’s attitude toward confinement to that of his mistress. Both seemed equally rebellious and irritable, and he wondered whose manners had rubbed off on whom.

  Continuing down the wide aisleway, Hunter hurried toward another ruckus coming from an end stall.

  “You son of a bloody mule! Hold still!” Then, “I’m trying to help you, you blasted ornery son of a beast!”

  “Young lady, must you talk like a common soldier?” Hunter asked as he approached the stall.

  His question did not come in time to stop yet another string of fierce imprecations, as Andrea cursed all that was holy and, likewise, not-so-holy, about the horse she was apparently trying to subdue.

  “I didn’t know anyone was in the barn.” She did not sound the least bit apologetic.

  “And just because no one is here makes it all right?” Hunter shook his head at her logic.

  “If no one hears it but me, it doesn’t make it wrong. Anyway, the
horses don’t seem to mind in the least.”

  Hunter didn’t bother to argue or analyze her rationale. He knew neither one would do any good.

  “Since you’re here, perhaps you could give me a hand?” She breathed heavily from trying to hold the horse’s head and clean a severe wound to its neck at the same time.

  Hunter sighed and entered the stall, grabbing the halter of the large beast as, together, they pushed the animal against the wall. Holding the animal firmly in place with his weight, Andrea stepped between his arms and began her work. Hunter found himself holding his breath as she worked, very much aware of her lean body pressed against his.

  “There…all done.” She ducked out from under his arms. Hunter let the horse go—and his breath—and followed her out of the stall. He was about to warn her again about working on horses while alone in the barn, but decided against it. This was her sanctuary. And it did not appear likely she would care whether or not she had his authorization or permission to do the work.

  “What is she doing in here?” Hunter asked as his eyes fell upon Dixie in the next stall.

  “She’s got some heat and soreness in that right hind,” Andrea said unconcernedly as she entered the stall, and then knelt and felt the horse’s hind leg. “Probably a stone bruise.”

  Hunter waited for the horse to explode as she always did when someone other than himself touched her. But instead she stood patiently, nodding her head up and down as if enjoying the attention.

  Hunter’s eyes went from Andrea to Dixie and back again, but he did not comment.

  “Thought I’d let her rest in here a day or so. She seems to like being pampered.” Andrea leaned casually against the wall of the stall, surveying the mare with admiring eyes. “She is one superb animal.”

  Hunter laughed. “Most do not see anything in her but her surly temperament.”

  “She is magnificent,” Andrea defended the horse. “Anyway, I see nothing wrong with having an unruly disposition.”

  “Yes, I am sure you do not.”

  Andrea left the stall to rinse her hands in a nearby water trough.