He eyed her again. “I would carry you from shop to shop if you asked me.”
Taye laughed at the idea of the big Cherokee carrying her in his arms from the ribbon shop to the grocer and then down to the bank.
He lifted a dark eyebrow, obviously not understanding what was so amusing.
“I’m sorry,” she chuckled, pressing a fingerless lace glove to her bodice. “I don’t mean to laugh at you, Falcon.” She brushed her hand against his arm as if it were the most natural thing, and from the look on his face, her innocent touch did not go unnoticed.
She looked shyly away, but left her fingertips on his arm. Something was happening between them, something she could feel far better than she could explain. With each day that passed, Taye had felt further from Thomas…and closer to Falcon.
At first, she had tried to tell herself that these feelings were only natural. Thomas, her supposed intended, had slighted her. It was only normal to lay one’s attentions on a man who seemed interested. But it went deeper than that. This man beside her was beginning to fill a deep need that she had not even realized existed.
Falcon was actively pursuing her, but not any way that she was familiar with. He rarely paid her compliments on her musical ability or her adeptness at playing cards. He was not interested in the books she read or the languages she was fluent in. There were no silly flirtations behind fans, no slightly risqué innuendoes. He spoke very little compared to most courting men, but when he did, his words were alarmingly honest and always from his heart. He gave her gifts, but not perfumed soaps or sheet music. One night he left a beautiful red feather on her pillow, another time a shiny black stone.
Falcon Cortés was nothing she had thought she’d wanted in a man. And yet, he was everything.
“Whatcha gawkin’ at?” Clyde barked to Efia. “Get yer black ass in this wagon afore I leave you behind!”
Efia stood frozen at the hitching post, watching as Taye Campbell rode by in her pretty fringed buggy, that handsome redskin driving her wherever she wanted to go. She was wearing the blue bonnet! Efia’s blue bonnet! The one she had seen in the window!
Hot, stinging tears filled her eyes. She wiped at them in anger as she longingly watched the carriage roll by.
Taye looked like she thought she was queen of the ball, holding her head high, with that blue bonnet on her head, like she was better than Efia.
“Ya know her?” Clyde asked, noticing Taye. “Right pretty piece of ass, ain’t she?”
Efia dashed at her tears again, grabbed the side of the buckboard and hauled herself up. If she waited for Clyde to help her, it would be a cold day in hell. “I know ’er, all right. Uppity bitch,” she snarled. “You do, too. You’d know that if ya had a head, ya stupid cracker.”
He spun around to slap her but she ducked and he missed. She knew she was headed for a whoopin’; she’d been sassy with him all day, but she didn’t care. “That’s Taye Campbell, the half darkie Senator Campbell whelped on his housekeeper.”
“I’ll be damned,” Clyde remarked, watching her go by. “And jest how do ya know her so well? She don’t ’zactly look like the kind of gal that travels yer road.”
Efia sighed as she leaned against the buckboard’s seat. “I tole you this, remember? She helped me and my sister. We was on a boat. We walked from Biloxi to Jackson.” She thought about their return to Elmwood, about what had happened. She narrowed her eyes. “Then we walked from all the way to Maryland, me, Cameron Campbell and her.” She gave a snort. “God knows, I ought to know ’er. Slept beside ’er many a night.”
Efia eyed Taye across the street, just stepping down from the carriage with the help of the Indian. The blue bonnet matched her eyes almost perfectly and it made Efia sick.
If only that cheap bastard Clyde have given her that money, she’d be the one wearing that bonnet to town instead of Taye. “Yes, sa’, I know a thing or two ’bout Miss Taye that others be shocked to hear,” she muttered.
“You sure this is where they’re supposed to be?” the man beside Jackson whispered, his pipe glowing red as he inhaled.
Jackson slid his rifle over his arm, adjusting its weight on his shoulder. He stared into the darkness at the warehouse across the street. It was guarded by two Union soldiers, a private and a sergeant. The sergeant had gone off to use the latrine half an hour ago and hadn’t been seen since. The private was busy trying to build a house of cards on a barrel, by the light of a single lantern.
The lone eighteen-year-old didn’t know it, but he was guarding a storehouse of ammunition waiting to be shipped back to New York. Inside were enough explosives to burn Atlanta again. What it was doing in Tennessee, no one seemed quite sure of. After receiving word from Spider that the Tennessee warehouse had been targeted by Thompson’s men, it had taken Jackson three days to find someone in the Union Army who knew what was in the warehouse. Once that had been established, it had taken another three days and a stack of paperwork for someone else with enough authority to order the transport of the army supplies north to safer grounds. The train was due in the following morning. With any luck, Thompson’s Raiders wouldn’t make it in time. However, what were the chances that they weren’t aware of the scheduled morning transport, too?
Jackson was laying bets that Thompson’s men would be here tonight. If they came, he was hoping to get lucky. Men arrested for treason were often willing to talk, even to give up their commanding officer to avoid hanging from a noose or rotting in a military jail.
“Ain’t nobody coming, boss,” the man behind him, a lieutenant, complained. “We’ve been out here more than four hours and—”
“Shh,” Jackson hissed, a sound on the street catching his attention. “Put out the pipe.”
The young officer on loan to Jackson did as he was ordered, but it was obvious he found his night duty with a civilian a wasted night’s sleep. He tapped the bowl on his heel, making a soft clicking sound.
Jackson stared into the black night, wiping the sweat from his upper lip. His gaze flitted from each post where his men were hidden. He prayed they were all awake, their weapons in hand because he knew in the pit of his stomach that this was it.
A horse nickered in the street. The sound of hoof beats muffled by rags tied to the animal’s feet echoed in his head. In his mind’s eye, Jackson could see the wheels of the approaching wagons turning. Still seeing nothing, but almost certain he caught the scent of unwashed bodies on the humid, hot night air, he slid his rifle to his shoulder.
The only light on the street was that of the private’s lantern. He was working on the second story of his card house.
Jackson was concerned about the private. He had originally attempted to replace the guards on the warehouse with his own men, but then had discovered that some of the local soldiers were likely in on the theft, either by working directly for Thompson or by simply being paid off. He hadn’t been able to risk word getting to Thompson that he was onto him. The sergeant’s mysterious disappearance seemed to suggest he was the one in on it, which meant the private might not be. Jackson only hoped that when the time came, he could reach the boy before Thompson’s men did.
Out of the corner of his eyes, Jackson saw the first wagon approaching from an alley. Behind it, he thought he saw a second vehicle. Before he realized what was happening, a man stepped out of the darkness that surrounded the barred warehouse doors and walked into the lantern light.
The private’s house of cards fell as he whipped around. His attacker reached out, drawing a glimmering steel blade against his neck. The cards fluttered to the ground like rainfall as the young man’s body slumped into the dirt. Jackson gave a whistle and his men charged from all corners of the darkness. It was sooner than he would have liked to attack, but he would have no more senseless deaths if he could help it.
Shots rang out from both sides, filling the night air with streaks of light and acrid smoke. The men on the wagons, many dressed in ragged gray uniforms, abandoned the vehicles and took off on foot,
firing over their shoulders.
“I want as many alive as possible,” Jackson shouted as he rushed across the street to the private crumpled on the ground. Shots fired around him, ricocheting off of the warehouse, as he went down on one knee to feel for a pulse. There was none.
Jackson rose up, swinging his rifle around to bead in on a man who had darted between the wall of the warehouse and an abandoned building. “Drop to your knees and I won’t shoot,” he ordered.
“Long live Thompson’s Raiders,” the man cried, taking off.
Jackson lowered his rifle a notch and squeezed the trigger. He hit his opponent squarely in the back of the knee and the man went flying head over heals.
Already the gunfire had slacked off. His men were wrestling the would-be thieves to the ground. Besides the private, it looked like he had only lost one other man. Another was down on the ground, injured, but with only a superficial wound on his arm.
Jackson supposed that wasn’t bad for a night’s work, considering how many could have died if Thompson’s men had been able to make off with even half the munitions and explosives in the warehouse. Still, even two lives were too great a price when the war had already cost so many.
Jackson wiped his mouth on his shoulder in disgust. He was sick to death of this work. Sick to death of death. He just wanted to go home, home to Cameron—if there was a home left for him there.
25
He was coming home. At last, Jackson was coming home. Cameron stood outside the telegraph office and reread the telegraph clenched in her gloved hands. After weeks of secrecy and his brief, impersonal telegraphs from places like Chattanooga and Memphis, he had sent word that he’d be arriving at the week’s end. But now that his return was at hand, she didn’t know whether she was anticipating or dreading it.
“My husband will soon be gracing us with his presence, Taye,” Cameron murmured, tucking the telegraph into her drawstring reticule.
The two women stepped back, allowing three ragtag Confederate soldiers, still partially in uniform, to pass them. They were thin, sad men with hollow eyes; one, missing a leg from the knee down, walked on a peg with the aid of crutches.
Once the men had safely passed, Taye linked her arm through Cameron’s and hurried her down the wooden sidewalk. “That’s wonderful. You see, I told you he would come home. Now, Falcon says we have to hurry. It’s getting dark and he wants us safely tucked away by the time night falls.”
Cameron frowned as she allowed her sister to lead her along. “Falcon,” she harrumphed. “That man is entirely too dramatic, don’t you think?” She peered into Taye’s face, hoping she might discover something of the clandestine relationship she suspected between Taye and the Cherokee.
Taye glanced away, focusing on the boards that had been placed on the ground to keep the hems of ladies’ petticoats and crinolines from dragging in the mud. “There was another attack by that gang of ruffians last night, this time just outside of town. They grow bolder every day. Another rape and beating. The woman did not survive,” she said gravely.
“I cannot understand why the soldiers can’t track these blackards down. They just transferred an army captain here. I thought he was supposed to deal with this.” Cameron’s amber eyes flashed with anger. “I mean, damn it, how difficult can it be to find them? They must be selling the goods they’re stealing. And surely they talk of their escapades. Most men can’t keep their mouths shut when they commit a crime. It’s how they’re always caught.”
At the buggy, Falcon offered a broad hand to help Cameron up and then Taye. “You probably already know this,” Cameron told Falcon, “but Jackson is coming home.”
“This is good,” Falcon said in that soft cadence she had grown accustomed to. “It is time Jackson returns to his responsibilities. A man cannot make amends so far from his lodge.”
Cameron saw Taye’s and Falcon’s gazes meet in silent communication and wondered if they’d been talking about her and Jackson behind her back. She would have to speak with Taye on the matter. Of course, the question was, why was Taye talking to Falcon about such personal matters to begin with? Exactly what was her relationship with the Cherokee? She was supposed to be marrying Thomas, though that union seemed to be up in the air, too. Thomas had moved out, and they only saw him infrequently. Taye rarely mentioned him, but when pressed, she insisted they were still engaged. Cameron didn’t know what was going on inside Taye’s head and she didn’t like it one bit.
Taye was still young and naive in many ways. She did not understand how a man like Falcon Cortés could lead an unsuspecting innocent astray. And the closer Cameron watched, the more obvious it was that there was something between them. Fortunately, Jackson would be home Friday and she could tell him of her concern. Perhaps it was time the Indian was gone.
He was nervous, Jackson realized as he stepped off the train. He was coming home to his wife, so why was he so damned worried? He’d put an end to whatever it was that he’d had with Marie and Cameron need never know. Surely Cameron had had time to think during the weeks he had been gone. As her body healed, she most certainly would have come around to forgiving him for what he had done. For what he’d trade his immortal soul to undo.
As he walked through the train station, a single leather bag in his hand, Jackson half hoped Cameron would be there waiting for him in the apple green gown he liked so much, the one that showed off her voluptuous breasts and accentuated the rich color of her auburn hair. He pushed through the throng of men and women greeting family members and welcoming long-lost friends home. He imagined seeing her from afar, as pretty as she’d been the day he’d fallen in love with her all over again. He fantasized about opening his arms and having her run into them, contemplated what it would be like to go Atkins’ Way to share an intimate dinner with wine and candlelight and then carry her to bed and make love to her all night long.
It was foolish whimsy, of course. He hadn’t said in his telegram which train he was coming in on, or even from what town. Still, when he spotted Falcon near the outside door, he couldn’t suppress a sense of disappointment.
“Falcon,” Jackson called, offering a hand.
Falcon put his arms around him, and Jackson was both surprised and embarrassed by the lump of emotion that rose unexpectedly in his throat. He had not realized that a man could give another man comfort this way.
“Friend,” Falcon said simply.
Jackson stepped back, uncomfortable with his emotional response to the Cherokee’s embrace. “It’s good to see you.”
Falcon nodded, staring with those obsidian black eyes of his, eyes that seemed far wiser than their years. “I came in the wagon to pick up barrels for Naomi. I hope you do not mind the transportation.”
Jackson chuckled. “Sounds like Naomi has the household under control.”
“She does. And Noah has taken charge of rebuilding the kitchen at Elmwood. They are good people.”
Jackson scowled. He couldn’t help but think it was Elmwood, damned Elmwood, that had brought about all this trouble to begin with. If Confederate soldiers had just burned the damned plantation house to the ground four years ago, he’d still be in Baltimore with his wife, and they would still be expecting a child.
Jackson threw his bag into the back of the buckboard and climbed onto the seat beside Falcon. “I have a lot to tell you. I know my messages have been cryptic. They had to be that way, of course.”
“Are you close to finding Thompson and his men?” Falcon released the brake, lifted the reins and the farm wagon rolled forward.
“Close on more than one occasion, but Thompson is smarter than we suspected. And these Southerners have a sense of devotion to their lost cause that goes beyond what we Northerners can understand. People are hiding these men, good people who should know better. We caught some of his men attempting to raid one of our warehouses. I was hoping one of the men would provide us with some valuable information, but it’s been a dead end, so far.”
Jackson watched the store
windows go by, taking notice of all the changes in the town in the nearly five weeks he had been gone. He knew the process would be long and difficult, but the president’s Reconstruction plan was a good one. He also noted how many more Confederate soldiers roamed the streets than a few weeks ago. He had read in the paper yesterday that more Northern prisons had been emptied—Hart’s Island, Camp Chase, Fort Delaware. When the prisoners were set free, they simply began to walk south, praying they’d reach home before they died of starvation.
“If we find this Captain Thompson, do you think that will be the end of those who follow him?”
“I think so. Spider has been a valuable contact. From what I’ve been able to pick up, many who served under Thompson during the war are devoted to the man rather than to the cause. I can’t help thinking that many of them are probably hoping our government will put an end to this last stand, so they can go home.”
“Tell me what you need me to do. I’ll do it.”
Jackson grinned. “You know, you’d make a damned fine wife.”
Falcon chuckled, tugging on the long, black braid that hung down his back. “You are not the kind of man I would marry, I am sorry to say, friend.”
The two men laughed and then settled into conversation. Falcon updated Jackson on the local band of men who had still not been captured and seemed to be growing bolder by the day. He spoke of the increasing size of the household at Atkins’ Way and the number of freed black men and women and homeless soldiers they had employed. Neither man brought up the women both knew were on the other’s mind.
Efia stood in front of the jailhouse in her best dress, thinking not only of the blue bonnet, but of all the bonnets she had seen in her lifetime and wanted and could never have. Through the window, she watched two blue-uniformed soldiers drinking coffee from tin cups. She couldn’t tell what they were saying, but she could hear their laughter. Why did her life always feel this way, like she was standing alone outside while everyone else was inside, smiling and happy?
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