by Tara Johnson
Gabe’s face looked etched in stone. A fury unlike anything she’d witnessed in him darkened his face. But the brute tightened his hold on her bruised wrists.
“I don’t think Sergeant Shaffer would be pleased to know you assaulted the wife of the photographer he welcomed to camp.”
The odious man shifted. “Sergeant Shaffer?”
Gabe took a menacing step forward, his teeth gritted. “Release. My. Wife.”
The brute shoved her forward with a growl. She fell into Gabe’s arms and sucked in a deep breath, her legs quivering like jelly.
Wrapping his arm around her, Gabe glared, his voice low and unyielding. “I suggest you leave before I report your conduct to Sergeant Shaffer.”
The soldier’s neck turned red. Pressing his lips into a firm line, he stomped away.
“Thank you.”
“Are you all right?” Gabe’s eyes roved over her as if reassuring himself.
Her lungs seared as she fought to take deep, calming breaths. “Yes, I think so.”
He tenderly turned over her wrists, scowling at the reddened flesh. “Have you finished acquiring what you need?”
She nodded at the double meaning. “Yes.”
“Good.” His tone darkened. “Because I’m not letting you out of my sight again.”
As she followed him back across the enemy camp, she pressed a hand to her quaking stomach.
For all her resistance to men and their domineering ways, this time she had to confess she was thankful for the bold protection Gabe covered her in. Was she wrong about the controlling nature of men?
Or perhaps the difference between happiness and misery in marriage was the man a woman bound herself to.
Cassie was acting strangely.
At first, Gabe thought it was merely her urgency to leave the Confederate camp with haste before the Union invaded. But even after leaving and putting miles between the Rebels and themselves, he caught Cassie staring at him at odd moments. Each time, she looked away and worried her lip when he offered a relaxed smile in return.
Perhaps the effects of the malaria continued to plague her.
He cleared his throat and snapped the reins again, urging the mares to keep their pace. “Are you anxious to reach Union lines?”
Nodding, she picked at some imaginary speck on her blue skirt. “Yes. If we delay, our boys will walk right into that hidden artillery. The news must be delivered to McClellan with speed.”
He fell silent, letting the horses’ reins rest easily in his hands.
“Thank you.”
Her husky voice snagged his attention. “For what?”
The muscles in her slender neck shifted. “For saving me from that awful soldier. I didn’t—” She licked her lips. “I just—”
“I should have horsewhipped him.”
She dropped her gaze back to the twisted fingers in her lap. “If you hadn’t interceded when you did . . .” A shudder racked her body. “I’ve been thinking.”
“Yes?” he prompted.
She squirmed in the wagon seat. “Perhaps I haven’t been fair to you.”
He stilled. What was she saying? He kept silent, knowing she would speak her mind when she was good and ready.
She stared at the woods before them and sighed. “All my life, I’ve looked at men through the prism of my father. I suppose in observing his relationship with Mother, with me—” she grimaced—“I might have made wrong assumptions.” Her eyes sought his, and his heart hammered. “I fear I painted you with the same brush.”
He dragged his eyes away to watch the road before they ended up down a ravine. “And what do you think now?”
“You’re nothing like him.” Her voice was little more than a hoarse whisper.
He longed to stop the wagon and pull her into his arms. Instinct told him she still wasn’t ready. Instead, he slipped both reins into his left hand and sought her fingers with his right. Her touch was hesitant, but she didn’t pull away when he interlaced their fingers.
For now, it was enough.
MAY 24, 1862
Cassie erased all traces of herself, or Mrs. Smith, from her stride before returning to camp. Only a day since she and Gabe had come back, and word had drifted through the regiment. They would march toward Richmond on the morrow.
She hoisted another sackful of flour into the supply wagon. Hearing a group of boys guffawing, she sought the huddle and speared Jonah with a sharp rebuke. “What are you boys doing?”
A newspaper was stretched out between them on the ground. Jonah looked up and grinned. “Simmons brought a new batch of papers. We’re reading the opinion pieces.” Jonah snorted and the other boys joined him. “There’s some idiot in here spouting malarkey. Says all us Yankees are gonna be working in the fields with his slaves when the war is over.”
Cassie frowned. “If the captain catches you reading the papers instead of attending to your chores, you’ll pay dearly.”
The boys groaned. Jonah huffed. “That stuffy old captain is no fun.”
“War isn’t supposed to be fun. Go on now. Get to work. The paper will be here later.”
The boys mumbled their displeasure but scattered to their tasks. A breeze ruffled the edges of the open newsprint. Bending down, she retrieved the paper before the wind carried it away.
She’d just turned to stash it somewhere safe when an image caught her attention. It was a woodblock-and-ink reproduction of a photograph. This one depicted a woman running her fingers through a brook, her expression pensive.
Sharp breath seared her lungs. Her ears buzzed. It couldn’t be. . . .
She was staring at herself.
A cold stone settled deep in her stomach. Gripping the oily print with white fingers, she scanned the caption.
“Beautiful Heroines of Home” was printed in bold type just beneath the image, followed by a blade that sliced her to the core. “Original photograph: Gabriel Avery, appointed by Mathew Brady.”
He’d taken her photograph without her knowledge and plastered it across the newspapers. How many more was her face flaunted in? Dozens?
The gentle, timid flower of hope that had bloomed within her since Gabe had rescued her from the Rebel soldier’s clutches withered and died, leaving a hollow ache in its place.
He’d used her. Stolen her privacy and broken her trust to line his own pockets. How could he?
Something sharp twisted in her chest, causing breath-stealing spasms.
Gabe had betrayed her.
The anguish cut far deeper than she could have imagined.
Cassie stomped up to Gabe as he stood outside the Whatsit, dipping glass plates into a tub of water. Steam burned in her belly as she watched him calmly dry a dripping plate with a rag, then stack it to the side as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
When he heard her approach, his face lit with a smile . . . until she pinned him with a narrow glare.
“What is this?” She shoved the newspaper into his chest with a shuddered sob. Eyes wide, he stared at the paper in his hands. He swallowed and looked away, but not before she witnessed the guilt that ghosted his expression. Icy-hot blood lashed her insides.
“How could you?” Her lips trembled, but she steeled herself against the burning tears. She would not cry. She would not.
He winced and reached for her, but she yanked her arm away.
“Don’t touch me,” she hissed. Anger was far safer than tears. She wouldn’t give him that much power over her. Never again. Never for any man.
Gabe shot a glance to make sure no one was nearby. “It’s not what you think—”
“I think you took a photograph of me without my permission and sold it to a bunch of newspapers to line your pockets.”
Red streaked his neck.
“Am I wrong?”
“No! Yes!” Raking his fingers through his hair, he scraped them down his face and blew out a heavy breath. “I should have asked your permission. That’s true enough. And I’m sorry. But the money wasn’t f
or me. Remember the man I told you about in New York? Jacob? He’s like my grandfather. I needed the money to pay his hospital bills.” His mouth tilted into a frown. “He gave me the funds I needed to be here. I owe him, Cass.”
“How magnanimous of you.” A headache pounded in her skull. “Unfortunately, your gesture of goodwill might expose my identity.”
He shook his head. “No one will recognize you.”
“You can’t promise that. You used me.” A realization struck her. She sucked in a harsh breath. “Or perhaps you intended to expose me. After all, you’ve been against my work here since the moment you learned who I was.”
Gabe’s mouth went slack. “You can’t really believe I would do something like that on purpose.”
“What am I supposed to believe?” Her throat ached. “You’ve ranted often enough about independent women. Even begged me not to return.” She lifted her chin. “What better way to put me in my place than exposing me for the world to see?”
His expression darkened and he took a step forward, looming over her with a glare. “If you really think I would do such an underhanded thing, you don’t know me at all.”
A thousand rebuttals begged for release, but giving them voice would do no good. Heart twisting, she turned on her heel, calling over her shoulder, “Good-bye, Gabe.”
“Cass, please . . .” His whisper faded as she quickened her pace.
Nothing he could say would fix the damage he’d inflicted.
Chapter 34
Dear Gabriel,
Are you well? After reading the reports concerning the Battle of Front Royal, I fear the worst but trust the Almighty has kept you safe thus far. Were there truly so many Union soldiers captured as the papers reported?
My own recovery is going well, though I find it much more of a trial to recover from pneumonia at four score than it was only a few years ago. Ah, there is no denying it—I’m getting old.
Esther is smothering me, baking pastries and bread constantly, bargaining with the butcher for the cheapest meat prices. She seems to believe my health rests solely in her hands. The woman needs to be in control at all times. In many ways, she reminds me of you. Always trying to fix things so everyone is taken care of. But such perfection is not attainable this side of glory, is it? My life is in the Almighty’s hands, though I would be hesitant to decline one of Esther’s cinnamon pastries either way.
Write again when the opportunity affords.
Your friend,
Jacob
Gabe expelled a tight breath. Jacob had made no mention of the funds he’d sent from the profit of Cassie’s photograph. Had they reached him? Why hadn’t he reported his financial standing with hospital? Gabe had requested information, but Jacob remained silent on the thing he most needed to know. Stubborn man.
Sweat rolled between Gabe’s shoulder blades as he sat in the sweltering darkroom. Working in the small, windowless confine was like being slowly smothered. His shirt was glued to his skin. He wiped his forehead as his mind whirled back to the past grueling weeks. Even worse than the humiliation of Front Royal was the bloody slaughter of the Battle of Fair Oaks Station. The Union had claimed victory, but at a high cost. The shells shrieked so ferociously and continually, the cannon thundered with such force, Gabe feared the wagon would break apart. And the aftermath . . .
Men on both sides had fallen so deeply, there was not even enough room to walk between the bloated bodies. As he readied the Harrison lens to capture the sickening scenes, his eyes had landed on Cassie loading bodies as heavy and limp as sandbags onto litters, her arms coated in blood up to her elbows.
She had straightened, her gaze burrowing into his across the distance of the blood-soaked field, and then she glanced away.
His stomach had cinched as tight as a tourniquet.
He missed her. Desperately.
There was no one to blame but himself. He should have sought her permission before sending the photograph. He’d hoped she would come around after she’d had a few days to cool off, but it was not to be. She had studiously avoided him at all costs. Even had Briggs deliver his mail so she wouldn’t be forced to see him.
He understood her hurt, but did she really believe he’d planned on having her identity exposed through a newspaper? The accusations had stung far more than he cared to admit.
He leaned back in his chair and brushed away a drop of sweat from his cheek with a shrug of his shoulder. The cotton scoured his skin and snagged on the bristle peppering his jaw. It had been days since he’d shaved. Days since he’d even cared.
Food had no taste, and his dreams were nothing but hazy nightmares.
Life without Cassie had become a gray, meaningless jumble.
And he had no idea how to fix it.
JUNE 2, 1862
NEW BRIDGE, VIRGINIA
“Wasn’t that a bully speech by Little Mac?” Jonah sat next to Cassie on a wide log, whittling a piece of wood.
She took a swig of water from her canteen and prayed for a cool breeze to cut through. The heat was suffocating. “I suppose so.”
Jonah frowned. “You suppose so?” He shook his head, his kepi wobbling. “It gave me a thrill!” He lowered his voice, imitating the husky timbre of the general’s. “‘We are now face-to-face with the Rebels, who are held at bay in front of their capital. The final and decisive battle is at hand. Let us meet them there and crush them.’” Jonah’s eyes shone. “I was ready to point a gun and start firing.”
She offered a smile, but her heart wasn’t in it. She was sick of it all. Sick of constantly performing. Sick of trying to be faultless in her pretense. Sick of mangled corpses. Sick of death.
“I only hope it will be finished soon.” She pulled out the pocket watch Captain Johnston had given her and rubbed the engraving with the pad of her thumb.
Jonah spit into the grass and shooed away a fly buzzing near his ear. “What will you do, Turner? When the war is over?”
She swallowed. “I don’t know.” Truthfully, she tried not to think about it.
“Me either. Tommy wants to finish school, then go to the university.” He scoffed. “Not me. I never want to step foot in another school as long as I live.”
She emitted a light laugh. “Not every teacher is like Schoolmaster Howe, you know.”
He looked as if he’d bitten into a pickle that turned. “I know. But reading and calculating figures . . .” He shrugged. “Seems like a waste of time.”
She stared off into the distance, studying a canopy of thick trees on the outskirts of Richmond. How many would still be standing once the soldiers started firing?
“I always wanted a better education.” She sighed and plucked a blade of grass near her feet. “I wish for it still. Knowledge is opportunity. It’s adventure.”
Jonah grunted and dropped a curl of wood near his flapping boots. “Don’t see how adventure can be found between the pages of a dusty old book.”
Stricken at his tainted view of life, she reached for his grubby hands and gently tugged the pocketknife and block of wood free. In their place, she dropped the pocket watch and chain.
Jonah’s eyes rounded as he looked up at her. “What are you doing?”
“Giving you my watch.”
His face went slack as he studied the engraved flourishes running through the shiny metal. “But it was a present for you.”
“Presents are meant to be given away. Now I’m giving it to you.” She closed her hands around his and squeezed. “This watch represents time. Time that is ticking away second by second. I want you to take it. Use it to remember you have only one life to live. Seek God, and a thousand adventures and dreams will pursue you.”
His face lit up as she released his hands. “Thanks, Turner!” Jonah bounded to his feet and raced away, no doubt eager to tell his friends. She chuckled and glanced at the discarded wood and knife resting in the grass.
“Seek God, and a thousand adventures and dreams will pursue you. . . .”
Her mind k
new the adage was true, but her heart was having trouble grasping it.
She longed for peace. For freedom to live without pretense or constantly hiding from Father’s fury. She yearned for joy. For Gabe.
Perhaps her own dreams were unfulfilled because she hadn’t sought God as she should have.
Perhaps.
“What are you doing?”
Gabe looked up from the camera box to judge whether the light was adequate to capture the scene before him. Confederate and Union pickets were only a meadow apart. Both of them on the cusp of Richmond, waiting in eerie silence for word. Hours had passed without any change.
Gabe glanced at Jonah’s upturned face. “Getting ready to photograph the pickets.”
“Ain’t got nothing better to capture than a bunch of cranky old soldiers glaring at each other?”
He chuckled. “At the moment? No.”
Jonah rocked back on his heels and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Good to see you smile. Ain’t seen you do much of that lately.”
Gabe narrowed his eyes. “You’re a mite too observant.”
“Missing Turner?”
Gabe ground his teeth and busied himself with adjusting the lens. Yes, he missed her. When she wasn’t away on some escapade for Pinkerton, she was delivering mail for the regiment.
“She—er, he’s been busy lately, you know,” Jonah said. “Running mail all over a sixty-mile stretch.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
Jonah finally fell silent. A mercy for which he was most grateful.
“Look what I got.”
Pulling his head out from under the black curtain, Gabe glanced down at the boy’s open palm. A gold pocket watch lay in the center, winking as it caught a shimmer of sunlight. He sucked in a pull of air. “Where’d you get that?”
Jonah smiled smugly. “Turner.”
He frowned. “The one he received from Captain Johnston?”
“Yep.” Jonah buffed the piece against the tattered fabric of his uniform. “Gave it to me yesterday. Said it was a reminder that each minute is a gift.”
Gabe looked away. A gift indeed. Then why was Cassie so determined to squander hers?
