by Donna Dalton
“Ma’am?”
She fumbled with the latch, her feeble efforts more genuine than pretend. “I’m so sorry, Lieutenant.” She supplied him with her most sugary smile. “The catch sometimes sticks.”
He shook his head and pointed to the single stripe on his sleeve. “I’m just a private, ma’am. Not an officer.”
“Oh my, you look so imposing in that uniform. I just assumed...”
His chest puffed ever so slightly, and she stuffed down a grin. Easier than taking candy from a baby. She yanked on the latch, and it popped open. “Nothing much in here. Just a few personal items. My diary...” She batted her eyelashes to draw his attention away from the satchel contents.
Her efforts paid off. His gaze barely skimmed the satchel before returning to her face. “Did you just join? The Women’s League, I mean. I don’t recall seeing you before.”
“I’m new in town. Mrs. Gardner invited me to come and see some of the charitable events the League conducts for the city.”
He handed her the basket. “It’s admirable what you ladies are doing for the prisoners, but you never know what an ornery Reb might do.” He leaned closer, his eyes near devouring her. “Pretty thing like you will draw them like bees to clover. You just call out if they bother you. I’ll be right there to help.”
She bowed her head, feigning coyness while bile rode up her throat. Ornery Rebs, her fanny. “Thank you, Private. I feel much safer knowing you’ll be nearby.” Hmmph. Safe as a rabbit in a fox den.
He gave her one last appreciative look, then moved on to continue his inspections. After a few minutes, he called out an, “All clear.”
The signal was repeated down the line until the screech of hinges rang out. A widening arc of daylight bloomed ahead, and the women surged forward. She moved with them, her blood singing, her heart dancing a jig.
They passed through the open gate and into a huge compound. Freshly-hewn plank buildings lined the enclosure. Men knelt on the rooftops, the tap-tap of their hammers echoing against the stockade walls. In the distance, white canvas tents dotted the horizon like clouds in formation. Was Lance in one of them? The thought had her fairly skipping over the ground.
The strutting Sergeant led them into a long, rectangular building where a row of tables had been arranged. “Line up on the other side of these tables,” he instructed. “The prisoners will arrive shortly. And remember, ladies, no talking. Just hand out your items.”
She joined the other women behind the tables, setting her satchel at her feet and the basket of muffins on the tabletop. Before long, the thud of footsteps sounded, and the prisoners began shuffling inside, one-by-one, eyes down-cast, their bony faces framed by long scraggly hair. Tattered clothing hung on bodies that had no more meat to them than a scarecrow.
As they filed past, some dipped into her basket for a golden muffin while others opted for fruit or a blanket from another. She studied each dirt-smudged face, hope fading as none held the features she’d hoped to find.
Her gaze drifted to the entrance. The major stood by the door, silent and erect as a pine tree, while his piggish partner simpered and fawned over a well-dressed newcomer. Senator Morgan, most likely, considering the herd of newspapermen hovering nearby, pencils busy as they observed the procession. None wore a black eye-patch.
She swiped sweat from her palms and tucked trembling hands into the folds of her skirt. Jack’s absence might not mean a thing. No sense getting all worked up. Besides, the last thing she needed was to draw attention to herself.
Pale green eyes staring out from a thin face caught her notice. A quiver started deep inside her, and thoughts of Jack waned as she gave the approaching prisoner a closer look.
Matted locks brushed his shoulders, the color hidden beneath a thick coat of filth. A scruffy beard concealed his chin and jaw. Yet when he brushed a hand through his hair in a familiar gesture, the breath lodged in her throat.
Lance!
Only two buttons held his ragged shirt closed. Weather-worn trousers hung low on his hips, lashed in place by a thin rope. He hobbled forward, favoring one leg. He was alive, but clearly not unharmed.
Tears swam in her eyes. She wanted to reach out and touch him—to see for herself he was real. But such a gesture would put them both at risk. She’d just have to wait until the Lawrences had been dealt with. Then she’d give him the biggest, longest hug ever.
Green eyes met hers and went wide with recognition. His shuffling gait faltered. He started to lift his hand, then dropped it back to his side. He too knew the danger of acknowledging one another.
A shadow fell across the table. Lance gave a slight jerk of his head. Someone was behind her. She nodded in response.
“Is anything amiss, ma’am?”
Drat. It was her admirer. She turned, forcing a smile. “Everything’s perfectly fine, Private.”
“Frank.”
“Pardon?”
“Name’s Frank. Frank Schofield.” He bent closer and lowered his voice. “If you’re interested, I’d like to meet you after my shift. We can talk some. Get to know each other better.”
“I don’t think that’d be a good idea.”
“You sure?” He brushed a finger along her upper arm, then cupped her elbow. “Seemed like you were interested earlier.”
She shrank away from his touch. “Please don’t.”
A blood-curdling yell froze them both. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a rag-clad figure leap across the table and slam into Private Schofield.
Chapter Eighteen
“Throw Corporal Carleton into the pit with the other one.”
Though Lance stood motionless between two rifle-toting guards, his shoulders stiffened at Major Beale’s order. Lips smeared with blood pulled tight. Clearly the pit was not a good thing.
“Please, Major.” She swallowed her pride with a hard gulp. She’d beg ’til the cows came home if it saved Lance. “Don’t blame the Corporal. It wasn’t his fault. I was the one who broke the rules.”
“You’ll have your say soon enough, Miss Carleton.” He motioned to the row of tables, empty now of the Women’s League and their baskets. “Go wait over there. I’ll be with you shortly.” His tone, though firm, was composed and gave no hint as to his mood.
“But—”
“Let’s not cause any more trouble, miss, shall we?”
Trouble. That was her middle name. Yet again, Lance had landed himself in a kettle trying to defend her. Why did she always find herself in situations that provoked his brotherly sense of duty?
Lance looked up, and the love and understanding in his green eyes wrapped around her like a hug. A sob hung in her throat, and she mouthed the words, I’m sorry. He gave a tiny shake of his head. He was so forgiving, so caring. She’d get him out of this horrid place, or die trying.
One of the guards shoved him with the butt of a rifle. Lance stumbled and a pained grimace shot across his face. He righted himself, then shuffled forward, mouth clamped tight, skin pale as the white-washed walls.
She bit down on her bottom lip to keep from crying foul. Hard as it was to watch Lance suffer, taking the major to task would only make matters worse. If she’d learned anything these past few weeks, it was how to hold her tongue. Beale would get his just desserts soon enough.
As Lance exited through one doorway, Mrs. Gardner appeared in the other, her face strained and lined with concern. Probably regretting her decision to let a Rebel Southerner join their outing.
“Major Beale,” the League leader called out. “I’d like to have a word with you.”
“I’ll be with you in a minute, ma’am.”
“You have no call to hold Miss Carleton,” the woman persisted. “She did nothing wrong.”
Louisa straightened. Didn’t that beat all? A Yankee was actually defending her.
“I’ll be the judge of that, ma’am. We have rules here for a reason.”
“I understand, but—”
“Then you’ll understand why I
must insist you go back outside with the others.” Only a slight tightening of Beale’s jaw muscle betrayed his annoyance. “Miss Carleton will be dealt with appropriately.”
How appropriately? With a knife? A bullet? No runaway carriages around that she could see. But then dead was dead.
The burly soldier from earlier, Sergeant Wilson she overheard someone call him, entered the room and stopped before the major. One eyelid puffed and was going purple. Dried blood clumped in the corner of his mouth. Lance had gotten in a few good licks before being subdued. If she wasn’t so worried about what they were going to do to him, she might’ve cheered.
“Prisoners are all back on their wards, sir,” the sergeant reported. “With no further incidents.”
“Good.” Beale gestured to the doorway. “Escort Mrs. Gardner outside with the other ladies, then see them all to their carriages. This one’s staying a while longer.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Once the League is gone, take care of that situation in the pit. There’ll be two of them.”
“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” The sergeant pivoted in a squelch of boot leather and headed for the door. He motioned for the two soldiers guarding the entrance to join him, and then guided a protesting Mrs. Gardner through the doorway.
That left her alone—with one of the rattlesnakes that had ordered Papa to be killed and planned God-knew-what for Lance. The other viper had slithered to safety during the ruckus. Lawrence would soon be crawling out from under his rock. Time to leave before she got snake bit.
She took a step forward, only to be rudely jerked to a stop.
“Just where do you think you’re going, Missy?”
Henry Lawrence. He’d used that tone with her right after Bart died. He sounded just as venomous now as he had back then, and it made her skin crawl.
She turned and faced him, chin thrust up. A year ago, she had cowered before his vicious taunts, too distraught over Bart’s attack and Lance’s flight to do much else. Not now. Not since Jack’s love had shown her just how valuable she was.
“Take your hands off me,” she ground through clenched teeth.
His face turned a mottled red, eyelids narrowing to slits. “Don’t go giving me orders, you little strumpet.” He tightened his grip, fingers digging like fangs into her skin. “You’re the reason my nephew’s dead. If you hadn’t led him on with your female trickery, he’d still be alive.”
Female trickery! Fury bolted inside her like a runaway horse. “Why you overblown, bigoted toad. The only ones to blame for Bart’s death are you and your no-account family.” She poked a finger at him. “Y’all spoiled that boy. Gave him anything he wanted. He never had to do an honest day’s work in his life; thought everything was his for the taking—including me.”
He bent toward her, snarling. “Raised by a Negress. Slaves for companions. What would the likes of you know about a real family?”
“I know plenty. Family is all about love and forgiveness. Not power and possessions.” She curled her upper lip at him. “You’re nothing but a pack of vultures making an easy meal off poor folks who can’t fight back.”
“Shut your mouth.” He lifted a hand as if to strike her. “Or I’ll shut it for you.”
“Easy, Henry,” Beale warned. “Not here.”
“Where then? Morgan is preparing to leave. He won’t be a problem.”
So, the senator wasn’t part of their wickedness. That made her decision all the easier.
“We’ll take her somewhere more private.”
As Beale picked up her satchel, the latch slipped free and bared the contents. A gasp skated from her throat before she could stop it. The major regarded her for a moment with those hawk-like eyes, then fished inside.
She held her breath. Please don’t let him—
He pulled out Jack’s journal.
No. No. No. If he read those notes, that letter she left with the desk clerk would become her last line of defense. And it might come too late to save any of them.
Though she itched to grab the journal, she stood still as a statue. Reacting would only show him just how important the ledger was. Better to appear unconcerned and hope his interest moved on to something else.
Her effort was wasted. Beale flipped open the journal and began reading. After a few seconds, he looked up, gaze narrowed. “Where did you get this?”
She remained mute beneath his stare, sifting through the options in her head. Lies, truth, or a shade in between? They all sounded risky. Drat. Why couldn’t she think as fast on her feet as Jack did?
“Did you steal it?”
“Steal? I don’t steal from folks.”
“Then how did it come to be in your possession? It sure as hell isn’t yours.”
Double drat. She chose the only sensible option. “I found it.”
“Where?”
“Outside my hotel. I was just walking along, and there it was. Thought it might come in handy.” His lips thinned, and she added an off-hand, “For lighting fires and such. With the paper.”
“Did you read it?”
“Me? Read?” She gave an unladylike sniff and eyeballed Lawrence. “You know I can’t read a lick.”
The toad nodded. “She’s right. Fannie bemoaned her inability to read and write. Said she made the worst lady’s maid she’d ever employed.”
Ain’t that a shame. For once, her poor reading skills were a cause for rejoicing.
Beale frowned, then burrowed back into the ledger. A few pages later, he snapped the book shut and wagged it under her nose. “If you found this as you claim, how do you explain the notations about you and Corporal Carleton?”
She shrugged, feigning an indifference she was far from feeling. “I have no idea why anyone would want to write about us.”
“How do you know Porter?”
Porter? How did he know the journal was Jack’s? Her stomach did a nasty summersault. Unless he’d already found Jack out. That would explain why he hadn’t been with the other newspapermen. Her love was in danger - terrible danger.
She shook her head, praying the major couldn’t see the fear and pretense that must surely be showing on her face. “Never heard of anyone named Porter.”
Beale slammed the ledger onto the table, then pushed Lawrence aside and took hold of her arm, his grip steely as the pair of slave manacles she and Lance had once tinkered with. “Don’t play games, Miss Carleton. We want to know what you’re doing with Porter’s journal. Is that why you snuck in here? To help with Porter’s scheme?”
She held his stare, refusing to be cowed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“If you’re trying to protect him, you’re wasting your breath.”
Alarm shot through her, and she couldn’t stop from stiffening.
Beale smiled. “Ah, so you do know him.”
“He’ll be taken care of,” Lawrence cut in with a sneer. “Along with that murdering brother of yours.”
Will be. They weren’t dead—yet. “You can’t just kill them. There are laws.”
“Not inside this prison, there aren’t, Missy.”
She ignored Lawrence and gave Beale a pointed look. He was the bigger toad in the puddle. “You could probably get away with killing Lance. But how will you explain Porter’s death? People are sure to miss a well-known newspaperman.”
He shrugged. “Accidents happen all the time. A stray bullet meant for a disorderly prisoner. Sharp objects where they shouldn’t be...”
“A runaway carriage, perhaps?”
He looked confused for a second, then shook his head. “Don’t know what you’re babbling about.”
Of course he didn’t. Papa’s death was as piddling to him as swatting a fly.
“It doesn’t matter what she’s babbling about.” Lawrence leaned over her, trying to look all scary and mean and not succeeding. “Justice will be served. Justice for everyone.”
It was time to play out her hand, before blood played out of her. She spit out a mocking
laugh. “Doing away with me won’t solve your problems. It’ll only make them worse.”
Beale’s grip tightened on her arm. “Why is that?”
“I have what you might call insurance. A letter to be delivered to Senator Morgan if I don’t return this evening.” She let that sink in before continuing. “I don’t think the good senator will cotton to people embezzling government money.” She rather liked using high-falutin words. But the twin expressions of terror on the two men’s faces were much more enjoyable.
Beale recovered first and eyed her with snake-like coldness. “You’re lying.”
“You want to take that chance? If I were you,” she said. “And thank God I’m not, I’d make sure Corporal Carleton and Jack Porter remain alive and well. Stealing money is one thing, murder quite another altogether.”
Lawrence snorted. “It’s too late for that.”
Too late. Wilson. The pit. There’ll be two of them. The loves of her life were about to be executed. She rammed steel into her backbone. Not while she drew a breath.
She bent and clamped her teeth around Beale’s fingers, biting for all she was worth. He howled and released her. She snatched up the journal and sprinted for the door.
“Dammit, get her,” Beale yelled.
Footfalls pounded behind her. She raced through the open doorway and into the bright sunlight, not daring to stop and wait for her vision to adjust. On the other side of the yard, she could just make out a clump of suits—grays and browns. No blues.
She angled toward them, praying her hunch was right. “Senator,” she called out. “Senator Morgan!”
The well-dressed gentleman she’d seen earlier turned to face her. He was still here. Thank God. She waved the journal in the air. “I have something I think you should see.”
****
As the darkness ebbed, pain surged. Hot and red. Stabbing into his skull like a poker. The smell of old sweat, stale urine, and excrement swirled together in a gut-churning stew. Jack groaned and rubbed at his throbbing temple.
“Landed a good one, did they?”
He opened his eye. Enough sunlight dribbled through the cracks in the plank walls to illuminate the man sitting across from him, back against the wall, one knee drawn to his chest. Like all the other the prisoners he’d met, a tattered Reb uniform barely covered his thin frame. His hair and beard were matted with dirt and grime. What looked like blood crusted one corner of his mouth. He’d recently met the blunt end of something hard.
