Phoebe's Valentine

by Duncan, Alice

  Phoebe only sniffed. She had a very sarcastic sniff. But she didn’t move.

  With a sigh, Jack said, “Will you please tell me why you were crying this afternoon, Miss Honeycutt?”

  He could almost feel her mental struggle. She didn’t want to tell him; he knew it. She was probably trying to think up a lie because she didn’t want him to know she’d been mooning about his kiss.

  Damn. What had possessed him to kiss her that way? He knew such a hot, searing kiss would have scorched an innocent maiden’s heart. Phoebe didn’t possess the experience Jack had. She couldn’t just toss off kisses of such a carnal nature like he could.

  A deep breath preceded her confession. “Not that it’s any of your business, Mr. Valentine, but I had been composing a letter to that poor hanged boy’s mother. The job was difficult and the nature of it saddened me. I’m sure you can’t understand that, you being possessed of such a cold, cynical nature, but there it is.” Her voice shook a little, as though even recalling her letter rattled her sympathies.

  All at once Jack felt like an utter fool. It was not a pleasant feeling. He’d forgotten all about Phoebe’s brave stand back there at the gallows in Big Spring. Her valor had astounded him and he’d been very proud of her, too.

  Swallowing his punctured male vanity with chagrin, he murmured, “I’m sorry it fell to you to write the mother, Miss Honeycutt.

  “Yes. Well, I finished the letter, so when we get someplace equipped with United States postal services, I suppose I can post it.”

  “I’ll pay the postage, Miss Honeycutt.”

  “You needn’t do so, Mr. Valentine. I am not wealthy, but I’m sure I can manage to post a letter to Pennsylvania.” Her voice was cold.

  “Damn it, Miss Honeycutt, I’m not trying to take anything away from you. I just feel sorry for the boy’s mother and would like to do something for her. You wrote the letter. I’d appreciate it if you’d be kind enough to allow me to pay the postage.”

  He muttered under his breath, “God knows I had to write letters of that nature to enough mothers during the war. I’m glad as all get-out I didn’t have to write this one.”

  Phoebe didn’t respond for a moment or two, and Jack figured she was busy preparing some sort of scathing retort. He reckoned he’d have to fight her some more before she’d agree to let him pay for the damned letter. It just annoyed the hell out of him, the way she fought him tooth and nail every inch of the way.

  When she spoke again, the husky, tentative quality of her voice surprised him. He was even more surprised at her words.

  “Mrs. Potter told me how you got the nickname ‘Black Jack’, Mr. Valentine.”

  He shot her a quick look and was taken aback to find her tense, staring into the fire. She kneaded her hands in a tight little knot in her lap. Then he remembered her telling him her brother had been killed at Cedar Creek and his heart began to thud with dread.

  “Well,” he said at last, “It was during the war. Things were—things were pretty strange back then. Different.”

  “Nevertheless, it must have been difficult for you to write to the mothers of boys who weren’t going home again.”

  She still peered into the dying fire and he couldn’t stand to look at her any longer. He dropped his gaze to stare at the ground between his knees. All of a sudden he felt hopeless—as hopeless as he used to feel when he’d been writing those damned letters. “It was difficult.” His voice sounded strange to his ears.

  “And I think it was—well, courageous of you to get up poker games among troops of both sides when you weren’t fighting.”

  He didn’t say anything for a long time. What could he say? He’d had all sorts of fine motives for joining up. It hadn’t taken him more than one battle to abandon them all and to realize he didn’t hate anybody, not even his sister-in-law, enough to kill another human being.

  After a long time he said, “I had no cause to dislike those boys. We just managed to get born and raised in different places is all.”

  He was sorry when she turned her head to look at him. The dim firelight cast just enough of a glow to illuminate half of her face in soft ivory, leaving the other half in shadow. She looked both beautiful and mysterious in the half-light. Jack had the whimsical thought that some angel of femininity had blessed her with all the deep, mystical charms of Womanhood and sent her here on purpose to torment him.

  When she spoke again, her voice sounded husky. It seeped through him like fine aged bourbon, the only thing about the south he liked.

  “I . . . I wonder if you ever met my brother Paul, Mr. Valentine. He fought at Cedar Creek.”

  Jack had to clear his throat. “I recollect you telling me that, Miss Honeycutt. I don’t recall the name, Paul Honeycutt—any Honeycutt, though.”

  “Oh.”

  She sounded so disappointed his heart wrenched in sympathy. “Maybe if you were to describe him to me, it might jar a memory. You know, everybody seemed to end up with a nickname back then; not just me. Maybe I didn’t know him by his given name.”

  “Oh. I see. Well, let me think.”

  He watched as Phoebe seemed to go back in time before his very eyes. She got a faraway look in her beautiful bourbon-colored eyes, and her lovely lips curved into a sweet smile. He had to look away quickly.

  “Paul was a very handsome boy. He had hair the color of clover-blossom honey. It was just thick as anything, and it waved naturally. He hated it, of course, but women used to simply swoon over his hair. He had blue eyes, too. Not blue like yours, like cornflowers on a summer day, but gray-blue, like a . . . like a stormy sky. And he was tall and straight as an old oak tree. He had a long, straight, aristocratic nose, and a full mouth that just loved to smile. He and Philip—they were twins—used to play gags all the time.”

  She paused to sigh and it was all Jack could do keep from putting an arm around her shoulder and offering her some sort of comfort.

  “He had a way about him, though. They both did. It sounds mean and I don’t intend it to, but they did have a way about them, a sort of arrogant way.” She sighed again. “But they were so strong and good and handsome.”

  “You say he died at Cedar Creek?” His voice had gone froggy and he had to clear it again.

  Phoebe nodded. “We got word he was missing and presumed killed. We never did know for sure.”

  When she leveled those gentle brown eyes at him and said, “It’s hard, not knowing,” Jack suddenly remembered. Then he wished he hadn’t.

  “Sweet Paul, the Georgia Peach,” slipped out from between his lips so softly, Phoebe had to lean against him to hear him. He did put his arm around her then, and she didn’t pull away.

  “You remember him?”

  “Yes. I remember.”

  Sweet Paul was one of the first to take him up on his offer of a friendly game of cards of an evening. Phoebe was right about his arrogance. It was a swaggering, valorous arrogance born of gallantry. In spite of himself and his contempt for the southern cause, Jack used to admire him for it. Sweet Paul. It was almost as if Paul knew he wasn’t going to make it through the war and was determined to live his short life with flair.

  “Do . . . do you know what happened to him, Mr. Valentine?” Phoebe’s voice was a tiny satin thread in the night. “It would mean a lot to me to know.”

  He nodded and swallowed. “He was very gallant, Miss Honeycutt. You should be proud of him. He was a leader among his men. They all looked up to him because he . . . he had a way about him.”

  “I told you he did.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “Did he . . . did he die?” The satin thread unraveled a little

  Jack could only nod. He remembered the last day of the bloody battle, stumbling over Sweet Paul’s body in the mud and damned near crying. He’d fallen to his knees and stared at that handsome, aristocratic face, the blue eyes staring sightless at the merciless sky, and thinking nothing on earth or in heaven was worth this. If Jack could blot those awful days from his
memory forever, he’d do it in a minute. No. A second. A heartbeat.

  It seemed like a lifetime before Phoebe said, “Philip said he was dead.”

  Jack looked down at her head, nestled against his shoulder. Her face was hidden from him and he was almost glad. “Philip was his twin?”

  He felt her nod. “I was nursing him because he’d been grievously wounded in battle. He said he felt it when Paul died. I heard him cry out in the night and ran into his room. That’s when he told me Paul was gone.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s as if the life went out of Philip when he felt Paul die.”

  “I’ve heard there’s a strong connection between twins most of us can never understand.”

  “There is. Philip lasted another week or so, but he never talked to me again. He didn’t seem to care about anything after Paul died.”

  There was something heartbreaking in Phoebe’s simple words, and Jack’s arm tightened around her shoulder. Poor Phoebe, left alone to tend to everything, and nothing and nobody seemed to care. She tried so hard.

  He found himself cursing Philip Honeycutt, the damned arrogant bastard, for dying. How could he have cared so blasted much about his twin and ignored the sister who loved and tended him in his hour of need?

  God almighty. This woman had been through the fires of hell, and there was nobody around even to care. Sometimes, Jack guessed, it was harder to live than to die.

  He had to clear his throat again. “I’m surprised you weren’t notified of Paul’s death. He fought hard and bravely. His death was a gallant one.”

  He could hear the smile in her voice when she said softly, “I knew it was.”

  “He was buried there at Cedar Creek. Maybe someday you can visit the grave site.”

  Her huge sigh almost tore the heart right out of him. “Oh, I don’t expect so, Mr. Valentine. I’m just sorry he couldn’t be buried in his grave back home next to Philip.”

  “Well, I expect his soul is there next to his brother, even if his bones aren’t.” Jack couldn’t believe those words came out of his cynical mouth.

  A long few moments passed before Phoebe’s shaky, “Thank you,” kissed his ear.

  She was crying softly now; he could feel it. So he turned a little bit on the log they shared, wrapped his other arm around her and whispered, “It’s all right, Miss Honeycutt. You deserve all the tears you want to shed.”

  A few minutes later, her tears wore themselves out and Phoebe sighed against him. Jack held her until he felt her pull back. He didn’t want to let her go, but was afraid not to.

  “Better now?”

  “Yes. Thank you.” She moved away but didn’t seem inclined to look at him. Her gaze was directed at the fire when she said, “I—I’m sorry, Mr. Valentine. I’m not generally so weak.”

  “You’re never weak, Miss Honeycutt.”

  She looked up, obviously astonished. Jack said quickly, “Would you like to chat for a while longer?”

  There was a pause, then Phoebe said, “Thank you, but no. I’d better get some sleep now.” After another stretch of silence during which she looked uncomfortable, Phoebe whispered, “Good night.”

  Jack was disappointed when she bolted for her bedroll.

  # # #

  They set out again at first light, Phoebe and Sarah once more sharing the wagon. This time it was Sarah who taught Phoebe the fine art of wagon-driving.

  “You have to keep the reins right over the mules’ backs, Aunt Phoebe, or they’ll wander.” She was being very patient about it, too, and Phoebe was pleased.

  “Like this?”

  “That’s the way.”

  “I do declare. Maybe I can earn our way by being a drover when we get to Santa Fe, Sarah, darlin’.”

  The little girl giggled in delight. “Aunt Phoebe! You’re a stitch. You never used to joke.”

  “No?” Phoebe looked at her niece and felt a pang of nostalgia. “My mama used to scold me all the time about bein’ too light hearted, Sarah.”

  “You?”

  “Me.”

  “I can’t hardly believe it. Just wait till I tell William. He won’t believe it, neither.”

  With a hearty sigh, Phoebe said, “Well, I guess sometimes life gets a body down and you forget some things can still be funny, Sarah.”

  “I reckon,” agreed the little girl.

  But Phoebe could tell she only said it to humor her.

  Chapter Ten

  By mid-afternoon, they were nearing the Pecos River. Phoebe could see it twisting like a fat silver-blue snake in the distance. It looked like a lazy river, with no white water disturbing its placid surface. She supposed it was too hot out here even for a river to feel much like racing along. Nothing but low scrub and a few big bushes shielded it from view. The Pecos didn’t look like much of a river, but Phoebe was mortally glad to see it.

  Pete and Antelope, who carried William with him, had just joined them at the wagon. Jack had been there all day, having earlier declared, “I’ll just stick around the wagon today, ladies, to see if Sarah remembers anything I taught her yesterday.”

  “I remember, Jack!”

  “Well, I expect I’d better stick close by you to make sure.”

  “That’s fine, Mr. Valentine.” Phoebe looked at him, he looked at her, and both of them knew he was lying.

  They hadn’t spoken more than a word or two all day long. Now she peered at the new arrivals and noticed Pete motion to Jack, as though he wanted to hold a private consultation.

  “When we gonna camp, Jack?”

  Phoebe looked at William quickly. She recognized the slightly peevish note to the boy’s voice, as though he were trying to be brave but didn’t feel very well. The specter of his sickly constitution loomed before her and she was afraid.

  “Are you all right, William, darlin’?”

  She could tell she’d annoyed him when his brows veed and he said, “I’m all right, Aunt Phoebe.”

  Then he sighed and straightened up. Phoebe realized he was bracing himself for the endless series of questions he knew she’d throw at him. Although all those questions did indeed bubble in the back of her throat, for once—with a thought to how Jack Valentine handled the children—Phoebe made a monumental effort and forced a lid down on them.

  She recalled how her brothers used to hate her constant fussiness and supposed an almost-a-man would resent an aunt’s carping about his health. Especially in front of three men whom he was trying to impress with his manliness.

  “All right, dear.” Phoebe took note of William’s amazement and sighed. No wonder these poor children considered her merely an annoying pest. It’s just what she was.

  “William, can you ride Lucky Strike for a while?”

  Jack’s question, coming seemingly out of the blue, surprised Phoebe as much as it did William.

  “Why, sure, Jack.” William was obviously proud to have been asked.

  “I don’t believe William is feeling quite up to snuff, Mr. Valentine,” Phoebe said, and then wanted to kick herself.

  “We have no choice, Miss Honeycutt. I’m afraid Yves Basteau’s found us.”

  “What?”

  “There’s no time to explain now, but listen closely. I’ll drive the mules because I’ve had more experience than either of you. You and Sarah get into the back and hold on tight. And for God’s sake be careful. It’s going to be a hell of a ride. William and Antelope are going to race like crazy to the river. Pete will bring up the rear and see if there’s anything he can do to divert the fire.”

  “Fire?” Phoebe’s heart clutched with a fear so raw it hurt.

  “There’s a prairie fire right behind us, Miss Honeycutt.”

  Phoebe leaned over to stare in the direction they’d come from. She didn’t see anything but a soft, elongated puff of what looked like dust way, way far away, behind them. It spanned a good portion of the prairie.

  “I don’t see a fire.”

  “Not yet. But it’s there. The wind�
�s blowing it right toward us, and unless we’re luckier than I expect we are, it’ll be on us in a few minutes. Nothing moves faster and fiercer than a prairie fire. There’s no more time to talk. Stop the wagon and get in back. And set the damned brake.”

  For once Phoebe didn’t take exception to Jack’s curt command or his reference to her prior driving failure. She took one last look at William’s pallid countenance, white with fear as well as uncertain health, then glanced at Jack and found him peering into the distance. He seemed both distracted and alarmed, and his attitude galvanized her into action. She’d never seen him frightened before. With all the skill she’d just been taught by Sarah, she pulled the team to a stop, set the brake, helped the little girl scramble into the back of the wagon, then followed her.

  She felt Jack climb into the driver’s seat and heard him yell, “Hold on!”

  Then all hell broke loose. Phoebe heard a sharp crack, and the wagon gave a terrible jerk as the mules sprang forward. It was all she could do to hold onto the wagon ribs and keep an arm around her niece.

  It wasn’t long before poor Sarah began to whimper in fright. Phoebe sought to comfort her with words only to discover she had no breath to spare for words. Even if she had, she doubted they’d have been heard over the monstrous noises surrounding them. Oh, my Lord, it was loud.

  She dared to peek out of the open end of the wagon. Everything was being jarred so violently she couldn’t be sure of anything, but she caught a glimpse of the countryside. It looked to her as though the scrub plains had somehow become divided, and that the upper half of her view had suddenly been overtaken by a hot orange-yellow and black wall, as though an inferno pursued them.

  Oh, my God. She clutched Sarah more tightly, trying very hard to cushion the little girl’s body so it wouldn’t be slammed against wooden barrels and crates.