Seven Swans Bride

by Donna Dalton

  “All right. Now squeeze the trigger. Like this.” He tugged ever so slightly on her finger. The hammer clicked down. “There. Perfect. Now you try.”

  He backed away, giving her some much needed breathing space. She tugged in several deep gulps of air. So much for not thinking about his kisses. Now, not only did her lips burn for him, her entire body was afire.

  ****

  Evander guided his horse to the shallower end of a huge snowdrift. Not as big as the previous drift, but still large enough that it slowed their progress. The wind had let up by mid-day and the sun had emerged, so they decided to set out for Waynesboro. According to his map, the town was only seven or eight miles to the west. Yet, at this snail’s pace, it would take them the rest of the day to travel the short distance.

  He turned around and looked back. He’d put Abigail behind him this time, letting his horse break through the deep snow so she would have an easier ride. He’d rather have her riding point so he could keep a closer eye on her. But lessening the toll on her already strained body outweighed the possibility of something jumping her from behind.

  Although she would probably be able to defend herself just fine. Once she got accustomed to firing his pistol, she’d hit each target he set for her. She was one remarkable lady. Not to mention soft and sweet smelling. Was it any wonder his body burned for her? He could still feel her curves pressed against him as he instructed her how to shoot. It took every ounce of control he possessed to keep from taking her right there in the cabin.

  His horse stumbled, and Evander swung around to catch himself from falling. He’d best get his mind out of the bedroom and onto the trip else he risked putting them both in danger with his negligence.

  Steam poured from his horse’s nostrils with each exhale. The gelding was starting to blow pretty hard. So was the mule. As much as he wanted to keep going, it would be best if they stopped and let the animals rest.

  He reined his mount into a clearing just off the pathway where the wind had swept away all but a dusting of snow. “Let’s stop here for a bit and give the horses a rest. We can grab a bite to eat.”

  “That’s fine with me. I could use a rest myself.”

  Was the ride getting too difficult for her? She wouldn’t let a sliver of complaint slip past her lips. She was a perfect combination of sturdiness and softness—an ideal travelling companion. He wouldn’t let himself think of her as anything more.

  He dismounted and kicked through the snow to Abigail’s horse. She slid into his arms without hesitancy. She must really need the rest for her to overlook her wariness of him so easily. Ever since the shooting lesson, she’d done her best to avoid touching him. Not that he could blame her. Between the kiss and the intimate closeness during the lesson, she had to be on edge, waiting for his next ungentlemanly attack.

  She hobbled across the clearing and gingerly lowered herself onto a large rock. Stubborn as the pack mule. Once they reached Waynesboro, he would insist she use the liniment. Propriety had its place; and it wasn’t in the backwoods.

  He secured both horses to a bush. They stood, heads down, sides heaving. He’d take them over to the nearby creek for a drink once they stopped blowing so hard.

  He retrieved his canteen and what was left of their provisions and joined Abigail on the rock. “There’s not much left to eat.” He handed her a strip of pemmican. “Try this.”

  “What is it?”

  “Dried meat and berries. A jerky of sorts, called pemmican. I purchased it from Gunderson. He said his wife made it.” Gunderson’s wife was a short, squat Cherokee squaw. He hoped she cooked better than she spoke English.

  Abigail took the sliver and bit off a piece. Her jaw muscles twitched as she gnawed on the leathery meat. After a few moments, she gave him a clearly counterfeit smile. “Mmm. Sure is delicious.”

  He stuffed down a laugh. She’d never make it big in vaudeville. “Keep chewing. It will get softer and tastier.”

  One quirked eyebrow was all the response he got. He smiled and began working on his own mouthful of jerky. A restful silence stretched between them as they ate. Birds flitted in the tree tops, calling to one another. A bold squirrel scampered across hair-thin branches. Though still chilly, it was a day he would savor during the long hot months patrolling the Kansas plains.

  Abigail tilted her head back and let the sun paint her face. Most ladies he knew would do everything in their power to avoid sunlight. He’d rather see a healthy glow on a woman’s face rather than the favored pasty white coloring that made them look sickly.

  Her honeyed sigh trickled over him. He ached to press a kiss to the pulse throbbing in her exposed neck. Let his lips travel down her breastbone to her succulent—

  “Evander?”

  Hog tails. She’d caught him gawking. He jerked his gaze to his trousers and worked at brushing off a clump of snow that had fallen from an overhead branch. Pesky squirrel. “Yes?”

  “I asked if I could have a swallow of water.”

  “Oh, of course.” He handed her the canteen, and she unscrewed the cap.

  “What were you thinking about?”

  You. He moved his gaze skyward. “Just checking to see how much more daylight we have left.” Not quite the truth, but he didn’t want to add to her wariness by revealing his true thoughts. “Based on my calculations, we should arrive in Waynesboro by sundown.”

  “That’s encouraging. Though I have to admit, I’m not looking forward to leaving the quiet and beauty of the mountain. It’s so peaceful here. So refreshing. Even if it is dangerous.”

  “You are quite the conundrum, Abigail Whitlock.”

  “Am I? I always thought of myself as rather direct and unexciting. My sister, now she’s the puzzling one. Prim and proper one minute, mischief-maker the next.”

  “I would never call you unexciting.”

  She hefted the canteen and took a long, slow pull. He’d made her uncomfortable. Not at all what he intended.

  She lowered the canteen. Vibrant blue eyes met his. She licked a droplet from her lips. “Before the war, what was life like in the military?”

  “It’s a harsh life. Few amenities. Fewer pleasures. Country and duty come above all else. But I wouldn’t trade it for a hundred grand palaces.”

  “It sounds intriguing. Almost like surviving out here in the wilderness.”

  “You’d make the perfect officer’s wife.”

  The admission jumped out at him like a wolf from the shadows, unexpected and quite startling. When had he begun to think of her as more than just an obligation?

  Her laugh was somewhere between amused and anxious. “Are you asking for my hand, Evander Holt?”

  Was he? While they had only been in each other’s company for two days, he felt as if he’d known her forever. He cocked his head to the side, watching for her reaction. “What if I am?”

  “I’d have to give it some thought.” She capped and handed him the canteen. “Marriage is a serious undertaking, not one to be made lightly.”

  Smart as well as beautiful. A strange feeling of relief washed over him, as if he’d found something he’d been looking for. He reached out and cupped her chin. “Abigail—”

  “Don’t move, bluebelly.”

  Evander froze. He’d only heard that term said with that much bitterness a few times since the War had ended. All of them had been in the South. All of them had resulted in someone’s death.

  He cut a glance to the side. On the other side of the clearing, a bearded man stood next to a tree with a shotgun pointed at them. Should he throw himself over Abigail and draw on the man? It was risky, but—

  More figures emerged. Men with guns. That shot his idea to hell.

  “Real easy-like, unholster that pistol and toss it over here,” the first man, likely the leader of the rag-tag bunch, ordered.

  Fingers dug like talons into his arm. “Evander?”

  “It’s all right, Abigail. Just stay calm and do what they say.” He slowly raised a hand. “I�
�m reaching for my gun now, mister. Don’t get all jumpy and start shooting.” If anything happened to Abigail...No. He wouldn’t let his thoughts go there.

  “Move nice and slow, bluebelly, and no one will get hurt.”

  Using one finger, he slid his gun free of the holster and tossed it across the clearing. “There. Nice and slow. Just like you asked.”

  “Good. Now get down on your knees and put your hands behind your head.”

  He did as instructed. The leader closed the distance between them. He wore leggin’s and a fur coat like many of the trappers at Gundersons, but the Rebel slouch hat told him all he needed to know. Their journey had just hit another rockslide—one that could crush them.

  Chapter Five

  Abigail’s stomach twisted. The men surrounding them looked harsh and ruthless—much like the Rebel raiders her father had provided sanctuary to during the war. Father didn’t favor one side or the other. He just did what was required to keep his family and Seven Swans out of harm’s way.

  The bearded man spat a stream of tobacco juice into the snow. “What’re you doing out here, bluebelly?”

  Evander held the man’s gaze. He might be cooperative, but he was no coward. “We mean you no harm. We’re just passing through on our way to Waynesboro.”

  “Your kind does nothing but harm. Our people went hungry after that devil Sheridan came through. Burned everything in sight.”

  The burning. That’s what the valley folks had called Sheridan’s atrocious deed. The Union general had ordered his soldiers to torch anything that might be of service to the Rebel army. She’d been horrified by the newspaper accounts. War or not, innocent civilians did not deserve such treatment. Their bitterness was understandable, yet she couldn’t let them take their anger out on Evander.

  “I’m sorry your kinfolk suffered,” Evander said. “But Sheridan only did what he had to in order to stop supplies from reaching General Lee.”

  “He put innocent women and children at risk. We won’t ever stop fighting against such Godlessness.”

  “In case you haven’t heard,” Evander said in a polite, but pointed tone. “The War is over.”

  The man let out a growl and shoved the butt end of his gun against Evander’s temple. He sprawled face first into the snow, red blossoming around his head.

  A scream blasted from her, and she shot from the log to kneel beside him. His breaths were coming in short gasps. She dug her knees into the snow and gave him a shove. He rolled onto his back with a groan. Blood trickled from a gash at his temple. She scooped up a handful of snow and pressed it to the wound.

  “Evander.” She shook his shoulder. “Evander, look at me.”

  His eyelids fluttered open. Dazed blue eyes met hers. “Abigail.”

  Good. He knew who she was. She glared up at his attacker. “That was cruel and totally unnecessary.”

  “He’s lucky I didn’t use the business end of this here shotgun on him. Though that would be a waste of a good bullet.”

  “Let’s string him up,” one of the other men called out. “We can use the rope from his mule pack.”

  “Yeah,” another replied. “Just like that mangy Custer lynched our brothers.”

  No. No. No. This could not be happening. She couldn’t let them do this. “Please. Leave him alone. He hasn’t done anything to warrant an attack.”

  “Just wearing that uniform is cause enough.”

  If reasoning wouldn’t work, maybe something a little more substantive would. “I have money, silver and gold coins. It’s in my satchel. You can have it all, just please, don’t hurt Major Holt.”

  The bearded man’s eyes narrowed. “You’re from the South.”

  She nodded. “Kentucky.”

  “What are you doing with this Yankee scum?”

  “He’s escorting me home.”

  “You two married?”

  “No. But, he’s a trusted friend of my family.” A little embellishment never hurt, especially if it saved a life.

  The man grunted. “You cain’t ever trust a bluebelly, little lady.” He cut a glance to where his men were busy removing the pack from the mule. “You got that rope yet, Homer?”

  “Almost. That bluebelly done strapped it down tighter than a spinster’s undergarments.”

  There were a few snickers. One man coughed. Another let out a bray of laughter. Their humor was like fingernails on slate.

  “Soon as you get that rope loose, find a sturdy tree limb. And bring me the lady’s satchel.”

  Abigail’s heart pounded against her ribs. She couldn’t let them hang Evander. He was good and kind. She didn’t know if there was more to her blossoming feelings for him, but she wanted to be able to find out.

  She pushed to her feet and put herself between the men and Evander. “I won’t let you do this.”

  “Abigail, don’t,” Evander urged.

  “I can’t let them take you from me.”

  The leader spit out a laugh. “She’s got a soft spot for you, bluebelly. You can carry that pretty little thought with you to the grave.”

  The one called Homer approached with her satchel. The leader took it and dug inside. He pulled out the rolled up canvas.

  “What’s this?”

  She fisted her hands at her sides. It was the reason she was on this ill-fated mission. If she hadn’t insisted on getting home, Evander’s life wouldn’t be in jeopardy. She ignored the little voice telling her if she hadn’t insisted, then she never would have discovered the one man she could give her heart to.

  “It’s a painting of the lake at my family home,” she said.

  He unrolled the canvas. “Mighty pretty. You paint this?”

  “No, I commissioned an artist in Richmond.”

  “A Rebel painter?” At her nod, he smiled and added. “My missus would fancy having a picture like this hanging in her parlor.”

  She hauled in a breath and then another. She didn’t want to do it, but she had to. For Evander. “You can have it if you’d like. Take it home. Give it to your wife.”

  Evander stirred behind her. “No, Abigail. You can’t.”

  She turned around. He’d gone up on one elbow and was trying to rise. She stooped over and stopped him with a hand to his shoulder. “No, Evander. Stay still. You’ll only hurt yourself more if you move about. Just let me handle this.”

  Pain and worry flitted across his face. His jaw muscles tightened as if he gnawed on a tough decision. Relinquishing control was clearly not something that came easily to him.

  “Please, Evander. Trust me.”

  His rigid gaze softened. He gave her a nod and dropped back to the snow.

  She tossed a prayer skyward. Please let this work. She eyed the bearded man. “Well? What do you say? The painting and my money in exchange for Major Holt’s life?”

  He ran a finger over the canvas. “These are swans, ain’t they?”

  “Yes. They return every year to the lake on our estate. My father named the place after them—Seven Swans.”

  The man lowered the painting, his expression puzzled. “Seven Swans? In Kentucky? What’s your father’s name?”

  “Jedidiah Whitlock.”

  The one called Homer scratched his temple. “Ain’t that the man what let us hide out until the Yankees retreated back in ’63?”

  The leader nodded. “It is.”

  She pushed the cracked door wide open. “Would you say then, that you and your men are indebted to my family?”

  He looked from her to Evander and back. His fierce expression eased, and he began rolling up the canvas. “I believe we are, Miss Whitlock.”

  She nearly slumped in relief. If there was one thing she knew about mountain folk, it was their strict adherence to their own brand of social mores. High on the list was making good on a debt owed.

  The leader slid the painting into her satchel and handed it to Homer. “Secure this and the rope back on the mule. You other men, come help this officer to his feet. There won’t be a lynching tod
ay.”

  ****

  Abigail wrapped the last of the bandage around Evander’s head and secured the tail end. His eyes were closed, his breathing even and steady. He would be fine after a good night’s rest, so the doctor had assured her.

  She traced his jaw with a finger. He’d come to mean so much to her in the past few days. She didn’t know what she would do if she had lost him. Luckily that bridge hadn’t required crossing.

  After learning it was her family that had concealed his unit during the war, William McCann and his kinsmen had helped her and Evander complete their journey to Waynesboro. They had secured a room at a hotel and had even carried Evander up the stairs when he’d collapsed from pain and exhaustion. In her opinion, the McCanns had repaid their debt—twofold.

  She tucked the bed sheet tighter around him. She and Evander would be parting ways soon. But she wouldn’t think about that. Right now, all that mattered was his recovery.

  As she started to rise, a hand on her arm stopped her.

  “Abigail.”

  She sank back onto the bed. “Yes, it’s me.”

  He opened his eyes. His confused gaze roved the room. “Where are we?”

  “At the Gibbs Hotel. In Waynesboro.”

  “You got us here on your own?”

  “No. The McCanns helped us.” She gave him a closer look. Was his head injury worse than the doctor claimed? “You don’t remember any of it?”

  He lifted a hand to his bandaged temple and grimaced. “Last I thing I recall is my head meeting the butt end of a rifle.” His frown deepened. “And something about a lynching.”

  “You are correct on both accounts. A small band of ex-Rebel soldiers wanted to hang you in retaliation for what the Union Army put their families through during the War.”

  He briefly closed his eyes. When he opened them, his gaze was clear and fixed on her. “I remember now. You stood between me and them. You shouldn’t have put yourself in danger like that.”

  “I couldn’t let them hurt you.” Even now, her stomach pulled tight at the memory. She patted his shoulder, more to reassure herself than him. “You get some rest now. The doctor says you have a concussion and shouldn’t strain yourself.”