by Tara Johnson
He propped a towel between her torso and her injured arm and then placed another under her elbow. “How does it feel?”
“Painful. Tingly. It alternates between sharp stabs of needles and numbness.” Her lips twisted in a rueful smile. “I suppose that’s a good thing, though.”
He nodded and scooted the water basin closer, dunking a clean cloth into it with his free hand. “Numb is better than pain.”
She swallowed. “How bad is it?”
“The bullet didn’t go through the bone. Nor did it lodge in your arm. At least not that I can see.”
“Just clipped, then.” She expelled a sigh. “That’s good.”
“Yes, but it’s a deep gash. Steady now. I need to wash it out.” He squeezed the clean water over her wound, cringing when her whole body stiffened. She made almost no sound. Just a strangled grunt in the back of her throat. As gingerly as possible, he cleaned the gash, saying nothing.
Sweat beaded on her face. “Say it.”
“Say what?”
She blew out a tight breath, her misery evident. “Say what you’re thinking.”
He frowned. “Time for the carbolic acid.” He poured a generous amount over the angry wound, his stomach fisting when strangled, guttural cries pushed past her clenched jaw. When the worst of it had passed and her breathing returned to normal, he patted the skin around her wound dry. “And what am I thinking?”
“That I’m a foolish girl.”
Pressing his lips into a line, he reached for the roll of clean bandages. “Granted.”
“You think I’m addled to want to be here, risking life and limb.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw, but he said nothing, knowing she was working up a full head of steam with or without his help. Instead, he wrapped the bandage around her arm, tying it off with thin strips of fabric to keep it in place.
“You think I can’t manage on my own. That I need you to keep me safe.”
He glared, anger churning his gut. “I do want to keep you safe, Cass. Is that so wrong?”
She thrust her chin out, radiating defiance. “I was the one who dragged you to safety at Ball’s Bluff. I don’t need you, or any man, telling me what to do.”
He jumped to his feet, his fists clenched. “Blast it, Cass, I’m not your father. You don’t have the first clue what I’m thinking.”
Rising to her own feet, she faced off against him. “Then tell me. Just say it!”
“Fine! I think you’re terrified.”
Her eyes narrowed to slits. “I am not terrified of you or anyone else.”
“Really?” He stepped so close they were a breath apart. “I think you’re so afraid, you can’t think straight.”
Something flickered in her expression, though her steely glare remained set. “I already told you at the hospital I was scared to trust you. Scared to trust anyone.”
“You’re not scared of me. You’re terrified of yourself.”
She jolted as if she’d been slapped, her brows lowering in fury. “Myself?”
His heart raced. “You’re terrified to admit you love me.”
Her face suddenly paled and she stepped back, unblinking. “I—I—”
Before she could protest, he cupped her jaw and crushed her to him, robbing them both of breath, of thought, of anything other than this moment.
Gentling his hold, he deepened his kiss until she melted against him. His heart hammered like a drum inside his chest. She was honey to his lips, silky softness to his fingertips. His body hummed in response when her right hand slid around his waist.
The darkroom door slammed open and a decidedly childish voice gasped. “I don’t believe it.”
Alarmed, Gabe broke away from Cassie with a start, his senses reeling. A small figure stood in the light of the open doorway.
Jonah.
With a growl, Gabe lurched forward and pulled Jonah inside, slamming the door behind him. “How many times have I told you to knock?”
Cassie cupped the elbow of her injured arm and backed away, her body shaking. Jonah’s gaze shifted between them, his jaw slack. Two bright splotches of red burned his cheeks. Gabe grew so warm, a bead of sweat rolled between his shoulder blades. He tugged his collar, desperate for air. “This isn’t what it looks like.”
Jonah stepped closer to Cassie, studying her strangely. “Take off your hat.”
She hesitated, then slowly obliged. He blinked, a small smile ghosting his lips. “You’re a woman.”
She stood straight, didn’t mumble or cower. Only nodded and licked her swollen lips. “Yes, I’m a woman.”
Gabe held his breath, unsure what Jonah would do.
A thick moment of quiet. Jonah burst into raucous laughter and slapped his knee. “If that ain’t the beatenest thing I ever saw! You fooled me, Turner! Got me good.”
Gabe cringed, fearing Jonah’s voice would carry past the walls. “Shh! Quiet! No one must know.”
The boy ducked his head and reddened, though his eyes still danced. “Sorry. I can’t believe it.” He stared at Cassie again, his smile contagious. “Why are you pretending to be a man?”
She pinched the bridge of her nose. “It’s a long story. Too long for this moment. Perhaps someday I’ll tell you all of it. Just know it was safer for me to enlist than any other choices I had.”
“You sure tricked me. I never saw a girl so good at acting like a man . . . excepting when you were kissing the photographer, that is.”
She blushed crimson. Gabe rubbed the back of his neck, longing to wring Jonah’s neck instead.
He swung his gaze to Gabe and glared. “Say, you knew Turner was a girl and never told me? I thought we were friends.”
Irritation prickled his back. “I only found out myself recently.”
Jonah wrinkled his freckled nose. “So the first thing you do is kiss her? Sounds like a pretty gross way to say howdy to me.”
Gabe ground his jaw. “What do you need, Jonah?”
“I heard the buglers talking about a fellow that rode in bleeding, and then Myers said he saw Turner hurt and that you’d offered to bandage him up.” The boy smirked wickedly.
Gabe paced, trying not to scowl at the meddling little soldier. “What now? Are you going to tell anyone?”
Jonah’s eyes rounded. “Of course not! What do you take me for? A Judas?” He shook his head and grinned. “This’ll be bully fun. Us three keeping a secret from everyone else?” He puffed out his chest proudly. “I can keep my lips shut.” He leaned in and winked. “I always did fancy being one of them detectives like that Pinkerton fellow I’ve heard about.”
Gabe exhaled heavily. Could Jonah keep Cassie’s secret? The boy who loved to talk, who caused more mischief than Jeff Davis himself?
Jonah moved to Cassie’s side. “I’m kind of surprised I took to you as fast as I did, Turner. I don’t usually cotton to girls.” He frowned. “Most of them are all smelly and sissified. Bossy too. But not you. You’re a nice one to be around. Say, what’s your real name?”
Cassie attempted a weak smile. “Just call me Turner. We don’t want any slips of the tongue.”
Jonah nodded seriously. “I better get back or Captain Johnston will be threatening me with cleaning out the bean pots again.” With a grin, he burst from the darkroom, leaving silence in his wake.
Gabe glanced back to Cassie, dread sitting like stones on his chest. “What are you thinking?”
She slumped heavily. “I think if Jonah Phifer knows, I’m in very big trouble.”
Chapter 26
APRIL 11, 1862
WILLIAMSBURG, VIRGINIA
Cassie kept waiting to be hauled away in irons, but nothing happened. Jonah must have been serious about keeping her secret, for three weeks had passed and her duties remained steady, even amid their ambitious trek up the river. It had been three weeks of pure misery crammed on the Vanderbilt steamer followed by a twenty-three-mile march through knee-high mud and squelchy marshes. The horses were exhausted, the soldiers half-sta
rving, and the rain relentless.
She’d caught only rare glimpses of Gabe in the melee pressing forward to Richmond. She ought to be grateful. His knifing accusation had rankled her enough to steal precious sleep. Her? Scared? Yet she couldn’t seem to put him from her mind. The truth was, she missed him. Desperately.
Even now, settled in front of her soggy tent on the spongy marshland, Cassie fought to keep her gaze from sifting through blue-clad men to find him. He was here somewhere.
“You are mighty quiet tonight, Turner.”
She jerked her head up and offered a tight smile to Sven as he settled his muscular frame across the fire from her. “Just listening.”
Sven nodded toward the dark-skinned contrabands huddled around their own fire, some of them praying, some of them lifting up their voices in song.
“‘Glory to God, he watches o’er his own. . . .’”
The soothing, lilting melodies settled around the camp like a sacred christening.
“Don’t let Turner fool you.” On Cassie’s right, Briggs puffed his pipe, cupping it between his thick, calloused fingers. “He’s been quieter than normal. And that’s saying something.”
“Maybe you’re missing someone back home, ja?”
More like I’m missing someone right here. How could she be so lonely when she was surrounded by people?
“Not really. Just tired.” She clenched her jaw before taking another sip of the bitter coffee in her cup. She grimaced. “Once more, we’re just sitting like squatters. It feels like Washington all over again.”
Briggs puffed and brooded. “I agree with you on that point.” He furrowed his black brows and glanced to make sure they weren’t being overheard. “Little Mac hasn’t done much of anything but send that aeronautic professor up and down in that hydrogen balloon of his.” He exhaled a plume of white smoke from between his whiskered lips. “No one needs to watch the Rebels’ position that often.”
Sven frowned. “I hear the Confederates are sitting in Yorktown, crowing about the ridiculous Union with their balloon rides. One of the pickets tell me they think we are too busy playing to fight.”
Irritation flared. “Why is General McClellan waiting to attack?”
Briggs tapped the pipe against the palm of his meaty hand. “If he continues to falter, he may not be our general much longer.”
Sven’s blue eyes rounded. “You think President Lincoln will replace him?”
“Shh!”
Briggs’s hiss of warning came none too soon. A moment later, Colonel Poe approached the three of them, gaze fixed on Cassie. “Private Turner, a word?”
She rose slowly on trembling limbs and followed him to his private tent, picking her way between soldiers lounging in the calm twilight around small fires dotting the hillside. She passed Jonah on her way inside the tent. His brows rose in question, but she merely shook her head and shadowed Poe, ducking into the tent’s hazy insides.
The sweet scent of cigar smoke curled around her. Several oil lamps were lit, casting a sleepy, honeyed glow over his quarters. Large maps were spread over his worktable, along with a handful of scrawled messages and fluttering letters stirred up by the evening’s breeze drifting through the tent flap. She snapped her gaze to his when he turned on his heel and studied her sharply. She gritted her teeth, willing herself to remain stoic, though her insides quivered like preserves.
“Do you consider yourself a moral person, Private Turner?”
Her mouth turned to cotton and she nearly choked. Did he know? Surely he must. He was baiting her, preparing to corner her in her own deceit.
Despite her hammering heart, she managed to croak out, “I’d like to believe so, sir.”
He turned to stand behind his paper-strewn table, his hands tucked behind his back. “I have an opportunity and am looking for the right man. The work requires moral courage, intelligence, and fortitude. I asked the regimental chaplain whom he would nominate for this particular work, and he recommended you above all others.”
Her thoughts scattered like leaves in a storm, tumbling and circling in spinning drifts. “I—I’m flattered, sir. But I don’t understand—”
Poe continued as if he hadn’t heard, jutting his chin and his sharp pointed goatee forward like the thrust of a bayonet. “Have you heard of Allan Pinkerton?”
She fought the urge to frown, not comprehending the line of questioning. “Yes, sir.”
“Then you know he is employed by President Lincoln. He has trained a network of spies, particularly in and around Richmond, some of whom were recently captured by the Confederacy and sentenced to death. Pinkerton and General McClellan are requesting me to send them bright, able-bodied men to assist their work.”
His meaning suddenly became clear. “You mean—?”
“Yes, Turner.” Poe’s dark eyes snapped with a determined glint. “I’m recommending you to be a spy for Pinkerton’s secret service.”
Gabe stomped toward Cassie’s tent, fury licking his insides like an inferno. Surely Jonah was mistaken. Cassie would never agree to anything so dangerous, so utterly foolish . . . would she?
The small fires lighting the hillside were dying, nothing more than hissing streams of blackened wood and smoke. The bugle call for sleep would sound any minute. Only a handful of soldiers lingered outside, the remaining few pulling the last drags of smoke from their cigarettes. He ignored their greetings, nearly running to Cassie’s quarters. As he approached, he could make out her slender build against the faint light as she threw out the dregs of her coffee into the bushes. Brushing off Briggs’s friendly hello, he marched up to Cassie and jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. “Private Turner, I must speak with you.”
Briggs chuckled. “You’re a mighty popular fellow tonight, Turner.”
Gabe turned on his heel to march toward the Whatsit, hearing her footfalls behind him. They walked quickly toward his darkroom wagon in silence. As soon as she stepped in, he slammed the door shut and spun to face her, thrusting his nose mere inches from her own. White-hot anger flooded his veins. “Tell me it’s not true.”
Her eyes widened, her eyebrows high. “What’s not true?”
“Jonah. Tell me he’s wrong. Tell me you didn’t accept Poe’s invitation to be a spy.”
She sucked in a harsh breath. “He heard us? He told you?”
It was true. He could see the resignation in her expression. Voice hoarse, he shook his head. “Why, Cass? Don’t you realize what will happen? Don’t you understand the danger you’ll be in? Spying for Pinkerton . . .” Bile rose in his throat. “It’s a death wish.”
Her large eyes searched his. “How could I not? It’s an opportunity to help. It might save lives.” She gestured toward the tents beyond his door. “Lives like those contrabands out there. And Colonel Poe asked me to help. How could I say no? The need is great. Since Pinkerton’s men were—” She stopped abruptly as if aware she’d shared too much.
Snatching his gaze away from hers, he leaned over the table and gripped the edges with white fingers. “What happened to them? To Pinkerton’s men?”
Her voice was soft. “They were captured.”
“I won’t let you do it, Cass. I can’t. You mean too much—”
“It’s not your decision to make.”
Panic tore at him. How could he make her see? “Why are you really choosing this? Are you sure you’re not hiding behind it?”
She opened her mouth to reply, then clamped her lips shut, her expression cold as ice. She turned to leave but glanced over her shoulder, searing him with a piercing glare. “My physical life and my soul are in the hands of my Creator. My safety is out of your control. You are so desperate to protect me.” Her expression flickered from anger to resigned sadness. “But whether I live or die is God’s decision. Not yours.”
Then she left, slamming the door behind her.
Gabe collapsed into his chair, digging his fingers into his scalp and twisting his hair. His chest constricted as he muttered, “You’re not
fooling the Almighty, and you’re not fooling me either, Cassie Kendrick.”
He was suddenly back in time, watching his father wobble on the edge of sanity. Seeing his mother slowly work her life away. He was helpless, unable to fix it. Unable to stop the swell of horror gaining speed and creeping toward them.
Only this time, Cassie would be swept away in the crushing tide, leaving him bereft and alone. He couldn’t let her destroy herself.
He wouldn’t.
Dear Gabriel,
I write this on behalf of Jacob, who is currently in the hospital. The poor man was distraught, fearing you would think the worst of him if he did not write with haste. He tremendously enjoyed your last post and declares he feels like a soldier fighting alongside our brave boys after reading your descriptive reflections on life among the ranks.
As promised, I am doing my utmost to look after Jacob, cantankerous though he may be at times. He shoos me away when I hover, yet his eyes betray him. He enjoys the attention. My daughter is taking care of Sophocles while the dear man recovers from the influenza.
He has been under the hospital’s care for nearly a fortnight and has already received a bill for services. I continually pester him about his finances, but he refuses to tell me if he has adequate funds to pay. I mention this only because he has confided in you before. Does he have sufficient funds? If he knew I were asking you such a thing, he would consider me obnoxiously inquisitive, and rightly so. I only desire to know if he has a need. I can contribute to any financial necessities that may arise. It is born out of concern on my part. Nothing more.
As soon as he is settled back at his apartment, Jacob insists he will write. Please, tell him nothing of my inquiry. The man is vexed enough that is he bound to bed. We need not add his bruised pride to his list of grievances.
We are praying for your safety. May Providence bless and keep you.
With kind regards,
Esther Whitmore
Gabe lowered the letter. Jacob was ill. Hospitalized and, as Esther implied, possibly unable to pay his bills in full. All because he’d given his funds to Gabe.
