Patricia Hagan

by Loves Wine

  Maybe she was still in prison. He didn’t know. He’d learned a lesson. Never again would he allow a woman to have such a hold on him.

  Then along came Holly. And there was just something about her that got to him. She was one hell of a woman, and he could easily become involved if he let himself. But he wasn’t going to let himself. He would keep his vow to know women only for the glory of the flesh and nothing more.

  Love could not play a part.

  Love made men weak.

  Chapter Seven

  Holly awoke with a start, peering into the dark cabin. A half-moon lit the swamps, casting an eerie glow through the windows. Silver shadows danced across the split log walls. What had awakened her? Not the screech of a bobcat or the call of an owl or anything she was used to.

  Fighting the urge to go back to sleep, she forced herself up and tiptoed across the rough floor to Grandpa’s gun. It wasn’t fear, she told herself, but caution.

  She went softly to the door and was groping for the handle when she heard a horse whinny. A deep breath helped choke down the bubbling fear. She eased open the door just enough to get her foot through. Then, pulling the gun hammer back, jerked the door open with her foot, keeping her body out of sight. “All right, who’s out there?” she called. “I’ve got a gun and I know how to use it.”

  Silence. But there was something there. She could feel it. She moved very slowly toward the opening in the door, allowing herself to look out.

  Ringed by a halo of moonlight, a man sat on a horse, a black hood over his head.

  “Hey, lil’ Reb,” his voice rang out. “War’s over. Put down your gun.”

  Her finger tightened on the trigger. “I’ll shoot,” she warned in a clear voice. “What do you want?”

  “Can’t shoot all of us, lil’ Reb.”

  There was a sound to her left. Two more men, also on horseback, also wearing that ominous black hood, were facing her.

  The first man called, “We don’t want no trouble, lil’ Reb. We just want to talk. Put that gun down so nobody’ll get hurt.”

  Rage was overtaking fear. “I don’t talk to people who won’t show their faces. Get off my land this minute or I start shooting.”

  “No need for that, Miss Maxwell.”

  A fourth man rode slowly out of the shadows. He, too, was masked. He walked his horse straight toward the cabin and she swung around, pointing her rifle at him.

  “Stop right where you are! I’ve had enough of this. All of you, get out of here!”

  He said softly, “We only want to talk to you, Miss Maxwell. We don’t think it’s safe for a young woman to be living alone out here. You should be with your mother.”

  Indignation made her sputter. “It’s none of your business where I live!”

  “We think it is!” His amiable manner disappeared. “The war’s over. It’s time everyone learned to live in peace. You can’t go around snubbing Northerners, refusing to sell your fish catches to them. We won’t put up with that kind of attitude. A fair price for your land has been deposited at the bank with Mr. Locklear. You take it and start living like decent folk, or we’ll burn you out.”

  “Yeah,” the first hooded rider called to her. “And we’ll strip you naked and show you what happens to people like you. We’ll make you pledge allegiance to the Union and march through Vicksburg singing our glory songs.”

  Burn her out would they? Strip her naked? “To hell with all of you,” she cried, enraged by the rider who kept moving toward her. She fired.

  The man screamed and toppled from his horse. The others ran for cover, but Holly’s cry rode over the din. “I’ll blow every one of you bastards straight to hell. Get off my land!”

  The wounded man writhed and twisted in the dirt, calling to his friends. “Don’t leave me…don’t leave me…”

  The leader hesitated briefly. He reined his horse about, looking from his fallen comrade to Holly’s rifle. Deciding not to chance it, he turned his mount and took off after the others.

  Holly walked onto the porch, down the steps, and across the clearing to stand over the wounded man.

  His face twisted in pain, he stared up at her and begged, “Don’t kill me. We weren’t gonna harm you, I swear. All we was gonna do was scare you. Nobody would’a hurt you. That’s the truth.”

  She was afraid, but just mad enough not to show her fear. “Where are you hit?”

  “Shoulder.”

  “That’s where I aimed, but it’s easy to miss at night.” She nudged him with her toe. “Get up.”

  He clutched at his shoulder, blood trickling through his fingers. “Can’t. Hurts so bad. Gonna bleed to death.”

  Matter-of-factly she told him he wouldn’t. “Now get up. We’re going inside. I don’t intend to be a sitting duck out here if your friends decide to come back for you.”

  He shook his head. “Can’t. Hurts too bad.”

  She jabbed him again, harder. “You want me to finish you off?” She wouldn’t have done it, of course, but he didn’t know that.

  He pulled himself to his knees, gasping, and she stayed right behind him as he stumbled into the cabin.

  Inside, he slumped to the floor. Holly touched a match to a lantern and the room filled with mellow light. She kicked the door shut and bolted it, then moved swiftly to close and lock all the wooden shutters from the inside. Satisfied that no one could take a shot at her, she returned to the wounded man. He was still wearing his hood. “What’s your name?”

  “None o’ your business.”

  “Do you want to bleed to death?” she asked simply, and he shook his head. “Then don’t be smart, because it doesn’t matter a damn to me whether you die or not.”

  “Alex Wellman,” he said gruffly.

  She told him to get up and sit at the table. “And don’t try anything. I’ve still got the gun, and I think you found out I know how to use it.”

  He watched her warily as she moved around the cabin, getting water, bandages. She sat down next to him, placing the gun out of his reach but close to hers. Ripping open his blood-soaked shirt, she examined the wound. “The bullet went clean through. That’s good. I won’t have to dig it out.”

  She wrapped a bandage tightly around the wound, then sat back to look at him with narrowed eyes. “Talk, mister. What did you come here for tonight?”

  He scowled. “I ain’t gotta tell you nothin’, girl, and you ain’t gonna shoot me like a dog. You might as well let me get on out of here.”

  She reached out and yanked off his hood. Her eyes flicked over him. She had never seen him before. She knew instinctively that she’d remember if she had. He had beady little eyes, like a chicken snake, and his beard was scraggy. His hair was dirty and matted. An altogether unsavory looking character.

  “Get something straight,” she said slowly, so he would grasp every word. “I won’t bat an eye at shooting you again. You may start talking now. Why did you and your friends come here?”

  He watched uneasily as she again picked up the gun.

  “We’re the Night Hawks,” he said, trying for a rebellious tone. “We were hired to do what the Federal occupation troops can’t do. It’s our job to keep peace and take care of uppity Rebs—like you,” he sneered.

  “Who hired you, Mr. Wellman?”

  He laughed, showing yellowed, chipped teeth. “You ain’t that stupid, are you? Ain’t no way you can make me tell you that.”

  If he did tell, then whoever had hired them might kill him. “Why am I considered an uppity Reb?” she asked, though she knew well enough.

  He shrugged. “Won’t sell your fish to Yankees. Livin’ out here thinkin’ you’re too good to live in town. Things like that. You were lucky tonight. We didn’t realize what a feisty bitch you are.”

  She let that pass. Grandpa said insults from scalawags weren’t to get upset over.

  She moved away from the table, holding the gun. “We’ll see what you have to say to the authorities when I take you in at daylight.” She posit
ioned herself on the bed. “You might as well get some sleep. We’ll leave at first light. And don’t try anything. I won’t be dozing off.”

  He continued to glare at her for a while, then finally lowered his head to the table and fell asleep.

  Exhausted, she spent the next few hours trying to put everything together.

  When Mr. Purdy had returned with her chickens and money late the day before, she had told him of Colonel Colter’s visit, that Colter knew she’d said not to sell to Yankees. There had, Mr. Purdy explained, been an incident when a Yankee got very angry, when he was told this. He’d become so incensed that he began shouting, loud enough for everyone at the market to hear, about “that smart-alecky Reb woman” who thought she was too good to do business with him. People had muttered over it for some time, Mr. Purdy said.

  But it didn’t make sense. Why would that one incident provoke someone deeply enough that he’d hire men to frighten her? And what about the money they had said was deposited with Mr. Locklear? Something strange was going on.

  With the first gray shadows of dawn, Holly shook her captive awake.

  “Stiff,” he protested groggily, rubbing at his bandaged shoulder. “Can’t ride.”

  She jammed the gun into his back, and he yelped. “Outside, Wellman.”

  She guided him to the small shed behind the cabin. She’d decided against using the wagon, which would require both of her hands on the reins. She had to hold the gun. She made Wellman ready two horses, then mounted one and nodded for him to get on the other.

  They set out for Vicksburg, Wellman riding directly in front of Holly. All the while, she scanned the bushes and brush along the road, alert for sign of ambush. “I doubt your friends will come looking for you,” she remarked to him once. “Their kind only slithers out at night.”

  He remained silent, too sore to argue.

  She spied the first soldiers on the outskirts of Vicksburg and realized she was actually grateful to see Yankees. There were four of them, and when they saw her, holding a gun on a wounded man riding in front of her, they charged forward with their own weapons drawn.

  Before Holly could explain, Alex Wellman suddenly came out of his stupor and screamed, “She’s crazy! The woman is tee-totally crazy. I won’t doin’ nothin’ but huntin’ last night down by the river, and she came up out of nowhere and shot me for no reason. Kept callin’ me a Yankee spy.”

  The officer in charge eyed Holly and snapped, “Throw that gun down, miss. We’ll take over now.”

  Holly gave her hair a toss, reading the stripes on the man’s shoulder. “Sergeant, you haven’t heard my side of the story.

  “Throw down your gun,” he barked.

  Holly reluctantly obeyed and one of the other soldiers dismounted and retrieved it. “Will you hear me out?” she asked quietly.

  He motioned her to ride on. “You can talk on the way to the post.”

  The sergeant and Holly and Wellman rode side by side in silence for a few moments. Then Wellman addressed the officer. “You and me know the war’s over,” he murmured amiably. “But there’s too many of these Rebs that don’t. I was with the Twelfth New York Rifles,” he added proudly.

  “Good outfit,” the sergeant acknowledged gruffly.

  “Lying bastard,” Holly said under her breath.

  They reached the post and Holly dismounted. The sergeant’s tight grip held her arm, and she was guided into a wooden building. Wellman was ushered toward the infirmary by one of the post soldiers.

  A young soldier was seated behind a desk just outside a door at the rear of the room Holly was led to. As Holly and the sergeant entered, he jumped to his feet and saluted. “Sergeant Pearson. You got a prisoner?” He nodded toward Holly with interest.

  “Maybe,” Pearson responded gruffly. “The colonel in?”

  “Not at the moment, sir, he—”

  The soldier was interrupted by a startled cry of recognition as another officer entered the room. “Holly! What are you doing here?” Neil Davis rushed to her side. “Pearson? What is going on?” he asked. The sergeant began to speak, but Neil interrupted immediately. “Let Miss Maxwell tell me.”

  She told him all of it, aware all the while that he was gazing at her with more than friendly concern.

  “I’ll be damned,” Neil said when she’d finished.

  The sergeant had been quiet long enough. “Sir, a man has been shot, and this woman should be charged with the shooting. Shall I lock her up now?”

  “I accept full responsibility for her,” Neil said firmly. “Miss Maxwell is not going into the stockade.”

  The two men locked eyes. Just then hard footsteps echoed in the hallway and in a moment the outer door opened. Holly found herself looking into the dark eyes of Colonel Scott Colter.

  He strode briskly into the room, his presence quietly but overwhelmingly commanding. Looking right at Holly, he said, “It seems the trouble I anticipated has begun.” His gaze was warm. “And it seems you are right in the middle of it, Miss Maxwell—which I also anticipated.”

  Chapter Eight

  Scott took Holly into his private office. He didn’t have to tell Sergeant Pearson or Captain Davis that he would take the situation from there. They knew it and stepped aside, aware, as always, that Colter preferred to conduct his own investigations without being bored by others’ opinions.

  He sat down behind a large desk and motioned to Holly to take one of the two remaining chairs. His gaze flicked over her, the warmth gone now. “Let’s hear it, Holly,” he said brusquely. Taking a deep breath, she let it out slowly. She told him everything, and Scott scrawled notes as she talked.

  The whole time she talked, her stomach fluttered and her voice went from low to high and then back to low. Why, she accused herself furiously, couldn’t she manage a little control? Scott Colter was just another man. Well…perhaps not. She looked away from him. Would he always have this effect on her? Did he know how she felt? Did she look as overwrought as she was feeling? She guessed she probably did. When she fell silent, he glanced up sharply. “Is that all of it?” She nodded. He stood. “Wait.”

  He left her. After a few moments, she got up and began to pace. The room was sparsely furnished. There was a desk and there were two chairs. A black-draped portrait of President Lincoln was on one wall, a portrait of General Grant on the opposite wall.

  Walking to the curtainless window, she peered out into the inner compound and saw soldiers drilling. They looked as bored as she felt.

  She took her seat once more. She should have been fishing, repairing nets, anything but sitting there wasting her time over something that wasn’t her fault.

  A sound at the door caused her to jump. She frowned, disappointed, to see it wasn’t Scott, but Roger Bonham.

  He knelt down in front of her, concern etched on his face. “It’s all over town. Your mother is so upset. My father wanted to come, but I told him that you and I were friends, so I’d come and see what I could do to help you out of this mess.”

  She made a careless gesture and looked out the window. “Everything will be fine. I didn’t do anything wrong. I was just protecting myself and my property. I hated to shoot anyone, but I had no choice.”

  He reached for her fingertips and held them tightly, through she tried to pull away. “Please, Holly. Tell me what happened.”

  She didn’t want him there, but there he was. It was rude to keep staring out the window, so she steeled herself and faced him, noting his impeccable light blue cravat, his white shirt and dark blue coat. His boots would, she knew, be polished to a fine sheen and his trousers would have a knife crease. Why did all of this irritate her? Was it only because she looked like a ragpicker or was it something beyond that?

  He was talking so earnestly. She made herself be attentive. Why make another enemy?

  With a weary sigh, she told her story for the third time. He listened quietly, then declared, “It won’t happen again. By God, I won’t stand for this. You’ve a right to live where
you want to live.”

  She laughed wearily. “That’s what I thought. But this isn’t my land here any more. It’s being taken over by outsiders, vultures!” she flared.

  “Holly, no, my dear. You’re mistaken.” He moved back to sit in the chair next to her. “We Northerners who’ve come South are, for the most part, aspiring men who’ve moved here in an attempt to make new lives—”

  “Picking the carcasses of the beaten South,” she cut him off abruptly.

  “Not all of us,” he said gently. “I agree there are a few troublemakers, but some have been sent as missionaries to minister to the needs of former slaves. Some of them, true, resent Southerners, like you, who stand in their way. They’re trying to unite our country in peace, Holly.” He went on before she could stop him. “It’s quite unusual for a young woman to take over land, in her name. And to be so rudely independent. Your attitude has angered many people. You must understand that.”

  She stiffened. “I do not have to trade with Yankees, if you happen to be referring to the incident in the market yesterday.”

  He gave her a sad smile. Do you expect that kind of attitude to be warmly received?”

  She jerked her hands from his. “You speak of peace. I find that hypocritical. You Yankees are the ones who came down here to tell us how to live. You caused the trouble in the first place.”

  Roger shook his head. “Do you condone slavery?”

  “I never went along with that. My father was good to our servants. They weren’t mistreated. And it’s none of your business anyway.”

  Roger touched her shoulder gently. “Holly, historians will probably spend the next century studying the reasons for the war, but I’m concerned only with your welfare.”

  She turned her face away. “I only want to be left alone. Is that asking too much?”

  “The way you handled the situation last night isn’t going to solve anything,” Roger said.

  Holly clenched her fists together. “No one is going to come on my land and threaten me, Roger, and the next time it happens, someone is going to get killed.”