Phoebe's Valentine

by Duncan, Alice

  Right now, for instance, with Jack Valentine standing in front of her looking for all the world like a man who only wanted to help, she found herself yearning to let him. Only the education she’d gathered over the last five harrowing years prevented her from trusting him. She didn’t dare trust him. She knew too much about men now.

  She swallowed a flash of remembered terror, shut her eyes against a surge of panic, and took a deep breath. “Our house was in the path of Sherman’s troops. We had to hide in the basement, and they burned it down around us. It was nighttime and there . . . there was a little trouble, and I haven’t been comfortable in enclosed spaces since then. I don’t care to talk about it further.”

  Silence greeted her curt answer, and Phoebe harbored the faint hope Jack would go away and leave her alone. She should have known better.

  “Well, ma’am, I hate to disagree, but I think sometimes it’s better to talk about things. Gives the bogies less power when they’re out in the open. Sometimes when you keep everything inside, it just gets bigger and bigger and bigger until it eats you up from the inside out.”

  Very deliberately, Phoebe turned to face him. “And I, Mr. Valentine, have been taught from the cradle that a lady does not give voice to her private thoughts or air her tragedies to any passing stranger. I understand you, as a Northerner, can have no concept of chivalry, but when—and where—I grew up, it was considered impolite for a person to pry into another person’s affairs.”

  There. She delivered her speech in a voice cold enough to freeze hell itself. With any luck, it might even permeate the tough hide of this dreadful man.

  At least he didn’t laugh at her. Instead, he heaved an exasperated sigh and said, “Well, ma’am, I reckon you might have a point, even if I do think you’re being foolish. But I just want you to know that I was in the Union Army during the war. I was there because I believed in saving the Union, but I was nowhere near Georgia when Sherman marched through.”

  He hesitated a moment, as though unsure what to say next. Phoebe stiffened, wishing she could slap him and knowing such a display would not only be unladylike but that her bandaged hands would do him no harm. She wanted to scratch his eyes out.

  “Just so you know, I was adjutant to General Sheridan, ma’am.”

  Then she wanted to stick her fingers in her ears to blot out his next words. She wasn’t quick enough.

  “While Sherman was marching through Georgia, we were in Virginia. We weren’t anywhere near you. Just so you know.”

  It sounded as though it was meant as an apology, and a tiny corner of Phoebe’s brain registered the fact even as the rest of her body recoiled in consternation.

  “My brother Paul was killed at Cedar Creek, Mr. Valentine.” Her whisper shook like a willow branch.

  Then she turned her back on him once more, not caring to have him witness the frailty of her sadness. She heard his soft, “Damn,” as he walked away.

  # # #

  All day long Jack tried to figure out how he was going to survive until they got to Santa Fe. Phoebe didn’t say a single word to him. He was glad for her silence.

  He greeted the happy gabbing of William and Sarah, however, with gratitude. The noise served as a distraction from Phoebe and effectively masked his own brooding.

  I never brood. What the hell’s the matter with me?

  But he knew the answer even as he asked the question. Over and over and over again it plagued him.

  The Battle of Cedar Creek had been an awful, bloody one, as they all were. But it was the duty of the Union soldiers to rid the area of Jubal Early’s troops because of Early’s proximity to Washington. It was their job, for the Lord’s sake, and Little Phil Sheridan was nothing if not competent. Jack couldn’t help it if a Honeycutt had been there. What the hell was a Georgian doing in Virginia anyway?

  Yet the idea haunted him all day long, even though he knew the odds were a thousand to one against it. There were so many wounded and killed. Who knew who did what to whom? There was no way of telling.

  Still. Was it possible he, Black Jack Valentine, had killed Phoebe’s brother?

  He glanced over at her and saw nothing but that damned black veil, shielding her face from the sun’s rays and his own probing gaze. He was glad.

  Chapter Five

  At camp that night, Phoebe still wasn’t talking. Her silence was all right with Jack. He and the children made up for it by being extra noisy.

  “We’ll get us some grub, Sarah. You wait here and tend the fire.”

  “When can I go huntin’ with you, Jack?”

  Shooting a look at Phoebe, he said, “One of these days, Sarah. You and I’ll go out and get us dinner one of these days and leave William here to tend the fire. I promise.”

  “Aw, Jack, she’s a girl!” William sounded disgusted.

  “Girls have to learn how to take care of themselves, too, William,” Jack said, his words intended for Phoebe. Then he felt mean.

  Hell. He was grumpy when he and William left camp.

  “How come you ain’t talkin’ tonight, Aunt Phoebe?”

  “Aren’t, Sarah darlin’; not ‘ain’t’.” The reprimand was mild and mechanical.

  Sarah’s frustrated sigh drew Phoebe’s attention, and she looked over to see the little girl poke at the fire, a mulish pout about her mouth. She heaved a little sigh of her own. Sometimes she got so sick of always reminding the children about their manners and their grammar and their breeding. But if she didn’t do it, who would?

  As a peace offering she said, “I didn’t mean to seem gloomy, sweetheart. I’ve just been thinking about things, I guess. I certainly didn’t intend to appear sullen.”

  Sarah seemed to brighten at her aunt’s admitted possession of a human foible. “That’s all right, Aunt Phoebe. Jack, he said you wasn’t feelin’ too perky and we shouldn’t pester you.”

  Instead of hurling a comment disparaging their guide’s integrity, manners and morals, Phoebe managed a mild, “Well, that was quite nice of him, Sarah.”

  “Yeah, he’s real nice, all right.”

  Phoebe restrained her snort with an effort.

  Then, all at once, she realized the strange, breezy crackling noises she’d been hearing weren’t all coming from the fire. She stiffened for a moment, then smiled pleasantly as she dipped her hand into her pocket.

  “Sarah, darlin’, let’s play a game since the men are gone for a while. Let’s see how still you can sit for a minute. Pretend you’re a statue, sweetheart, for just a minute. Like the picture that used to hang in the parlor. You remember? That picture of the little boy by the fire? You just see if you can’t be as still as that picture for a little minute. All right?”

  Sarah looked up as her aunt crept toward her, obviously puzzled, but pleased that Phoebe seemed inclined to play.

  “Okay, Aunt Phoebe. What’re you gonna pretend after I pretend to be the picture?”

  Phoebe slowly picked up a branch. It wasn’t forked, but several dry, prickly stems radiated from its end. It would have to do. Oh, God, it had to do.

  Softly and agreeably, Phoebe said, “Why, I don’t know, Sarah. Maybe I should pretend to be that lady in the dining room. You know the one? She’s all decked out in her ball gown, lookin’ just like the Empress Josephine?”

  “I know the one! She’s got—”

  “Don’t move!” The panic in her voice scared her, and Phoebe said more pleasantly, “Don’t move, Sarah. You can’t move yet. It’s not time yet.”

  Sarah frowned. “Well, all right, Aunt Phoebe, but I think this game is kind of dumb.”

  Phoebe had almost drawn level with Sarah now, and her heart slammed inside her chest so hard she feared she might faint. With a lunge as quick as lightning, she slammed the rattlesnake against the ground with her stick. Then she held the derringer as close to its head as she dared and pulled the trigger twice, praying frantically that for once in her life her aim would be true, because that’s all the shots the little gun held.

&nb
sp; When Sarah saw what her aunt had done, she put her hands to her cheeks and screamed. And screamed. And screamed.

  In spite of her lingering terror, Phoebe said, “Hush, Sarah! Stop that caterwauling this instant! A Honeycutt does not screech in that appalling way.” She was afraid to lift the stick for fear the snake would still strike. It seemed unlikely, since there was nothing but a blot of bloody desert where its head used to be, but Phoebe wasn’t thinking clearly.

  She realized with enormous gratitude that Sarah had stopped shrieking. Then she became dimly aware of the little girl flinging her arms around her and sobbing into the back of her shirtwaist. Sobbing was all right with Phoebe, as long as Sarah didn’t let out with any more of those piercing screams.

  A thunder and a crash told Phoebe that Jack and William had returned to camp. She still didn’t dare move.

  “What the hell’s going on? William, take care of your sister.”

  “It was Aunt Phoebe,” the hysterical Sarah stammered through her tears. “Aunt Phoebe shot a horrid snake.”

  “No foolin’?” William sounded positively thrilled.

  Phoebe felt Sarah being lifted away from her skirt.

  “What happened?”

  Jack stood at her back. She could feel him there. But her horror kept her frozen and she couldn’t move, couldn’t lift her stick, couldn’t put her gun away. She could only stare, wide-eyed, at the mess that had once been coiled, deadly, and ready to strike at her little niece.

  “Miss Honeycutt?”

  His voice was soft, and somewhere in her consciousness Phoebe recognized the fact. Her body wasn’t ready to move yet, though, not even when he put his big, warm, comforting hands on her shoulders.

  “Miss Honeycutt?”

  Finally, she drew in a breath that sounded as though it were being sucked up through water. “I was afraid it would bite Sarah.” Her voice sounded delicate and fragile as a butterfly’s wing and quivered almost as much.

  “I know.”

  Jack exerted just a little bit of pressure on Phoebe’s shoulders, drawing her away from the snake, and at last she was able to let go of her stick. It toppled to the ground with a dry rustle. Her derringer made a soft plop next to it when she released it, too. She pressed her hands to her cheeks and began to tremble.

  “It’s all right, Miss Honeycutt. You did a good job. You did a fine job.”

  Phoebe couldn’t recall the last time anybody had spoken so kindly to her. Her nerves were such a jumble of dismay and relief she wasn’t able to think clearly. All she knew for sure was there was a world of comfort in Jack’s voice.

  She offered no resistance when he turned her around and wrapped her in his arms. All at once her enormous reserve crumbled like dry bread. She uttered a scraping sob, then another, and then cried against his shoulder.

  For several minutes, Jack just held her. When he looked up from her dark head nestled against him, it was to behold William and Sarah. Their eyes had gone round and they stared at the two of them agog. Suddenly he seemed to recollect himself.

  “Miss Honeycutt? It’s all right now.”

  The comfort in Jack’s voice had fled. In its place lingered nervousness, and it jarred Phoebe out of her shock. All at once she realized she was in the arms of Jack Valentine, black-hearted Yankee, and she pushed herself away as though she’d just discovered she’d been hugging a gorilla.

  “Oh!”

  “All better now?”

  It sounded as though he were humoring her, and she took exception.

  Pausing only to wipe her eyes with her apron and blow her nose on the rag she kept in her pocket for the purpose—she used to carry embroidered handkerchiefs there once upon a time—she said, “Considering I just had to shoot a dreadful rattlesnake, I suppose I am better.”

  “You did a fine job of it, Miss Honeycutt.”

  “You sure did, Aunt Phoebe.” William took Sarah by the hand and tiptoed over to the departed reptile. The two children stared down at it in awe.

  “You sure did.” Sarah still sounded frightened.

  “A fine job.”

  Jack’s voice held a funny timbre now, and Phoebe looked at him suspiciously. Those devil’s eyes seemed very warm; almost approving. She didn’t trust them one little bit.

  Not only that, but her grievance with him suddenly blindsided her. Oh, good God, she’d just been in the arms of a man who might have killed her own brother! Phoebe backed away from him as though she’d been stung.

  Jack sighed. It was an irked sigh, and Phoebe bristled.

  “Just don’t you say anything at all, Mr. Valentine,” she told him indignantly. “Just don’t you say a word.”

  “What do you think I’m going to say?”

  “I don’t know, but I know better than to think it would be anything pleasant!”

  They didn’t speak again that evening.

  Phoebe felt mortified at having taken comfort in a devil’s arms. How could she have been so lost to her heritage and upbringing as to have done such a scandalous thing?

  Jack was irritated almost beyond endurance. She was cutting him as dead as that damned snake and looking at him as if he were just as poisonous.

  He was also mad as fire because the silly female had felt so perfect in his arms. And, although he knew better, although he’d been taught over and over again that a southern woman was nothing but trouble, although his experience and education and intelligence all told him he was worse than a fool, he wanted to hold her again.

  # # #

  Two more days on the trail did not lighten Phoebe’s heart. Jack helped William skin the abominable rattlesnake, then her nephew tacked the skin inside the wagon, a trophy to Phoebe’s gallantry. She shuddered every time she looked at it

  Worse, Jack made her sit still while he doctored her hands morning and night. It was humiliating, sitting in front of him like a child while he unwrapped her bandages, inspected her hands closely, smoothed more salve over her wounds, and bandaged them up again with clean strips of rag.

  “You probably should have soaked these hands in antiseptic water if you had to work without gloves,” Jack murmured one evening.

  “I haven’t seen an antiseptic tablet since before the war, Mr. Valentine,” she told him coldly.

  He didn’t say another word.

  Then she had to sit next to him in the wagon, useless as a piece of Confederate currency, while he drove the wagon and chatted happily with William and Sarah. The children, she noted despondently, just loved him.

  On their fourth morning together, Jack asked William and Sarah to take a bundle of Phoebe’s soiled bandages to the river and wash them with soap from his pack.

  “Then we can use them again. They’ll be dry by tonight,” he called after the children.

  “Sure thing, Jack,” William called back, happy as a hog in slop to be doing the ghastly man’s bidding. Phoebe could hardly stand it.

  “And when do you expect I’ll be able to resume my rightful chores, Mr. Valentine?” she asked stiffly.

  He had the impudence to grin at her. “As soon as your hands are healed, Miss Honeycutt.”

  It was a struggle, but Phoebe refrained from frowning. “And when do you expect that will be?”

  He shrugged negligently and she wanted to pummel him. Then he pushed himself off the rock they’d been sharing and strode toward the wagon. “However long it takes, I reckon.”

  “But—”

  She stopped speaking abruptly when he wheeled around and pinned her with a glare. “Listen to me, Belle, and listen well. I’ve come to like Bill and Sarah. They’re good kids. I’m going to see you and them to Santa Fe, with or without your appreciation or compliance. I’ll be damned if I’ll let you get lockjaw or sun poisoning or do any other damned fool thing to get yourself killed before we get there”

  He only stopped speaking long enough to suck in air to begin again.

  “I don’t know how long it’s going to take your hands to heal. Frankly, I’m surprised you can
still use them at all. They were a hell of a mess. However long it takes, I’m going to drive your wagon and Bill and Sarah are going to help me cook meals, and I’d appreciate it—although I know better than to expect it—if you’d just be quiet and put up with it.

  “I trust I’ve made myself perfectly clear.”

  Phoebe managed to say, “Perfectly,” in a firm voice. Then she held his glare until he spun around to stomp away again. As soon as he turned his back, her anger deserted her and she slumped over.

  Why couldn’t she do anything right? She tried and tried, and failed and failed. Poor William and Sarah deserved better than she could ever provide. It was probably good that they’d fallen into the clutches of this horrid man. At least Jack Valentine was strong and knew what he’s doing. That was more than anybody could say of Phoebe Honeycutt.

  William and Sarah came running up from the river at that moment to show her their nice clean rags. “Look, Aunt Phoebe. Jack says they’ll be all nice and dry in time for him to change your bandages tonight.”

  “That’s wonderful, William, dear.”

  It didn’t matter. Before the words had left her lips both children were skipping over to show Jack what a good job they’d done. She didn’t even have their respect, much less their affection.

  She didn’t say more than two or three words to Jack Valentine as she sat next to him on the wagon seat that day. Jack let William ride Lucky Strike, an indulgence Phoebe was certain would seal the monster’s place as idol in the boy’s heart. Although she believed William far too young to ride such a large, dangerous animal, she spoke not a word. She knew both William and Jack anticipated her disapproval, and the knowledge made her feel as though she were nothing but a miserable, harping, carping nag.

  As if to forestall her censure, Jack said, “He’s a responsible boy, Miss Honeycutt, and Lucky’s a gentle horse. He’ll ride alongside the wagon and if anything should happen, I’ll be right here.”