Hearts Under Fire
Southern Belle Civil War Series Book 4
Kathryn Kelly
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Another Epilogue
Twist of Fate Excerpt
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Kathryn Kelly
Southern Belle Civil War Romance by Kathryn Kelly
Time Travel Romance by Kathryn Kelly
Wholesome Contemporary Romance by Kathryn Kelly
Prologue
Spring 1863
He was alive. But how? Dizzy and fading fast, Jeffrey Couvion sank into the cool currents of the Mississippi River. Fighting against a watery death, he forced his way back to the surface and grabbed an empty wooden barrel.
There were bodies everywhere—and pieces of bodies. This was worse than any of the battles he’d survived. Fighting the nausea that rose in his throat, Jeffrey closed his eyes, shivered, and tried to remember the events before the explosion. He had almost been home.
They’d rounded the bend just before Chene Ruelle when he realized they weren’t slowing. He’d spent the afternoon below in his cramped cabin, alone. Thinking. He hadn’t even known about the race until he came out on deck, prepared to disembark. All the passengers had been talking about it, betting on which steamboat would win. Jeffrey had ignored them, keeping his eyes on the bank. All he wanted was to get off the boat and go home. He didn’t care which steamboat could go faster.
How was he going to tell his family about his decision? They would never understand. Just the thought of what he would do even now twisted his insides with worry.
But none of that seemed of importance now.
All that mattered was that he make it ashore alive. He’d been lucky. If this large wooden barrel hadn’t been within reach, he would be just like the other unfortunate souls sucked into the murky depths of the river. He kicked hard. The dusky orange of the setting sun glinted across the water. Nobody wanted to be caught in these waters after dark when the four-legged predators woke to hunt for food.
It was bad enough in the daylight, Jeffrey thought, trying not to imagine what lay beneath the water’s opaque surface. Between the water moccasins and the gators, he shuddered to think what might be tracking him beneath the water. If only he could put his feet on solid ground and get out of this river. Increasing the threat ten-fold, the predators would doubtless be drawn to the smell of blood on the water. He swallowed thickly and willed himself to not think about snakes… or gators.
Time lost all meaning as he focused on keeping his arms across the barrel and moving his feet. The pack on his back weighed heavy, and he considered discarding it. He didn’t know how far or how long he drifted. Jeffrey had never been particularly religious, but he found himself praying. He prayed with all his heart – the teaching from his childhood hours at Mass coming back to him like a second nature.
Relief flooded through him when his feet found solid ground, on the sandy floor of the river. The muted tones of twilight darkened by the time he dragged himself from the water.
Though his arms ached from clutching the barrel and his legs ached from propelling him through the water, he kept walking. His thoughts whirled, but he tried to focus only on keeping his eyes open and his feet moving. Moving until he could find someplace safe for the night.
Again, he considered dropping his pack and leaving it behind. He trudged along, pushing toward the top of the knoll.
He made it to a dry patch of land padded with grass and collapsed beneath a black willow tree, his stomach gnawing against his backbone
A couple of months ago, he’d lost his horse in a skirmish somewhere in Mississippi. The army required that he fight with his bedroll and supplies slung across his shoulders, but he never got used to doing that. At this moment, however, he was grateful not only for the habit of keeping everything he carried on his back, but that he had resisted the urge to drop it in the river. He’d somehow managed to keep up with everything except his rifle and his hat.
After removing the soaked blanket and leather haversack containing his bullets, he checked his canteen. It was still sealed. With a sigh of relief, he opened it and swallowed a third of the clean water he’d picked up in New Orleans.
Using the last of his remaining strength, he gathered up enough twigs, dry grass, and branches for a fire. Using the flint and steel from his pack, he managed to spark a flame. After what seemed like nearly an hour, a stream of smoke rose and the grass ignited. At the sight of the small flame, his eyes tearing, he nurtured the little flame until it was healthy enough that he could lie back and rest for just a moment. But the dampness of his clothes was enough to keep him moving.
Stripping to his cotton drawers, he laid his gray wool trousers and jacket across a tree limb near the fire. He glanced down at his socks, pathetic scraps hanging on his feet by threads. With a sigh, he peeled them off and tossed them into the flickering orange flames. They sizzled and for a moment, he thought they would put out the fire. Fortunately, they were too meager.
The tattered remnants of his socks were much like the tattered remains of his life. He’d fought hard for the Confederacy. Fought hard for two years.
The only thing was, Jeffrey didn’t believe in what he fought for. He didn’t believe the Southern states had the right to split up a union. A union forged on blood and freedom. He believed no man should own another, black or white.
Alexandra and Grand-père would never understand. Especially Alexandra. She’d never forgive him. His twin sister was Confederate through and through. Loyal to her state and to the South.
Perhaps it was best if she believed him dead. No one would ever know the truth. There were always lost bodies after steamboat explosions.
But how could he let her go through the agony? It would kill her.
But at least in death she would have no reason to hate him. If she found out the truth, she would be devastated at what he was about to do. The steamboat explosion had presented itself as the perfect solution to his plight. And allowed him to avoid telling his sister the truth.
Jeffrey Couvion was off to fight with the Yankees.
Chapter One
April 1864
The water moccasin slithered through a water puddle and inched through the palmettos, inching its long body deftly over the mud.
Jeffrey Couvion kept his eyes on the snake as he adjusted his kneeling position on the ground. His wool pants were heavy with mud.
Marvin and Joseph crouched on either side of him, all of them grinding mud into their blue wool trousers. The early morning fog concealed their presence from the Confederates.
A light breeze gently fluttered golden hickory leaves overhead, breaking the heavy silence.
Marvin spat a stream of tobacco juice which inadvertently landed on the head of the snake. The snake coiled, writhing, creating a stir in the weeds.
“Thunderation!” Marvin lost his balance and fell back, sitting down hard. His musket clattered against the ground.
“What’s wrong with you, Marvin?” Joseph hissed, through his scraggly beard. “Did ya see a Reb?”
“Snake!”
“Geez,” Joseph said, jumping up and moving behind Marvin.
“Look at that thing.”
Jeffrey stood u
p, raised his U.S. army issued rifle and brought it sharply down on the head of the snake.
As he ground it into the mud, the snake whipped its body up, slapping against the rifle and prompting a string of foul language from Marvin and Joseph.
“What’s wrong with you Bluebellies?” Jeffrey asked, looking back at his fellow soldiers. “Are you trying to alert the whole Confederate army?” His brows furrowed, he studied them. “Maybe you’re just scared yellow.”
“Look at the size of that thing,” Joseph said, lowering his gaze to the snake writhing around Jeffrey’s rifle.
Jeffrey mentally gauged the length of the reptile. “I’ve seen bigger,” he said, lifting his rifle and shaking the snake loose. It continued to writhe in the mud.
“Maybe you should just shoot it,” Joseph said.
“And have the whole Confederate army come down on our heads?” Marvin asked with impatience, keeping his eyes glued to the reptile.
Jeffrey shook his head and rubbed his forehead. “I thought Yankees were supposed to be smart.”
“Yeah, well, we’re smart enough not to use our rifle as a pounding stick.”
“Is that so?” Jeffrey asked with a raised eyebrow and a voice laden with patience. “Then do tell how exactly you planned on killing this snake.”
“I would have shot it,” Joseph said.
Marvin shot him a glance accompanied by an eye roll. “Geez, Joe, you can’t shoot your rifle when you’re laying low.”
“At least one of you has that much sense,” Jeffrey commented, picking up the dead snake with the other end of his rifle.
“What are you doing?” Joseph asked, his eyes trained on the snake as he stood poised to back up - and run.
“I don’t think you boys want to look at this thing the whole time…” Jeffrey tossed the snake behind them, “we’re here.”
With some grumbling, the two men nestled back into place.
Joseph scratched his beard. “We don’t have them things in Boston.”
“I guess that’s one of the many advantages to growing up in the south.”
Both men looked strangely at Jeffrey, then rolled their eyes and looked at each other. Marvin took a tobacco pouch from his haversack and passed it over to Joseph.
“You know,” Jeffrey said, then paused until both sets of eyes were focused on him. “I’ve always heard that where there’s one snake, there will be another one.”
More foul language filled the air as Marvin and Joseph once again jumped to their feet, their eyes searching the ground around them.
Jeffrey laughed. Any potential response was precluded by the bugle signal to charge. Its unmistakable deep tenor rang through the mist shrouded woods, sending birds aflutter and squirrels scurrying. All thoughts of the snake vanished as Marvin, Joseph, and Jeffrey picked their way through the brush and swirling ground fog toward an unseen enemy.
Someone fired a cannon, shattering the silence. What the hell were they firing at when they couldn’t see six feet through the fog?
Claire Whitman stood on the porch of her little five-room wooden house and stared across the pond in front of her. Tendrils of late morning fog drifted up from the opaque water. The mossy cypress trees were no more than shadows in the mist. She pulled her long raven hair off her neck and fastened it with a comb
Her hound barked softly – one bark of concern.
“I agree, Romeo.”
She knew the rumble of thunder in the distance was the roar of cannons. Though she’d never heard cannon fire before, she just knew.
She kept up with the war, following it as well as one could in the isolated South. Her neighbor, widower Henry O’Donnell dropped a newspaper by for her at least once a month. She read every word, sometimes several times.
Her grandfather warned her about wearing out her eyes reading. She read everything—all the books in the house. Of course there weren’t that many—twenty-three to be exact. She knew because she’d counted them. Her favorites were by the Bronte sisters. Her grandmother, before she died three years ago, had attempted to convince Claire that love was a luxury that common people couldn’t afford. Claire failed to reconcile her grandmother’s attitude concerning romance with her ownership of a dozen novels filled with tales of love.
Perhaps Granny was right. There wasn’t time or opportunity for a lot of romance in Claire’s life, but that didn’t keep it out of her thoughts.
She supposed she had an active mind, thirsty for knowledge. When she was younger, she longed to travel to the city where she could read and study to her heart’s content.
However, once her grandfather took to bed last year, the dream had begun to evaporate.
Her days were filled, from sunup to sundown, with chores. She had to feed the hogs. Feed the chickens. Collect the eggs. Milk the cow. Make the cheese. Dip the candles. Chop the wood. Sew their clothes. Cook the meals. Tend the garden. Tend to Grandpa. The list never ended.
At the end of each day, she read by candlelight until she fell asleep exhausted. More than once, she’d fallen asleep with the candle burning, only to wake up with one less candle. She was thankful she hadn’t burned the house down around them.
The cannon fire was joined by the sound of gunfire. That told her the battle approached her doorstep. Her heart tripped at the thought of having her home invaded by Yankees. If they trampled her ground, at least it was too early in the year to have planted crops.
The house, though, was another story. She’d read about houses being destroyed, even burned to the ground by Yankees. She would have left already, except that Grandpa couldn’t travel.
Romeo barked again, this time with more concern.
“Claire,” Grandpa called from inside.
She immediately went inside, down the hall to his bedroom. The little house had a kitchen in front, with what she liked to call a parlor next to it. Down the hallway, there were three bedrooms. Though the house was sparsely furnished, Claire made sure it was always clean and tidy.
Grandpa sat in his bed, propped on pillows. “Is that a storm I hear?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” she said, automatically filling a glass with water from a pitcher and handing it to him.
“The Yankees,” he said, taking the glass and drinking.
She nodded.
“I knew it would come to that,” he said, handing the glass back to her. “You have to leave.”
Her stomach dropped. “Leave? What do you mean?”
His voice was matter-of-fact, defeated even. “You have to go. It isn’t safe here.”
“But you can’t travel.”
“I’m not going,” he said, looking at her through gray eyes fatigued with illness and age. “You’ll leave me and go someplace safe.”
“Don’t be daft,” she said, dismissing the notion. He must be addled to think she’d go away and leave him. She hadn’t even stepped off the property in two years—since the war started. “Anyway, where would I go?”
“You’ll go to Shreveport,” he said. “Stay with your great aunt. She has a boarding house.”
She shook her head. “No,” she said. “Anyway, I don’t have the money.”
He took a deep breath. “The time has come for me to tell you something.”
Trepidation stabbed into her heart.
“I have some money hidden,” he told her.
She looked at him askance. She’d cleaned every inch of this house countless times. Even before Granny died, she and the older woman would clean every nook and cranny twice a year—spring and fall. She knew everything in this house. He was addled. That was all there was to it.
He held out his hand and as she put her hand in his large, weathered one, her heart broke. He pulled her toward him and she sat on the edge of the bed, waiting. When he had something he considered important to tell her, he always took his time.
“Over the years,” he began, “your grandmother and I put a little money aside.”
She eyed him speculatively. If they had saved
some money, she would know by now. In the last few months, since he got sick, she’d been through all his personal things. Not by choice. She’d needed to know what they had. They had just enough to pay Henry O’Donnell for the supplies he picked up for them every few weeks. Of course, he never asked for money, but something in his eyes made her want to not be obligated to him.
Nonetheless, they never went hungry. That much she was proud of.
“I should have already told you this, anyway,” he said. “You have to take the hammer and pull out the top right stone of the fireplace mantle. Just slide it out. Behind it, you’ll find some money.”
Money behind the fireplace? If there was money there, it was probably burned up by now from the heat.
“All right,” she said, “I’ll look.”
The cannon fire was louder now.
“Go ahead and find it. Then you can leave here.”
“I won’t leave you,” she said.
He held her hand tightly. “You have to. I won’t have it any other way.”
She kissed him on the cheek and went to look for the money.
Jeffrey marched forward, through the fog, through the mud, toward an enemy he couldn’t see. It made absolutely no sense to go into battle blind. What were the Yankees thinking? He fought the impulse to balk. He knew the Confederates would merely sit and wait for the attack. Then pick off the Yankees as they came into view.
He’d been fighting with the Yankees for close to a year, but they still referred to him as the Reb. He knew they watched him closely, and for good reason.
Jeffrey was a Southerner—born and bred.
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