“There’s more. The story of a lifetime. An exclusive. My story.” Maybe the things he’d gone through could be used to give her the chance she needed to prove herself to her father. Everything could work together for good after all. “And of course, there’s the lost gold.”
She frowned. “What gold do you keep talking about?”
“My gold. The money Doc stole from my partner and me. He buried it somewhere nearby…and I think I can find it.”
Lucy stepped into the circle of his arms and placed a finger over his lips. “Careful, Sam. Don’t want to start any rumors.”
He laughed then sobered, searching her face in the dim light. “You’ll marry me, then?”
“Since I first laid eyes on you, you’ve been the hero in all my stories. Sticking with you for the happily ever after…well, it would be a dream come true.”
His arms tightened around her, since offering some of his warmth was only gentlemanly under the circumstances. “What about your father?”
“Didn’t you hear?” She blinked up at him, all wide eyes and playful innocence. “I’ve secured Henry Frederick an exclusive with a former outlaw, thanks to you. The editor will be pleased.”
“Well, if that’s what it’ll take …” He leaned his forehead against hers, his hat lost somewhere during the excitement of the past several hours. “Sweet Lucy. You’re not who I thought you would be.”
“Really? And here I thought the rumors were all about you, Mr. Pinkerton Agent.”
“Is that why Polly cornered me in the mercantile and told that random tale? Something about a section of her granddaddy’s crops being mysteriously cut down in the middle of the night?” Sam chuckled. “She was sure that elusive, nameless outlaw had a hankering for fresh corn and no sense of direction.”
“Pinkerton, schminkerton,” Margret hollered from the open window. “Polly cornered you because she thought you two lovebirds were engaged, and she wanted to be quoted in Lucy’s next article!”
Sam raised his eyebrows and leaned closer, lowering his voice. “I think I’m going to need to see these articles.”
“Too late,” Lucy whispered back. “But for the record, in real life you’re every inch the hero I thought you to be when you first rode into town on your mustang.”
“Stinkeye manages to look somewhat noble when he wants to make an impression.”
A smile lit Lucy’s face then gradually faded. “How did you figure it out?”
“Figure what?” He tucked a strand of her wet hair behind her ear. She needed dry clothes and warm food as the night grew cool, but he found himself reluctant to release her. “That I love you?”
“Well, that.” Her eyes turned dreamy for a moment then snapped back to the present. “And who the real killer was. Where he hid the gold. And—”
“You want an interview? Now?”
“I have to know what I missed. I’ve been hunting for a story, and it’s been right in front of me all along.”
“Lucy!” Margret hollered from a closer window this time. “What’s right in front of your pretty little face is love, the best story there is. So shut your clapper and claim it already. The cowboy proposed!”
“I’ll fill you in,” Sam whispered. “But let’s move somewhere a little more private-like. What do you say?”
“I’d say you’re as smart as you are heroic.”
Sam took her arm and ushered her toward the garden. “Now that you’re being nice, I can’t help thinking you’re buttering me up for that interview.”
“You might be right.” She giggled then bit her lip. “I’m sorry.” Her skirts still dripped, mixing with the dirt as they sloshed toward a stone bench. “The nosiness—it’s who I am. Who I was raised to be, whether Father intended it or not.” She took a deep breath. “Maybe you should reconsider.”
Were those tears sparkling in the moonlight? Sam stopped and tipped up her chin. “I reckon I like who you are. That’s why I proposed.”
“Writing and all?”
“You bet. Although I figure if you ever hang up the fiddle on those articles, you should consider giving dime novel writing a shot.”
Lucy gasped, her green eyes wide in the moonlight. “Goodness, Sam. What a thing to say!”
He leaned close, his mouth hovering above her scandalized lips. “You have to admit,” he said softly, “there’s something mighty fine about a happily ever after.”
When their lips touched, she sighed softly. “I’ll think on it,” she whispered. “But not right now.”
Lucy drew him down for another kiss, and that was just fine with him.
Epilogue
Dear Amelia,
In the unnamed town in Texas, the waters have calmed down so there’s nary a ripple. Something as simple as a hankering for pecans—found at the original scene of the murder and various stops along the way—blazed a trail to the stolen gold and the true criminal. With the brave Sam Brazos serving as the newly appointed sheriff, trouble has fled, or has been escorted away by the legendary Rangers.
After finishing the rest of the article, the postmistress slid her spectacles in their holder and tucked the pages back inside their envelope.
She’d had no earthly idea the sheriff had been replaced. In fact, she wondered if Sheriff Frank himself knew. She’d have to ask Aurilla next time the widow stopped in.
Sighing happily, she tossed the letter into a bag with the rest of the outgoing mail. With people like Lucy Frederick in town, she had a feeling her new job would never be boring, and that was a fact you could take to the bank…if the bank was still safe. Hadn’t the article mentioned a foiled heist?
She’d have to find out about that, too.
Jenness Walker lives in South Carolina with her website-designer husband, their toddler, and their hungry hound. Her lifelong love of books is evidenced by her day jobs, which have included freelance editing, managing an independent Christian bookstore, and even cleaning a library. Jenness’s short stories have appeared in Grit and Woman’s World magazines as well as in Guidepost’s A Cup of Christmas Cheer collections. She is a former ACFW Genesis contest winner, Carol Award finalist, and her debut novel, Double Take, received 4.5 stars and a Top Pick rating from RT Reviews.
The Battlefield Bride
by Renee Yancy
Chapter One
Paducah, Kentucky February 10, 1862
The moans of the wounded soldiers inside the sanctuary of Grace Episcopal Church struck Katherine Wilkes like a punch to the gut.
There would be no turning back now.
She straightened her spine and climbed down from the wagon to stand next to Horace, her faithful old donkey, giving him a vigorous scratch. Discarded pews littered the front yard of the church, and the army’s mules were sharpening their teeth on them. The nearest mule, a shaggy gray and smaller than the others, pricked its long ears and brayed an enthusiastic welcome.
Dear Lord, what had she gotten herself into?
Her heart thrummed like a bee in a bottle as she walked toward the wooden church, commandeered by the Union Army for use as a hospital after the recent battle to retake Fort Henry. A foul miasma of old blood and unwashed bodies escaped when she opened the door, and she wrinkled her nose. A raised platform stood at the far end of the rectangular room, and on the sanctuary floor about thirty men lay on cots crowded close together. Muted light filtered through the diamond-shaped panes of colored glass in the windows, throwing jeweled bands of blue, purple, and green across their pallets. She slowly walked the narrow aisles between them. All were dirty, bloodstained, many missing arms or legs, some with their pitiful faces still blackened with soot from cannon discharges. Most were sleeping or semiconscious, but one grizzled soldier noted her presence.
“Howdy do, ma’am,” he said, reaching out a bruised and bloodstained hand.
She took it and pressed his fingers gently. “Good morning, sir. How are you?”
He shook his head, and moisture came into his eyes. “To be honest, ma’am, I�
�m feelin’ almighty blue today.”
“I’m sorry to hear it. Is there anything I can do?”
“No, ma’am.” He lifted the grimy wool blanket and gestured to the empty place where his leg should have been. “Cannonball.” He dropped the blanket and smiled lopsidedly. “The doc says I’m lucky to be alive.” He sat up straighter on the cot. “What’s a fine lady like you doing in this place?”
She smiled. “I’ve come to see what I can do to help you boys.”
A grin cracked through the grime on his face, and the years fell away from him. “Jumpin’ Jehosophat, ma’am, just the sight of you’s done chirked me up good. We need a woman’s hand around here. Look at this.” From the crate that served as a bedside table he plucked a tin plate that held the congealed remains of some previous dinner.
She lifted it to her nose, recoiled, and hastily dropped it back onto the table. “I shall do my best to bring it, Mr. …”
“Private Benjamin Norton, Ninth Illinois Cavalry Volunteers.”
“Thank you, Private Norton. I must see if I can find someone in charge.”
“Out that door, ma’am.” He pointed to a door off the side of the dais at the back of the former sanctuary.
Two tiny rooms off the main building comprised the rectory, and in one of them, a door led outside. Neat lines of canvas tents populated the grassy field, and farther off a larger tent flying a red flag nestled in a grove of crepe myrtle bushes. Close to the back door stood another tent with a makeshift cookstove, with provisions and foodstuffs stocked on rough board shelves. Near it a lanky soldier in a stained apron lay sprawled under a tarp, clutching a long spoon in his hand and snoring with his mouth open. She touched the stove, stone cold, and nothing else for dinner in the works. Kate frowned and nudged the soldier rather hard with the toe of her boot, whereupon he promptly sprang up, sputtering.
“Are you the cook?” she asked.
The soldier blinked several times. “Yes, ma’am,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes.
“Then put some kindling into that stove and heat it up. Fetch the chickens in the wagon out front and wring their necks. Then turn my mule loose with the others.” She pointed to an iron pot. “Fill that with water, and heat it quick as you can. Then unload the wagon.” She paused. “What’s your name, soldier?”
He looked at her sideways and took a step back, no doubt wondering where on earth she had appeared from to torment him. “Private Cletus Bennett, ma’am.”
“Are you the only help available?”
“I work in the kitchen, ma’am.”
“Who takes care of the injured men?”
“There be some orderlies, ma’am, but they ain’t here right now. They’s helping the sawbones with the amputations in the medical tent.”
He pointed to the red-flagged tent a quarter-mile away. A shudder rippled through Kate at the memory of Henry’s leg, amputated above the knee.
Private Bennett frowned and pursed his lower lip. “Ma’am?”
Kate swallowed. “It’s nothing.” She filled her lungs with fresh air to dissipate the memory. “I’m here to help. I’m fixin’ to make soup. You can help me feed the men when it’s done.”
Thirty minutes later, five chickens stewed in a huge cauldron with the onions and carrots she had brought. She found the water firkin and one by one gave each man a good draught of clean water.
Armed with a bucket of hot water and some soft flannel cloths, she returned to the sanctuary. Most of the sleeping or moaning men looked devastatingly young. One soldier in the far corner wept, his face turned to the wall. She poured some water into a pan and chose him first. She dragged a stool to the edge of the bed and gently touched his shoulder.
“There, now. Are you in pain?”
The young man turned and gaped at her, his mouth open. A bloody bandage covered his left eye. He couldn’t be more than eighteen. His beard had barely come in.
“Am I dreaming, ma’am? Are you an angel?”
She smiled wryly. “No, indeed. Far from it. I’m going to wash your face and try to make you more comfortable.”
She dipped the rag into the warm water and gently sponged his face. “What’s your name, soldier?”
“William Thornton, ma’am. But everybody calls me Billy.”
“Where are you from, Billy?”
“Virginia, ma’am.”
The water in the pan soon turned black and Kate changed it several times until Billy’s face, arms and chest were clean. She dropped the sodden mass of his filthy shirt into an empty bucket and covered him with a clean sheet. Then she moved on to the next man.
Late afternoon sun slanted through the west windows when she had finished bathing each wounded man. In the kitchen tent, she boned the chicken and returned it to the broth.
“Have you any crackers? Or rusks?”
Private Bennett shook his head. Kate sighed and pointed to a large metal box holding the bread she had baked early that morning. “Bring that.”
After the men had been fed, Kate raised the windows a few inches to let the fresh air wash away the fetid odors in the makeshift ward. It was a start. She rubbed her aching back.
A mournful whistle pierced the air, and the hiss of steam announced a train’s arrival two blocks away at the station near the confluence of the Ohio and Tennessee Rivers. Kate winced. Six months ago, Henry had returned on the same train, but she couldn’t think about him right now, couldn’t think about his last days, even though she was here because of him. Her Union views had ostracized her from most of her friends and neighbors, and with Henry dead, she had decided to offer her services as a nurse, so that no man would have to go through what her husband had suffered alone. After collecting a wagonload of food and supplies for the soldiers from the few Union sympathizers in Paducah, she had shut up their tiny farmhouse on the outskirts of town, hidden the key in the well, and driven her wagon to the temporary Union hospital. There was nothing to go back to.
She pulled a gold locket out from her bodice and ran a finger over the glass covering the curl of blond hair. “Henry,” she whispered, “I’m so sorry.”
Chief Surgeon Major James Logan mopped blood and sweat from his face as he stepped out of the surgical tent. Groaning, he straightened his back and stretched his tired muscles, first one shoulder and then the other, feeling the joints pop. The effort of bending over the operating table all day had taken its toll. The rain had stopped, and after the hellish scene in the tent, the cool air washed over him like a soothing balm. But his work wasn’t finished. The wounded men in the sanctuary needed to be seen. His left leg, or what was left of it, had pained him all day, and his limp was decidedly more pronounced this evening. Cursed Confederate minié ball. Inevitably it crushed the tissues and shattered the bones of any unfortunate arm or leg it entered during battle. He’d lost his leg to one at Bull Run and now sported a crude wooden prosthesis attached to his thigh with buckles and braces.
He passed the cook tent and paused. A huge pot of soup simmered on the stove, and his empty stomach reminded him with subterranean growls that he hadn’t eaten all day.
“Hmm,” he muttered, “when did Bennett start cooking like this?” He found a bowl and ladled out rich golden broth, full of tender chicken, rice, and carrots. “Well, I’ll be hanged if it’s not delicious!” After another large bowlful he entered the ward, replete. Someone hummed nearby, and then he blinked, astonished. A petite redheaded woman moved among the men on the cots, adjusting a pillow there, arranging a leg more comfortably here, and offering sips of water.
What in Sam Hill?
He strode toward the woman, who gave him a wary glance as he approached. “What in the world do you think you’re doing here?”
She calmly smoothed her apron. “Ministering to these men.”
“By whose orders?” he demanded. “Women aren’t allowed in here.”
“The Lord God Almighty has given me my orders,” she said with a challenging glare. “Have you anything that ranks higher than th
at?”
“Madam, that…that is sacrilegious,” Major Logan stammered.
“I hardly think so.” She turned away and offered water to the next man.
He noticed her wedding ring and the black armband. A widow then.
“Madam,” he barked, “I demand you leave immediately—” He stopped. Several of the men were gazing at her with unquestionable thankfulness on their faces. Then he realized their faces were clean and they were covered with fresh linen. Tin bowls at every bedside stood empty, and the foul odor had noticeably dissipated.
“Who are you, madam?”
She turned to face him. Her hair had been tightly constrained into a bun, but along her hairline tiny russet curls had escaped. Her eyes were a clear gray, and she barely reached his shoulder.
“Why, you’re no bigger than a minute,” he said. “What can you do here?”
“I’ll thank you to kindly refrain from comments about my person, sir,” she said acidly. “I am Mrs. Katherine Wilkes,” she said. “And I’ve already done it.”
Shortly before midnight, Kate made a pallet for herself in a corner of the ward. She could be useful here if Major Logan would allow her to stay. In better days he would be considered a handsome man with that square jaw and shock of black hair, but exhaustion had aged him, his face lined, his eyes heavy-lidded and bloodshot. He had quite a noticeable limp as well.
There was no reason he shouldn’t allow her to stay. The secretary of war had appointed Dorothea Dix as superintendent over the female nurses assigned to the US Army. Miss Dix had established strict criteria for any woman who desired to serve. She had to be above thirty years of age, wear only plain dark colors, and have no “ribbons, curls, bows, or hoops” about her person.
Kate laughed quietly. She fit all the criteria except one. Her father had always said she had curls so tight even God couldn’t straighten them.
She had nursed both her parents before their deaths from consumption and influenza, so she had plenty of experience. And Henry. She gritted her teeth, powerless to stop the surge of memories that arose unexpectedly day and night at the most unexpected times—a young soldier with a smile like Henry’s or a certain manner of walking. A drift of pipe tobacco.
The Courageous Brides Collection Page 53
