Seven Swans Bride

by Donna Dalton

  On the other side of the room near the ticket counter, Miss Whitlock and Congressman Jones had their gazes locked on him. One looked as though she’d swallowed a dose of castor oil. The other wore a satisfied grin. Were those expressions for him? Neither was particularly welcoming.

  Miss Whitlock broke off her stare and fiddled with her crooked hat feather. Hair the color of sun-ripened wheat poured out from beneath her hat and framed her pretty face now flushed a charming shade of pink. He couldn’t see her eyes from across the distance, but he recalled their intensity as he held her close after the sudden braking of the train. They were deep blue, like a bottomless ocean, one a less sentient man might drown in.

  He’d met his share of beauties over the years. Most were vapid, self-absorbed creatures with no other thought than whom to gossip about and what to wear at the next soiree. He couldn’t imagine spending a lifetime shackled to such a woman. He would marry eventually, once he found someone who could adapt without complaint to the harsh and often changing life of the military. In his experience, women like that were scarcer than hen’s teeth.

  Congressman Jones motioned for him to join them. Evander shucked off his hat and started across the room. Perhaps the congressman had an update on their delay. Good news he hoped, but he wasn’t optimistic.

  “Congressman, Mrs. Jones, Miss Whitlock,” he greeted as he drew next to them. “Do you have any word on the resumption of our trip?”

  The Congressman’s grin waned. “I’m afraid we do, and it is not good. It seems our trip will be postponed for at least a week, if not more.”

  About as encouraging as learning enemy soldiers had breached the front lines. “That is disappointing, but not surprising, considering the size of that rockslide and the time of year.”

  “Indeed. The Railroad wants to ferry us back down to Charlottesville to wait until the tracks can be cleared and any damage is repaired.”

  “I suppose that’s reasonable given the number of passengers. No adequate housing here in Afton that I could see.” Only a few buildings dotted the area around the station house. And most of those looked as if a good wind would topple them over.

  Congressman Jones’ doctored smile returned. “I recall you saying earlier that you couldn’t afford any extended delays to your trip.”

  Why was the congressman concerned about his travel plans? Instinct warned that something was afoot, and he’d managed to survive the war by heeding those warnings. Best to keep his eyes and ears open to avoid being flanked.

  “Yes, sir. I have a new assignment at Fort Leavenworth. I’m expected there by the end of the month.”

  “Well then, young man, I have a proposition for you. One that should guarantee you arrive at your assignment on time.”

  “Thomas,” Miss Whitlock cut in. “I don’t think this is such a good idea.”

  “Hush, now, Abigail. Let me handle this. It’s for your own good, whether you admit it or not.”

  She opened her mouth to reply, then apparently thought better of it and snapped her lips closed. She probably knew as he did that once a politician had his teeth around a notion, any nay-saying would be as futile as stopping a nor’easter. The fact that Miss Whitlock wasn’t in favor of this idea had his gut twisting.

  “What is this proposition, Congressman?”

  “It seems the fastest way to resume the trip westward is to travel by horseback through the Blue Ridge tunnel and then follow the back roads to Waynesboro where you can catch a stage to Covington.”

  “And board the Covington and Ohio rail service from there,” Evander added. “Yes, I had considered that option and was about to inquire about a horse.”

  “Good. Good. That makes this all the easier. I propose to cover all your travel expenses and pay for your time...if you agree to one condition.”

  Of course there was a condition. He didn’t expect anything less. “And this condition is?”

  “You must allow Miss Whitlock to accompany you. We would go, too, but Mrs. Jones is just recovering from an ailment and isn’t strong enough to withstand such a demanding journey.”

  Travel alone with an unmarried, unchaperoned lady—especially one as lovely as Miss Whitlock. Was the man addled? He tried to school his face into an expressionless mask, but was apparently unsuccessful.

  Miss Whitlock wagged a dismissive hand. “There. You see, Thomas? The major finds your suggestion as incredible as I do.”

  Amen to that. “I’m sorry, sir, but I must decline your offer, generous though it may be.”

  “Please, Major Holt,” the congressman’s wife broke in. “Abigail is adamant about carrying out this misadventure in order to attend her sister’s wedding. I would feel much better knowing she was being looked after by a dedicated and capable military man like yourself.”

  Mrs. Jones had that same look on her face that his mother had worn when imploring him to reconsider joining the army on his nineteenth birthday. It hadn’t worked then; it wouldn’t work now.

  “I appreciate your confidence in me, ma’am, but I cannot in good conscience agree to something so risky. The mountain terrain is harsh and unforgiving. The weather can turn in the blink of an eye. I have concerns about crossing it myself.”

  Miss Whitlock bristled, her sapphire eyes flashing. “Are you saying I won’t be able to handle the conditions?”

  “Yes, I am saying precisely that.”

  “Well your assumption would be wrong.” She gave him a pointed look. “Dead wrong.”

  What a hellcat. She would definitely keep a man on his toes—in and out of bed.

  Congressman Jones leaned toward him. “General Sherman and I are close acquaintances, Major Holt. A good word from me will go a long way to further your career.”

  Or end his career—if he didn’t agree to this hare-brained scheme. How the hell did he get himself in such a quandary?

  “Clearly Major Holt is not interested in your proposal, Thomas,” Miss Whitlock said, her sugary Southern drawl spiked with a dash of vinegar. “I shall find my own escort.”

  Her gaze slid over him before she turned away. Was that disappointment swimming in those blue eyes? She didn’t appear to like the notion of him escorting her any more than he did.

  Miss Whitlock slid a coin across the ticket counter. “Pardon me, where can I inquire about a guide to escort me to Waynesboro?”

  The clerk frowned and glanced from the Congressman, to him, and back to Miss Whitlock. The man was just as unwilling to be a party to this debacle as the rest of them.

  Miss Whitlock scooped up her coin. “If you won’t help me, then I shall find someone else who will.”

  “Gus Gunderson’s place,” the clerk blurted. “About a half mile north of here. Trappers come down off the mountain for supplies. One of them might consider helping you. For a price.”

  Miss Whitlock replaced the coin. “Thank you. I appreciate your assistance.” She gathered her skirts and started for the door.

  The headstrong creature really was going to do it. She would put her life in the hands of a stranger, a trapper who spent the majority of his time alone on the mountain. Being in the company of a lovely female like Miss Whitlock would be a temptation few men could resist.

  “Just a minute, Miss Whitlock,” he called out. Damn. Damn. Damn. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if she got hurt or worse and he could have prevented it.

  She stopped and turned to face him. Stormy eyes glinted with challenge. “Yes, Major Holt?”

  “There’s no need to go looking for a guide. I agree to escort you to Waynesboro.” He put hardness into his tone, one that usually had his soldiers quaking in their boots. “But only if you agree to abide by my terms.”

  She held her ground and lifted her chin. “What are those terms?”

  “You will follow my orders without objection. No questions, no arguments. Just prompt obedience.” Like his soldiers would do—except his soldiers didn’t have curves and soft skin and a flowery aroma that set his senses ablaze.<
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  Pretty lips pursed as she considered his proposal. He wanted to reach out and touch them.

  “Please, Abigail,” Mrs. Jones implored. “It would ease my heart to know you were in capable hands.”

  The hard lines around her mouth softened. “Very well. For Mary’s sake, I agree to your terms, Major Holt.”

  The knot in his stomach yanked hangman tight. He had been out-flanked by a wily politician, a worried mother bear, and a captivating lady who had him thinking of more pleasurable things than escorting.

  ****

  The lane widened, and Major Holt reined his horse beside her. The mule hauling her belongings trailed behind him.

  “Are you warm enough, Miss Whitlock?”

  Abigail turned her head to him. Well, well, the gentleman breathed after all. Ever since they left Afton Station, he had been silent as a grave. Was he thinking about his family? Did he have a family? A wife? She knew nothing about him and didn’t feel it was her place to inquire. If he delivered her home safely, he could keep his particulars as private as he wanted.

  “I’m quite warm, thank you.” After helping her mount, he’d tucked the fur hides he had purchased from Mr. Gunderson around her shoulders and across her lap. At first, she’d cringed at the thought of what pests might be hiding in the skins, but the warmth they generated outweighed any inconvenient itching that might develop.

  “Good.” He rolled up the map he’d been studying and tucked it into his saddlebag. “We’re about to reach the draw where we can follow the train tracks to the tunnel.”

  She tipped her head back and let the sun bask her face, relishing the last bit of brightness before they ventured into the dark tunnel. Only a few wispy clouds broke the broad expanse of blue—a perfect start to their journey.

  “At least the weather is holding out,” she said.

  Major Holt grunted. “Let’s hope it stays that way.”

  Indeed. The last thing they needed was bad weather to brew up and hamper their progress. So far, the trek had been about as demanding as a long pleasure ride.

  The lane narrowed again, and the major dropped back to trail behind her. Thick woods lined either side of the well-worn roadway, although it was more of a horse path than a true road. No wagon or buggy could have navigated the narrow, pitted lane without suffering a broken wheel or axle. Her mount even had trouble, stumbling over some of the rougher patches, much to the dismay of her protesting buttocks.

  Abigail shifted in the saddle, seeking a more comfortable position. She used to ride for hours on end with no residual effects. Yet it appeared she had gone soft over the past few years, relying on the luxury and convenience of carriages—and now she was paying for her indulgence.

  Her mount topped the rise and started down the other side. Deep gashes scarred the ground where heavy rains had chiseled rivulets into the earth. She gave the gelding his head and let him pick his way down the uneven incline. At the bottom, she pulled him to a stop and waited for Major Holt to join her.

  He pointed to the woods ahead of them. “See that break on the left?” At her nod, he continued. “Turn there and follow the path. Go slowly. It won’t be long before you’ll come up on a short but steep drop-off to the railroad tracks.”

  “I will be sure to watch for it.”

  Pale blue eyes travelled over her. “You’re doing very well, Miss Whitlock. Your ease and skill with a horse are quite apparent.”

  Was that why he had been so quiet? Had he been studying her, assessing her horsemanship? Heat rose in her cheeks at the thought of his intimate inspection.

  She nudged her mount forward. “My family owns a horse breeding farm in Kentucky. I’ve been riding since I was old enough to walk.” Not recently enough to prevent saddle soreness. But he didn’t need to know that.

  “Thoroughbreds?”

  “Is there any other breed?”

  His laugh rumbled over her. “Spoken like a true purebred owner. Do you race them? Now that the war is over, I would think the horse tracks would be back in operation.”

  She guided her mount left onto the narrow path he’d pointed out. Branches scraped at her legs and arms. If not for the furs, her skin might be flogged to ribbons. She clutched a hand to her bonnet and ducked under a rather low hanging branch. It was definitely a rarely travelled path.

  “If an exceptional colt is produced,” she said after safely passing under the branch, “Father might race him. But his true passion is matching the pedigrees of mare and sire to produce quality offspring, which many will pay top dollar for.”

  “It sounds fascinating.”

  It was fascinating. Images surfaced of the big barns housing mares heavy with foal. And come springtime, the long-legged fillies and colts romping in the lush green fields. A pang stabbed her heart. She would endure whatever hardships the trip threw at her in order to make it home.

  The woods ahead thinned and then disappeared. “There’s the drop-off,” the major warned.

  “I see it.” She let her horse take his measure at the lip and then urged him forward with firm pressure from her heels. The gelding breached the rise and started down the five-foot slope. She leaned back in the saddle and worked at remaining still so she wouldn’t throw the animal off balance.

  The horse lunged the last foot and stopped next to the tracks. She gave him an encouraging pat. “Good, boy. You shall have an extra handful of feed for supper tonight. I imagine we will all need some extra nourishment after today’s jaunt.” She knew she would.

  Major Holt joined her. “Do you need to take a quick break? The tunnel is just ahead. We won’t be able to stop once we go inside.”

  “No. I’m fine. We’re making such good progress, let’s keep going.”

  She urged her horse forward and consoled herself with thoughts of a bathing tub waiting for her at the Waynesboro hotel. It would be filled to the brim with hot, lavender-scented water. She would soak until her skin wrinkled and her muscles softened. And then she might soak some more.

  They rounded a turn and the entrance to the tunnel loomed ahead, its giant maw dark and beckoning. Thoughts of a relaxing bath disappeared quicker than water down a drain hole. Ever since she’d been trapped in the cellar by a faulty door lock, dark, confining places put her on edge.

  “Pull up here, Miss Whitlock. It will be safer if we dismount and lead the horses through. There’s not much room inside if they decide to spook.”

  Good. She could use the opportunity to prepare herself for the challenge ahead. She reined her mount to a stop and unhooked her leg from the saddle post. Her muscles screamed in protest. She closed her eyes, willing the pain to recede.

  “Miss Whitlock?”

  She opened her eyes to find the major standing at her feet, arms outstretched to assist her down. Drat. Was he aware of her saddle soreness? He’d warned her not to complain. She wasn’t about to give him any reason to back out of their agreement.

  “Just a minute...” She moved the fur hide from her lap to the horse’s rump, providing a few extra seconds to gather herself. Muscles tensed and teeth clamped against a yelp, she leaned into his hands. Pleasing heat spread under her ribs and coursed down her spine. As he set her on the ground, her knees wobbled, more from going mushy at his touch than from soreness.

  She busied herself with straightening her skirts, hoping he wouldn’t notice her weakness of mind and body. To her relief, he seemed more concerned with securing her horse’s reins to the mule pack and retrieving a lantern.

  After lighting the wick, he motioned to the tunnel entrance. “Are you ready?”

  Ready as she would ever be. She gathered her skirts and her courage and moved toward the black hole. As the maw swallowed them, her pulse thrummed like a sprung wire. She no longer noticed her aching muscles. The eerie gloominess claimed every ounce of her attention.

  The further they ventured inside, the darker the tunnel became. Eventually the sunlight disappeared, and only the pale light from the lantern lit the way.

&nb
sp; The sound of their footfalls and the steady drip of water echoed into the darkness. It was cold and damp, much like the cellar at Seven Swans. She drew in a calming breath and then another. She could do this. She could.

  Something darted into the shadows ahead—something big and four-legged. Abigail pulled to a halt, hand cupped to her chest, a scream lodged in her throat.

  “What was that?” she managed to squeak out.

  The major lifted the lantern higher. “What was what?”

  “Something ran across the tunnel in front of us. It looked like an animal of some sort.”

  “It was probably just a rat.”

  She shuddered. “Biggest rat I ever laid eyes on.”

  “The light can play tricks on you. Make things seem bigger than they really are.” He wiggled his fingers in front of the lantern. Long shadows danced across the wall. “See how enormous my fingers look?”

  He was probably right, but seeing a rat the size of a goat was still unnerving. She bent and picked up several brick-sized rocks. Whatever made that shadow, big or small, she would be prepared should it decide to make another appearance.

  She resumed walking, sweeping her gaze from side to side, watching for any sign of the giant rodent. At the point where the specter had appeared, she slowed. Nothing moved in the narrow confines of the tunnel. Whatever had created the shadow was gone. She blew out a relieved breath. Good riddance.

  As she navigated around a stream of water pouring from the ceiling, a low, mournful moaning floated from the darkness. She couldn’t tell if the sound was coming from behind or ahead of them. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. This tunnel was turning out to be more unnerving than imagined.

  “What in God’s name is that?” she whispered, not wanting to announce their presence to whatever was making the horrible racket.

  Major Holt moved closer, his heat wrapping around her like a protective blanket. “I believe it’s the wind. I heard a similar sound once in a cave I was exploring.”