Maggie looked up from stacking the kindling. “I don’t know,” she said. “Why?”
Noah shrugged. “If they got slaves, they got at least one overseer. Smart for me to keep that in mind before I go to foraging anywhere hereabouts. Might be more dangerous for a fella than usual.”
Maggie hadn’t thought about Noah in the context of where they were—or what would happen in the next couple of days. The realization shamed her. Of course he was afraid. He’d probably lingered at the waterfront in Boonville because he knew where to run, where he could hide, and who was and was not to be counted on in a crisis. She wondered if stowing away in a wagon had been a boy’s impetuous decision. Did he regret it now? She hadn’t really thought about the idea that the Irish were about to do battle with slave owners. Hadn’t thought about the slaves at Wildwood Grove, either. What would happen to them? On impulse, Maggie reached over to grasp Noah’s thin forearm. When he looked over at her, she smiled. “Might be better if you gave up foraging for a few days.”
Noah seemed to be considering the advice, although he made no promises.
“I mean it.”
The boy flashed a smile. “I know you do, Miss Maggie, and I appreciate it.”
“Does that mean you’ll stay close by?”
“Soon as I see to a few things.” He trotted off before Maggie could protest.
He was headed in the general direction of the river, Maggie thought. She glanced off toward the north where, according to Colt, the McDowell with its howitzer was tied up, just waiting to provide battle support. Nothing you can do about the boy right now. For the next couple of hours, Maggie busied herself with starting the fire, retrieving the coffeepot from the supply wagon, lifting Hero down from his spot on the wagon seat, and generally making camp. In the matter of Noah, she tried to comfort herself with the notion that the boy had proven himself to be resourceful and wily. He would be all right, she told herself, but still, she worried. About so many things.
Tonight’s encampment would be the last one before the Irish saw action again. No one would be pitching tents tonight. They’d roll up in a blanket and sleep on the ground, and tomorrow… ah… tomorrow. What Maggie eventually thought of as “controlled anxiety” hovered over the men as they went about their duties. A few of the boys were louder than usual at first—nerves, Maggie suspected—but over the course of the evening, things quieted down. The men spoke in low tones, and they settled beside campfires early to clean their weapons.
Noah finally turned up at sundown with two rabbits he’d managed to kill with the slingshot he carried in his back pocket. Feeling a bit guilty about eating something as good as fresh rabbit when all around her hundreds of men were dining on army rations, Maggie assuaged her personal guilt by assigning Noah the task of deciding who would share the rabbit stew. “Just be sure you let Fish know about it,” she said. Noah returned with Jack and Seamus and their tent mates in tow—and John Coulter. And so, as the setting sun splashed the sky with crimson and purple, a handful of soldiers gathered around her campfire, tin mugs in hand, while Maggie dished up rabbit stew.
She waited until the men were seated around the campfire before she served herself, but the moment she’d done so, the men all shifted to make room for her next to Colt, as if an unspoken agreement existed between them all. She slipped into the space, relieved when no one seemed inclined to comment about the current status of this particular “tea party.” When she finally looked up, Fish caught her eye and winked. If he was trying to get her to blush, he succeeded.
Wash Thomas murmured appreciation for Maggie’s cooking. “The only thing missing is my mama’s corn bread.”
“She make it sweet?” Ashby asked.
Thomas shook his head. “Corn bread wasn’t meant to be sweet.”
“Unless you pour molasses over it,” Jim Jackson said.
Thomas agreed, but then Ashby said that honey was better than molasses.
“Yeah,” Jackson said, “but a man’s got to be willing to get stung a hundred times to get at it. Don’t get stung making molasses.”
Ashby nodded. “Guess you got me there, Jim. Anyway, Miss Maggie. This is the best meal we’ve had since Noah scavenged those turnips and such last week. Thank you.” One by one, the men finished eating and wandered off to rinse their dishes. As night fell and the fire died down, Noah settled beneath the supply wagon. The boy was half asleep before Hero limped over to where he lay, but when the dog nudged him, Noah held out one arm to create an opening in his blanket just large enough for the dog to tunnel into. Fish wandered off, muttering something about checking on one of his mules. Finally, it was just Maggie and Colt—who did not seem inclined to turn in.
Maggie busied herself rinsing the cooking pot, inverting it so that it would air dry, ever conscious of Colt’s presence and wondering how a man could call a woman who spent most of her time performing such mundane chores as making camp, cooking, and mending fascinating. When she’d finally run out of anything to do, Maggie sat back down, consciously putting a little extra distance between herself and Colt.
For a while, Colt commandeered the usual amount of small talk. About a particularly evil mule who’d taken to biting when the men tried to harness the creature to a wagon. Hero’s healing. The clear night sky. The mournful sound of a mouth harp floating from somewhere on the far side of the camp to where they were sitting, staring into the dying coals of the campfire. Anything, it seemed, to avoid the subject of the coming battle. Finally, Colt took a long, slow breath, and said quietly, “I’ve something to ask you, Miss Maggie.”
Maggie tried to sound lighthearted. “You want the recipe for my rabbit stew?”
He sighed audibly. “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Make light of everything I say.”
“I don’t.”
“Well, it’s either that or you do something else to make certain there’s—space—between you and me.” He reached over and touched the back of her hand. She pulled away. “There. Like that.”
Maggie clenched her hands in her lap. “It’s only proper. As I’ve already said, I’ll not be giving the boys or anyone else the idea that I’m the kind of camp follower Captain Quinn seemed to think me that first day we met.”
“No one would ever think that of you.” He paused. “I was hoping for a bit of a serious talk—in light of tomorrow.”
Just the word made her stomach hurt. She’d done her best not to think on it, but it was here now, and she couldn’t bear the thought of what might happen to men she’d grown to care for. More than Jack and Seamus now. So many more. She took a deep breath. She could sense Colt watching her, and that only made things worse. He reached out and caught her hand. Moved closer. When she tried to pull free, he wouldn’t let go. She sat, her fingers curled into a fist, his grip about her wrist. She couldn’t pull free without the risk of making a scene. The camp was quiet, but plenty of men were still seated around nearby campfires. Near enough anyway. And who was to say whether Noah was asleep or not? As long as she could help it, none of her boys would see Maggie Malone acting the fool over a man. And so she sat quietly, the fact that Colt was holding on to her obscured by her apron.
“If I let go, will you stay for a moment? No one would ever think evil of you. You’re an honorable woman, and we all know it. In fact, I think it’s fair to say that, down to a man, these soldiers you call your ‘boys’ would fight anyone who suggested otherwise.”
Maggie looked over at him. “I doubt Philem O’Malley would concern himself with my honor.”
Colt grunted. “Well, now, you don’t think of him as one of ‘your boys,’ do you?”
He was right. She didn’t. Not in the same way. “I don’t—understand men like him.”
“That’s because you’ve chosen differently than men like him. He’s chosen anger and bitterness and to blame everyone else for whatever it is that set him on the road to perdition—which is where he will end unless he makes a different choice. You
, on the other hand, give of yourself every day. You find a way to make coffee out of anything you can roast and grind—and it’s usually good. You must have mended dozens of shirts by now. You’ve bound wounds and written letters. You never complain, and you listen.” He paused, and his voice warmed as he said, “Do you know what a gift you give a man just by listening?”
Maggie shook her head. “It’s not a gift to be silent because you can’t think of anything worth saying.”
“I disagree,” Colt said. “It takes a smart woman to know that. Most of the women I’ve known don’t even consider the idea. They gossip and babble and talk about nothing and call it ‘entertaining the gentlemen.’ ”
Maggie hadn’t spent all that much time in the company of other women, but what Colt had just said made her think of Bridget Feeny—and then made her feel guilty about thinking it. After all, Bridget had been more than kind in the matter of the farm and Uncle Paddy’s injuries. And besides that, Colt was giving her more credit than she deserved. She wasn’t silent because she was smart. Again, she resisted his compliment. “I’ve never thought it a particular boon to be tongue-tied.”
“You’ve probably never thought it a particular boon to be as physically strong as you are, either. Or to be a better shot than your brother. But look where we’d all be if you weren’t.”
Don’t look at him. You won’t see what you long for. This isn’t—that. It’s just a man facing battle who wants a moment of tenderness, and you’re the only woman for miles about. She shoved her hands into her pockets. Da’s pistol on the right. The lavender soap on the left. “You said you had something to ask of me.”
Colt reached inside his frock coat and pulled out an envelope. “I’d like to ask you to give your word that if anything should happen—”
She leaned away from him, shaking her head. “Don’t. Don’t say it. ’Tis bad luck.”
“I don’t believe in luck,” he said. “I believe in a man making his plans and the Lord directing his steps. God holds my tomorrow. Whatever happens has nothing to do with ‘luck.’ ”
“I agree with what you’re saying,” Maggie said, “but you’re going to make me cry if you keep—” She broke off.
“Would you cry for me then, Maggie-girl?”
She swallowed and willed the tears away. “I won’t be crying for you or any other of my boys, John Coulter, because every single one of you is going to be sitting around my campfire this time tomorrow night, and that’s all there is to be said about it.”
“Agreed. But I’m still asking you to promise that if I can’t deliver it personally, you will.”
Maggie took the envelope and looked down at it. Almina Coulter.
“My mother,” Colt said.
“But I thought—your grandparents. You said they raised you. And you didn’t really know your father.”
“But I didn’t mention my mother, did I? And you didn’t pry. Thank you for that.” He paused. “I’ve never told anyone about it.”
“And you don’t have to now,” Maggie said. “Just—tell me what you need me to do. I’ll do it.”
He took a deep breath. “My father died when I was only five years old. He’d been gone less than six months when one of his friends joined us for a Sunday afternoon meal. And then a Friday evening. And before I knew it, he was taking every evening meal with us. You can imagine my reaction. I was confused and frightened, and I acted out. Told the man I hated him. After that, I dined in the kitchen. Mother became Mrs. Wilbur Babcock before the year anniversary of my father’s death. Her friends were scandalized, but she didn’t care. As for Babcock, he had no use for a rebellious boy who resented his presence.”
“And so you came to Littleton,” Maggie said.
Colt nodded. “Mother sent me to live with her parents—who were inclined to think her hasty marriage in poor taste—at the very least.” He smiled. “They spoiled me for a glorious few years.”
“But then they sent you away, too?”
Colt shook his head. “Oh, no. Going onto my uncle’s steamboat was my idea, and they fought it. But they weren’t any good at denying me what I wanted, and as young boys will be, I was taken with what I saw as a glamorous life of adventure. Eventually, they let me go.” He paused again. “They knew my uncle wasn’t exactly a gentleman, but they didn’t know the half of it. He was—a violent man. Cruel. In less than a month, I was trying to think of a way to get off that boat. I was afraid to run away, but I was counting the days until we landed at Littleton and I could go back to my grandparents. And then… word arrived of their deaths.”
“Oh, John,” Maggie said, and put her hand on his arm. He covered it with his own and gave it a squeeze before continuing.
“To this day I’m not certain how my uncle rigged things so that he could sell the house. My anger over that gave me the courage to run away. I volunteered with the army. And somewhere in the fog of grief, I realized that I didn’t want to lose anyone else I loved. And so I wrote a letter. Mother answered. I wrote again. And so on. I haven’t visited her yet, but—”
“Because of Mr. Babcock?”
Colt shook his head. “No. He’s been good to her. They’re happy. I just—I’ve let the army keep me away. Until now.” He reached out and tapped the letter. “There are things in there that I mean to tell her face-to-face, but if that isn’t possible… please, Maggie. Say you’ll do it. For me.”
“Of course I will.”
“And you’ll deliver it personally?”
“Yes, but—I don’t understand why that’s important.”
“You really don’t?” He smiled. “I want her to meet you, Maggie-girl.”
Her heart pounded. Her throat went dry. “But—why?”
“Because I want her to know that you weren’t a figment of my imagination.” He reached over, took the letter out of her hand, set it between them, and took her hand. “I’ve already written about you. ‘Dear Mother,’ I said. ‘I suppose you’ll doubt my sanity to say it, but it’s true. I met the woman I’m going to marry today. She strode into camp looking for her wounded brother. She’d seen his name on a list of wounded, but neither he nor his perfectly healthy brother had written a single letter home. So she came looking for them. You should have been there to see her striding into camp. She scolded Captain Quinn, ordered Hero to behave—which he did—and then, when she’d found her brothers (the wound was slight), gave them both the finest dressing down I’ve ever witnessed. Her name is Maggie Malone and she is, in a word, magnificent.’ ”
Something must be wrong with her hearing. John Coulter was still talking, but Maggie’s ears were buzzing with two words only. The last words on earth she would ever have expected such a man to pronounce in a sentence about her. Marry, he’d said. Magnificent, he’d called her.
“As I said, I want her to meet you.”
Maggie looked down at the letter. This couldn’t be happening. Not to her. John Coulter couldn’t be interested in her as a woman. It was a pretty speech, but that’s all it was. Desperation made men say all kinds of things they didn’t really mean, and who could be more desperate than a soldier facing battle? And so she sat, staring down at the letter, saying nothing.
“You don’t believe me. Why not?”
She shrugged. “Because there’s no logic in it.”
He sounded upset. “I’m not talking about logic, Maggie-girl. I’ve just told you things about myself that I’ve never told anyone. And now I’m telling you what’s in my heart—as plainly as I know how to say it.”
Perhaps it was good that he was going to make her say it—plainly, to use his word. Maybe it would help, somehow, to remember how much it hurt to be forced to speak the words. She took a deep breath, and while she did not look him in the face, she did turn her head a bit so that she could see his fine hands and a bit of the fine blue coat that fit him so well. The well-tailored trousers with the dark stripe. The scuffed toe of his expensive leather boots. All of it in stark contrast to Maggie’s well-worn calico ski
rt.
She pointed then, first to him and then back at the faded skirt. “Men who look like you do not fall in love with women who look like me, John Coulter. They do not marry farm girls with calluses on their hands and filth beneath their nails. Women who’ve grown tanned from working outside and who’d rather hunt rabbits than go to town. Women who don’t know the first thing about cotillions—and that’s just as well, for they’d never be asked to one anyway.” She was so angry, so hurt, that she didn’t think she was going to win out over the threatening tears, and so she pulled Mam’s wedding handkerchief out of her pocket. The square of lavender soap came with it and plopped onto the grass.
Colt snatched it up before she could. He inhaled the aroma. “Lavender,” he said, before reaching out and placing it in her palm. Closing her fingers about it, he brushed his lips across her fingertips. He leaned so close that she could feel his warm breath at her ear. “I’m going to make you believe me.”
She stuffed the bit of soap back into her pocket.
“What else do you keep in that pocket?”
“The broken bits of my mother’s rosary.”
“The bushwhackers destroyed even that?”
She nodded.
“And I say it again. I am so sorry, Maggie-girl.”
“Stop it, now. I won’t be turned into a crying fool, here in the middle of camp.”
“Mary Margaret Malone is no fool.” He chuckled. “All those M’s… magnificent goes right along.”
She looked over at him.
“You are magnificent,” he insisted. “And you are loved.”
“And you, John Coulter, are daft.”
“You’ll have to get used to it.” He leaned close again and murmured, “What I want to know this night is… am I loved?”
Now where was a witty reply when a woman most needed it? A hurricane of emotion raging through her and not a single word would come to mind save one.
Daughter of the Regiment Page 20
