And One Rode West by Heather Graham
“You’re lying.”
“I’m expecting a child!” she flared up.
“And you’re feeling just fine.”
She stood up, fingers clenched into fists at her sides, and accosted him. “If you were any kind of a gentleman at all—”
“If I were a southern gentleman, you mean, I would allow you to lie whenever it suited your convenience. Well, I’m not, and I won’t. My men are eager to get a look at you. They’ve all heard that I married southern royalty. We’re going to give them a good look. Make sure you wear something really lavish. They’ll enjoy it.”
He stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him. How had he wound up fighting with her, when all that he had wanted to do was put an arm around her?
Easy. She’d insisted that he marry her but he’d insisted they make it real, that she accompany him. Why? Because he wanted her. He wouldn’t have married her, not even for Cameron Hall, not for Jesse, Callie, or anyone, if there hadn’t been something there.
He swallowed, grit his teeth, and went down to the taproom. It was a southern establishment, one Jesse had known well before the war. Its proprietor had a way about him—he was a man willing to roll with the times.
Jeremy was the only one in the public room. The innkeeper served him whiskey, then left him alone. Jeremy sipped it slowly, determined to give Christa more time alone.
What would he do if she flatly disobeyed him? Could he drag her along anyway? And what about Jesse? Right or wrong, he would have leapt to Callie’s defense against Daniel if he hadn’t been engaged in battle when the two had met.
When he’d sat with the whiskey long enough, he rose and returned to his room. To his surprise Christa was dressed, and beautifully so. She was in emerald-green taffeta and velvet, an off-the-shoulder dress that displayed the delicate beauty of her shoulders and the rise of her breasts. Her black hair was pulled into a riot of curls at her nape.
She sat by the window again, looking down, even though the night grew dark.
He held still in the doorway, watching her. Then he entered the room, closing the door behind him. To his surprise she turned to him at last. “Isn’t this flamboyant enough?”
He discovered himself swallowing like a schoolboy. “It will do nicely,” he said, then cleared his throat. “You’re extremely beautiful.”
She lowered her head. “For a Yankee’s whore,” she whispered.
“For his wife!” he reminded her harshly.
There was a knock at the door. He turned around. Jesse stood there. “Are we going to dinner? If you two would prefer to dine in—”
“No, no, Jess, thanks. We’re going to something like a barn dance, and I think you’ll enjoy it. You may know some of the men in attendance.”
Jesse was agreeable. If he noted that his sister was pale and wan he must have thought it had something to do with her missing her husband once again.
Pray God we leave it that way! Jeremy thought. He didn’t know what Christa would do once they reached the camp.
To his surprise, she did very well. She met Nathaniel first, and the two seemed to like one another immediately. He saw her eyes widen with surprise when Nathaniel first spoke, and he realized that she’d probably never met a black man without a southern slur to his voice. Jesse struck up a quick conversation with Major Weland, and Christa somehow wound up on Jeremy’s arm. They joined the two physicians, and Weland assured Christa that he would see to it that she was safely delivered of a beautiful baby, no matter where they might be.
“I’ll be—darned,” Jesse said, looking across the large canvas mess tent where they had gathered for the dance. “Excuse me,” he told the others. “That’s Jules Larson. He’s just turned twenty, I believe, but I thought he was fighting for the Confederacy at the end of the war. His family’s from the peninsula.”
Major Weland looked around Jesse. “The boy was a Confederate. He’s joined on with the U.S. Cavalry again. Lots of southern boys will be doing so, you mark my words. A horse soldier is a horse soldier. The war is over. We’ve new worlds to conquer. The West is the future!”
There were a number of ex-Confederates who were going to be in his regiment, Jeremy learned. When the dance wound down to the final moments, the cavalry band decided to pay a tribute to them.
The last song played was “Dixie.”
Jeremy watched Christa. She stood very tall and straight, and listened. She lowered her head, and he thought that tears must have sprung to her eyes.
But they had not. She lifted her chin. He thought that she had decided that she would cry no more for her homeland.
Pride was not such a terrible thing, he told himself. It had sustained many a man, many a time. If it would bring her west, so be it.
But she was so silent on the ride back to the hotel that he began to wonder again. He had determined that he would not press her that night, that he would leave her be.
But he could not bear to keep with that conviction. She had trouble with the hooks on her gown and he had to help her. When she stood in her corset and petticoats, he felt the familiar thudding of her heart, the ache in his groin. It would be their last night together for quite some time. He pressed his lips against her shoulder and inhaled the sweet scent of her. He didn’t know if she issued a protest or not, but he swept her up, petticoats and all, doused the lights with a snuffer, and made love to her.
There was nothing different. She did not protest, she did not respond. Frustrated, he lay in the darkness and wondered if he hadn’t made a horrible mistake. Then he leaned on an elbow and gazed at her. Her eyes were closed, her lips were damp, slightly parted. Her breasts rose and fell and her body carried a beautiful sheen, highlighting its perfection.
No, it could not be a mistake. She was his. They had cast their fates together.
But he thought of her in the wilderness. A fear gripped his heart. Did he have the right to drag her through savage country?
Her eyes opened suddenly. She flushed, reaching for the sheets as she caught him staring at her.
He closed his hand over hers. “Leave it. We’ll be parted a long time now.”
She didn’t reply. Her lashes lowered. He sat up, then sighed. “Christa, don’t come. Stay in Virginia. You don’t have to join me.”
Her eyes opened again. She looked at him. “I—I don’t want to stay here!” she said softly.
He frowned, puzzled. “But—”
“I don’t want to stay. I don’t want—I don’t want to see those maimed, hopeless men! I don’t want to see the bastard scalawags tormenting the freed blacks and the whites who have been left with nothing. I—” She broke off. “I can’t stay here!” she whispered.
He leaned low, watching her once again. “So you would escape—even if escaping means facing the Indians with me. Aren’t you afraid?”
If she was, she wasn’t going to tell him.
“I’m tired,” she said.
He watched her for a moment. Then he slipped an arm around her and pulled her close. She stiffened instantly, but he merely smoothed her hair back.
“You’re tired,” he said irritably. “Sleep.”
In a moment, she relaxed. And he held her, thinking that she was incredible. So taut and wounded, proud and fierce—and so infinitely beautiful and precious. His enemy, his love.
He didn’t sleep that night.
They breakfasted at the crack of dawn, for he was to ride to the train station at the head of his troops. They moved so swiftly that there was no more time to talk, even though he could suddenly think of a dozen things to say.
They rode to the camp together, then he kissed her briefly, shook Jesse’s hand, and prepared to take his leave. He was at the head of his troops, the bugler was calling them all in and they were ready to ride.
He turned upon his mount to look down at Christa one last time.
She returned his stare. She hesitated a moment, beautiful, elegant in her white gown with the lilac flowers. She began to move, hurrying to
They were about to move forward. He reined in instead. She continued to come. Then she hesitated.
He leaned down, sweeping her up into his arms. She seemed startled for only a moment, her arms instinctively curling around his neck.
He lowered his head and kissed her.
And for the first time she kissed him back.
He tasted the marvelous sweetness of her tongue, felt the gentleness of her lips. Felt the subtle movement of her body, the brush of her fingers against his nape. Heat rushed into him, suffusing his loins, his thighs, his chest, his arms. He could have held her forever, kissing her, tasting her, holding her.
She was kissing him.
Because she would miss him?
Or because he was actually leaving, and she had gained another month of freedom?
It didn’t really matter. A burst of applause rang out. His troops were certainly entertained. No matter what she was doing to his system, he had to ride.
Regretfully, he lifted his lips from hers. He searched out her eyes. They were fathomless. He set her down gently upon the ground and tipped his hat to her.
“Take care, my love!” he said. She stepped back, her fingers against her lips. She raised a hand as he lifted his own, moving his troops out.
Within minutes, she was a beautiful blur in the background with Jesse at her side.
Yes, that was it. It was a show for her brother.
But she had kissed him back.
Damn her.
The heat would haunt him all the long days until he saw her again.
Nine
Autumn, 1865
I have now been on the road (a steamer isn’t exactly on the road, and I have traveled forever by steamer, so it seems) for ten days, and as Celia Preston has suggested, I am going to keep a journal All good cavalry wives do so, for future waves of women and men who come this way and enter into the wilderness. Keeping a journal, so Celia tells me, is a quite popular thing to do, and as it is also a way to keep abreast of events when writing home, I have decided to set my hand to it. And so thinking, I will go back ten days, to the day I said good-bye.
I had help in preparing to leave. Although I couldn’t take everything that had been acquired for my “marriage chest” throughout the years, Jesse warned me that I would need my good dishes and silver and table linens—Jeremy would be expected to entertain along the way, and no one can know who might come to visit. So when the day came to depart, I was literally surrounded with trunks. It was Daniel’s time to then assure me that Jeremy wouldn’t be in the least alarmed, that there would be plenty of ambulances to convey all these things. Yes, ambulances. That’s the way frontier military wives travel, they both assured me. The vehicles are fitted out to carry the sick and wounded—and officers’ wives. I have to admit the idea of seeing the countryside is beginning to intrigue me. And I have to admit, privately to my journal, that the idea of certain Indians terrifies me. But the die is cast—there is no looking back now.
As I stood in the entryway at Cameron Hall I thought of what lay before me. Although the weather was beginning to turn cool, both sets of breezeway doors had been thrown open for all the coming and going that took place as my things were being packed. I felt that touch of Virginia air, and I stood where my ancestors had stood for over two centuries. I looked up at the portrait gallery, at Jassy and Jamie who began the construction of Cameron Hall, and at Ma and Pa, and at the picture taken just before the war of the three of us, Jesse, Daniel, and me. I thought that not even Jesse’s determination to be a Yankee had split us up, but now with the war over at last, we were surely being torn apart.
I looked away quickly. I love Cameron Hall with all my heart. It is Jesse’s, it is Kiernan’s. I must leave it to them.
Yet it wasn’t the Hall that so broke my heart. I kissed the children and set them down. John Daniel was quite old enough to understand what was going on, and there were huge tears in his little eyes. Callie was crying and Kiernan was crying, and I kissed and hugged my sisters-in-law fiercely. No one, not Jesse or Daniel or Jeremy, will ever understand how close we became. The men fought battles together. We survived together.
And, of course, it was saying good-bye to Daniel that broke my heart the most fiercely. Jesse is still with me; I dread our parting. I had sworn I would not cry, but when I embraced Daniel knowing not when I would see him again, if ever (life being so precarious a gift as it is!), I felt the tears burning at the back of my eyelids. “Little sister,” he told me. “You kept the home fires burning for us for years. Before God, Christa, we will always keep them burning for you!” He hugged me so fiercely that I thought I would break, and still, I could have clung to him forever. But Jesse plucked me away before I burst into a torrent of tears, and so we drove away, waving merrily. Yet, if my heart did not shatter in those moments, I know that I can brave what the future will bring. If I can only brave Jeremy!
Christa frowned, then scratched out the last sentence. She would be seeing him soon enough. Her stomach was knotting, and she was increasingly nervous.
If the Indians did get hold of her, she didn’t want him reading in her journal that she had been afraid of him! And she wasn’t afraid of him. Sometimes she didn’t understand what she felt at all. Oddly, she would wake up nights and reach out, and feel empty to realize that she was alone. She would remind herself fiercely that she would be sleeping with him soon enough, in the rain, in the snow, in the elements. And being Jeremy, he would reach for her whenever the notion swept him.
And she would fight the onslaught of sensations that always seized her.
Why?
She bit her lip, determined that she wouldn’t think about it, or Jeremy. But she paused again. There were times when she missed him, and she didn’t understand why. She came slowly to admit that she liked the deep sound of his voice, and she liked the way that he wore a uniform—even if it was a blue uniform. She liked the strong feel of his arms, and she even liked the way, at times, that he could look through her. There was no pretense with Jeremy. She admired his raw determination, and she could never fail to be touched by the silver and steel in his eyes. Thinking of him holding her again made her breathless. She hated him for taking her away, and yet she was glad of him for that very reason. He made her furious, he made her weak. He always touched some deep emotion, some passion, within her.
What of Jeremy? He’d had weeks now to ponder all that they had done. Did he regret the marriage? Of course he regretted it. He had never wanted it. But he had insisted that she come with him. Was he sorry now? He could seem so bitterly disappointed in her. Or perhaps she would be better than nothing at all along the trail.
She wasn’t going to think about it.
She looked back to her journal.
Coming through Richmond again was horrible, seeing all the wounded and maimed and lost souls upon the streets. No one hurtled anything at me, even though Jesse has accompanied me in uniform as he is carrying dispatches for several of the forts out west. He’ll hand them—as well as me—over to Jeremy. Jesse has tendered his resignation. He is ready to set his hand to being a gentleman farmer and country doctor and live a peaceful life with Kiernan at Cameron Hall. It will take some time, however, for him to actually manage to leave the military.
Anyway, onward. A lot of rebuilding is being done. It is sad to see the burned and gutted houses, it tears at the heart. Yet rebirth is also going on. Fields are full, as there are no longer armies to tramp them down. One minute you can see a house that is nothing but a shell, smoke stains upon it and cannonballs within it. Then just along the road comes the scent of fresh lumber, the sounds of hammers against nails, and new structures can be seen going up. The South is repairing herself. Everyone says, “If only Lincoln had lived!” We all hated him for so long for his determination to keep the country together! But everyone knew of his gentle plans for the South to return to the Union, and everyone has seen that President Johnson is not nearly so magnanimous! Perhaps the nation wi
I met Celia Preston in Washington, where we switched trains for Illinois. She is very young, very pretty, and very frightened. She is a northern girl, traveling west to be with her James. Apparently James and Jeremy have served together before, and Celia is quite certain that the sun rises and sets in Jeremy. I have refrained from telling her that it is otherwise. I do intend to make an exceptional cavalry wife. I’m sure that Jeremy is expecting me to arrive all froth and lace, the very stereotypical southern “belle,” and I intend him to know that few of us were ever so flighty as men seem to wish to believe. Running a plantation was hard work. From sunup to sundown. There were always candles and soap to be made, meat to be smoked, linens to wash and change, and even if a household did keep slaves it was up to the mistress of the house to see that it was all done, that hundreds of people were fed, that things ran so smoothly that the master of the place could come in at any moment, set his feet up, and call upon his beloved for a brandy, never realizing what she had accomplished.
Those days are over. I have come upon an easy lot in life. Jesse assures me that there will be a company cook, and that men often come up from the ranks to cook specifically for the officers’ wives. Also, we will be followed by a host of laundresses.
All that I shall have to do is try to assure the other wives that we will not be eaten by cannibalistic Indians.
Actually, that is not fair. None of the tribes I have heard about is a cannibalistic one. They are just murderers, savages, and thieves.
She paused again, chewing upon the nib of her pen. She couldn’t write all negative things about the Indians. She was traveling with an Indian. His name was Robert Black Paw, and like James he had served with Jeremy before. He was a Cherokee. A tall man who could move like air. His eyes were very dark and serious. He wore Union issue navy trousers with a deerskin shirt and hide boots that laced up to his knees. He was soft-spoken and his English was excellent. Whenever she needed something, he miraculously appeared. When she wished to be alone, he just as miraculously disappeared. He and Jesse had seemed to hit it off very well and they spent a great deal of time together.