She glanced up at him, head cocked to one side in some confusion. “Why, yes. The Greers. They run Grandpapa Anderson’s old shipping company.”
“Do you like them?”
“Very much,” she responded, still puzzled. “Uncle Peter and my cousin Alec were sailors—Alec’s the one that taught me how to climb trees. Before he was lost at sea.” Her face clouded for a moment, then she drew in a deep breath and displayed a rather pretty little pout. “Which I am not supposed to do anymore. ‘Tain’t ladylike. Figures, since I think it’s quite fun. Let’s see how your leg is doing.”
He looked baffled, as if he were working a sum that just did not add up. “So where did you get your warped ideas about uncivilized Yankees?”
She paused in the act of pushing up his pant leg and sat there blinking at him. “You know, I have no clue. I’ve kin in Boston and all along Cape Cod. Grandpapa Anderson was from New Haven himself. Mother and Papa had many friends up North.” She shrugged. “It probably rubbed off on me from Uncle Isaac. He’s fair rabid about Yankees.” She scowled fiercely at the thought of her hated uncle and prodded too hard on his still extremely sensitive leg.
“Hey! Careful there.”
“Sorry,” she said, contrite. Then she peered up at him, a quirky little smile playing about her lips. “Although knowing you hasn’t exactly done much to mend my opinion of those uncivilized Yankees.”
“Why you…!” he sputtered.
Got you! Her smile widened, just a little.
Grinning back, he leaned up against a nearby fence post, holding his head in both hands. “Let’s not have such a fight again, Miss Star. Agreed? You’ve given me an awful headache.”
6. Hunter And Prey
August 15, 1862
Orange Court House, VA
“Travis Black, will you kindly stop fidgeting? How am I supposed to…? Ah, that looks much better.” The satisfaction almost dripped from her voice.
Travis stretched out his leg from where he sat and looked down. Where the bones had broken through was healed, pale pink scar tissue cloaking what had been bloody flesh. There were times when I despaired of keeping my leg, let alone ever walking again….
“When can I put weight on it? Without the crutch, I mean,” he asked, eager to have both legs back.
Kneeling in the grass before him, Star stared at the leg for a few moments. Reading the aura, he guessed from what she’d explained to him about how she used Healing. She ran her fingers up the scar, pressed here and there.
He winced. “Gentle now, Miss Star. That’s still tender,” he promptly informed her.
She ignored him. “How long has it been?”
“Almost two months.”
Her head snapped up, eyes wide. “Has it really been that long, Travis?”
He sighed. “Trust me, Miss Anderson. The prisoner always keeps track of how long he has been in jail. Not that this hasn’t been an extremely friendly jail,” he added hastily, knowing he would have fared much worse in Richmond. Much worse. Still, part of him felt guilty for not trying to escape, even though he had given his word. I should at least not be enjoying myself so much, he thought. He liked these men, his enemies. They were good and honorable men, even if they were terribly mistaken about several important issues.
He pulled himself back from his ruminations. Starla was still talking.
“Well, I suppose you can leave off using the crutch,” she allowed. As he let out a whoop of delight, she added, “But please don’t overdo it. Stop at once if it starts to hurt. I’m really no good with broken bones, so if you mess it up again, I’m not sure what I’ll be able to do. It’s better to be patient now than to deal with a bad leg later in life.”
“I am rather tired of being a patient, Dr. Anderson,” he returned, reaching out to help her up off the ground. She stood there, brushing bits of grass and twigs off her gray skirt, and shaking her head at his exuberance.
Travis had his own thoughts about that skirt, and the short gray jacket she’d picked up somewhere. She had said it was mainly for ease in riding, but he was sure she also wore them as a uniform, especially now that Dr. Buchanan had presented her with a bright green silk sash—the sign of a surgeon—to wrap around her tiny waist. She was proud of that sash, had earned the right to wear it through many hours bent over wounded and dying men. But it isn’t blue. She should definitely wear blue more often…. He pulled his thoughts up short on that one. Why should I care what she wears?
Placing both hands in the small of her back, she stretched tiredly. “I think I’ll go clean up a bit before supper,” she said and started across the camp. Her father’s leather satchel slung over one shoulder made an odd silhouette, like some humpbacked beast. She was whistling as she went. Cheerfully, but decidedly off key. He had to smile at that. Starla Anderson might be a very proficient Healer, but she could not hold a tune on her own.
“Hard to believe she’s the same girl, is it not?” Will Lewis said from behind him.
Travis nodded, not bothering to turn around. “Sometimes I wonder what she would be like, if she had no reason to fear any more….” His voice trailed off. That is probably not the best subject to be discussing with her uncle, he thought, a little late.
Lewis just laughed softly. “I have often had that thought myself. Unfortunately, the only way to find out would be to break the Lord’s commandment and commit murder.”
Travis stared out across the camp, eyes not really focused on anything. “Unless she finally gets lucky and the bastard gets drafted after all,” he said quietly. Suddenly he had the delightful vision of looking across that small, deadly space and seeing Jacob Bancroft at the far end of his gun. Not that I have any clue what the yahoo looks like. What is it with me and daydreaming today? he wondered.
“Pray hard,” was all Lewis said, in the same subdued voice Travis had used. A light breeze was finally starting up after the heat of the day, making Travis very disinclined to move. They stayed there in companionable silence for a few minutes longer before the major broke the mood. “A beautiful evening, and we waste it talking about my blasted nephew. Come on, let’s go find some supper.”
After supper, but before the evening’s work began, General Stuart often insisted on some form of entertainment, be it singing—in which he was an active participant, possessing a rich baritone—or skits, or, as tonight, dancing. Starla whirled by Travis’ seat in the arms of a young officer. She may not be able to sing, he thought, but the girl can certainly dance. And dance she did, but always with the same few officers. I suppose those are friends of her uncle, men that she knows she can trust. She was dancing now with John Mosby, Stuart’s favorite scout.
The one who charged my entire company by himself, he remembered, tapping his good foot in time with the banjo and piano. I was a pretty good dancer myself, before this. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to….
Another thought best left unfinished. Be happy that you can still walk.
She spun by again, smiling at something Mosby had said. She was wearing her much mended blue dress, the skirts swooping every which way like giant butterfly wings. Suddenly Travis had to leave.
Outside he paused, listening to the laughter and music. Why am I so restless? he wondered. Was it Mosby affecting him again? The scout seemed to have an ill effect on Yankees even when he wasn’t actively trying to. Probably not. Just too much to think about, he decided.
He walked aimlessly around the camp. Well, limped aimlessly anyway. A trooper on night duty watched him carefully for a few minutes, then turned away to other, more important duties.
How easy it would be, he thought, to just ride out of here. Any other sane man would have done just that long ago. But not I. I gave my word. He sighed deeply. No matter how courteous these men are, I am still a prisoner.
His leg was beginning to ache, so he sat down under the nearest tree and leaned back, gazing up at the stars as they appeared in the deepening sky.
Star. Now she was a conundrum, sure enough.
Travis didn’t think he’d ever known a more confused and confusing young woman. But it pleased him to see her finally starting to relax. That flinching of hers nearly drove him crazy. There were times when he just wanted to grab her and shake her and say, “Look, what else must I do to prove that I’m not going to hurt you?” Although that would likely be the worst way to get my point across, he acknowledged with a grin.
He heard a quiet little voice in the back of his head: Why do you care how she responds to you? Any day now you will leave and never see the girl again. And why would you want to? She’s been nothing but trouble for you.
He was about to start arguing with himself when he heard voices coming towards him: a rumbling question from Major Lewis and Starla’s husky answer. A light flickered inside her tent, then Lewis bid her goodnight and strode back towards the house. More planning tonight, Travis thought with a yawn. I must be half asleep already not to recognize where I am. Sure enough, his bedroll was laid out the other side of the tree. He groaned and got stiffly to his feet.
“Who’s there?” Starla called out, a slight catch in her voice.
“It’s just me, Miss Anderson.”
She poked her head out the tent flap and smiled, that lopsided little smile he’d come to recognize as her version of a grin. “Hello, Travis. Where did you disappear to?”
“Out and about. Walking and thinking.” He flopped down on his blanket with a grunt.
“Just don’t overdo it. Remember that,” she warned.
He lay back and propped his head up on his good arm. “Yes, mother,” he grumbled good naturedly. “And I won’t forget to wear my galoshes when it rains nor my muffler when it snows.”
To his surprise, she started to laugh. It was a nice laugh, low and warm, but so rare that this was only the second or third time he had heard her laugh outright.
“Hold just a minute.” She disappeared back into the tent, reemerged carrying her lantern and something else; he could not make it out in the dim light. Setting the light by him, she plopped down in a rustle of skirts. He could see now that the other item was a hairbrush. “Do you mind talking for a while?” she asked, reaching up and yanking pins out of her hair. Her braid, normally wrapped tight like a crown about her head, fell in a slithering pile into her lap. “I’m not quite tired yet.”
He succeeded in stifling another yawn. “Certainly. Anything in particular you wanted to discuss?”
Shyly, she said, “Not really. I’m just in a talkative mood,” as she undid the braid and picked up the brush.
He sat up, captivated, watching her draw the brush in smooth strokes through masses of hair the color of polished walnut. “What are you doing, Miss Star?”
“I’m brushing my hair. What does it look like I’m doing?”
“Do you do this every night?”
“I try to. Except those nights I fall asleep before I even get to the blanket. It is rather a nuisance sometimes.”
“Why not cut it some?”
She stood up and let the dark waves hang down her back and past her waist.
“I’m not rightly sure. My mother was the last person to cut my hair,” she said softly, peering over her shoulder. “The morning of my twelfth birthday. I suppose part of me does not want to let go of that memory.”
He said nothing, fearing he might stem this sudden openness.
She paused, then let out a self conscious chuckle. “Besides, I know I’m not exactly beautiful. My hair is by far my best feature. Call it vanity, but I will not cut it.”
Now that she’d brought his attention to it, he had to admit her hair was stunning. He studied it distractedly, how the moonlight and lamplight cast little dancing shadows down its silky—
Whoa, hold on there, boy. What are you thinking?
“Travis?”
“Hmmm?”
“Why do you never call me Starla? It’s always Miss Anderson this or Miss Star that.”
He lay back down, eyes focused on the stars peeping through the leaves of the tree. “Is it?” he asked noncommittally. “I hadn’t noticed. Probably because it’s not quite proper for me to call you Starla. Where I come from, only childhood friends or beaus call a lady by her given name.”
“But I call you Travis.”
“Not the same thing at all.”
She hesitated. “Oh, I see,” she said. But her tone said she did not really understand.
Nor could he explain it to her. What he had said was true. The only girl he could remember calling only by her given name was Kitty Scott. Pale, flirtatious Kitty, who he had known since she was born. Yet I always think of you as Starla, and not Miss Anderson. How is that any different?
Silence fell between them as she swiftly worked her hair into two long braids. Travis found the silence awkward, the situation awkward. His thoughts were wandering in strange lands tonight, and he wasn’t sure how to stop them, or even if he wanted to. He grabbed for the first harmless idea that popped into his mind.
“Speaking of names, Miss Anderson, you never did tell me what kind of name Starla is.”
She stopped mid plait. He tensed. As usual, the wrong thing to ask. Is she going to throw the brush at me or not?
But she merely made a face and sat back down. “It is unique to me, that much is certain.” She sighed. “See, Mother’s name was Anne. A nice, simple, common name. She hated it. She and Papa took turns naming us. Papa went first with Zachary—he didn’t live long—and later Melanie and Tabitha. However, Mother liked to read, too much perhaps. Her choices were Danica, and Percival, and me, Estella.” She looked over at him, almost daring him to mock her again.
He waited, then said, “Whatever is wrong with Estella? It’s a very pretty name.”
“I despise it. Papa didn’t much care for it either, but Mother was adamant.” There was a pause, as if the memory still pained her. “Estella simply means ‘star’. Papa never called me anything but Star. His wee, bright Star.” She continued slowly, “Then once I started to talk, I mixed the two together, and came out with Starla. Most everyone has called me that ever since.”
“I see. So if I ever call you Estella, I should expect to wake up some morning with my other leg broken?”
“Missing,” she corrected, straight faced.
She tied off the end of the braid, then twisted to look past him into the camp. The lantern threw out a column of light, illuminating her face. She was right; she was not beautiful. At least, not by the standard most men used. She was not tiny and pale and curvaceous the way Kitty was. No, she was far too tall, too slender, jaw too strong and stubborn. Her nose was not a little pert thing, and was peeling from a yet another sunburn; her mouth was just a little too wide, and right now she was chewing on her lower lip, lost in thought. But she did have gorgeous eyes. His mother had a lapis pin that rich, dark blue. And that hair….
He had to rein in his thoughts again. This was getting ridiculous.
“Miss Anderson,” he said, not bothering to hide his yawn this time, “it has been a very long day, and it is getting late. You should be asleep, as you do work harder than I.”
Her mouth twitched. “That was very politely done, lieutenant. Perhaps we’re having a civilizing effect on you after all.”
“Go away, girl, and let me get some sleep.”
“Good night, Travis,” she said with a light laugh, standing up and walking away, lantern bobbing. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Until then, Miss Star.”
She disappeared into her tent. Travis rolled over on his blanket. Until then. By then he needed to get his thoughts under control.
What has gotten into you tonight? that tiny, logical voice asked him severely. You would think you were falling for her—
No. Oh, no. Blast it all, I am not that foolish! Am I? The voice was silent. Travis stared off into the night. Suddenly morning seemed very far away.
He slept through the dawn bugle call. Or at least he tried to. The eastern sky had been a pale rose when he finally got
his mind ordered enough to sleep. So he decided to stay in his blankets a while longer. He could hear Starla up and about, then felt her presence hovering above him as he lay, eyes closed, waiting for her to leave.
“Travis?” Her voice was soft, as though she did not really want to wake him. A warm hand swept hair from his forehead, rested there for a moment. “Well, you’re not feverish, but I suppose I could let you sleep a little longer,” she said, her voice drifting away.
He tried to go back to sleep, but with no success. After what seemed like hours, he sat up and sighed. “Might as well get going. There’s little use in thrashing around here.”
He limped to the well, pulled up a bucket, and poured the whole thing over his head. The shock washed the last traces of sleep from his brain.
“Fine then. Now what?” he wondered aloud, shaking his head like a wet dog. “Breakfast first, then off to the hospital as usual, I suppose.” But he hesitated.
While he’d finally decided it was merely the situation—the two of them thrown together every day for so long—that pulled his mind in strange directions, he was in no hurry to face her yet. There was a small pang of guilt as he shaved, then headed out to track down some food. It was his end of the deal to watch over Star. Still, what kind of trouble could she get into here, with Major Lewis and half the general’s staff and the surgeons to look after her? Surely he could spend a few hours alone with his thoughts.
So after finding some bacon and the ever present corncakes, he went back to his bedroll to eat and think. Not until almost noon did he see her. She came running towards him, running hard. As if the hounds of hell were on her heels, was his random thought.
“Miss Star, what’s wrong?”
She rushed past, face ashen, eyes fear filled, not seeing him at all. “What the hell?” he asked himself, watching her disappear into the surrounding woods.
He debated going after her. No, he thought. Find out what scared her first. As his leg was protesting last night’s wanderings, he hitched his crutch tighter under his arm and retraced her steps. Not far from the hospital tents he noticed an unusual knot of soldiers. The group itself was not strange, but their behavior was. One by one, they broke off from the group, some shrugging their shoulders, others waving a dismissing hand as they went. Soon there were just two: a gray coated infantryman and a stocky, ginger haired civilian.
An Uncivilized Yankee Page 10
