Surrender the Wind (7 page)

With certainty, John waited for some explanation of her visitor. She delayed, taking in the last few rays of the evening sun, a dusky pale of slate blue sending off a streaky glimpse of ivory and vermillion. The Reb raised so many fears and uncertainties—a warmth…wanting.

When two souls touch?

Every fiber of her body warned her against him.
What was happening to her?
She had been courted by all kinds of men and at all times, proper and circumspect. But neither had she encountered a man like John, and her mind burned with the memory of his simple touch.

Falling under the spell of the enemy?

But there was no room in her life for romance. Self-preservation told her she had to keep away from him. He must leave…and soon.

But how? Having saved his life, she held responsibility for his safety. If he went to a prisoner of war camp, he would die. Conditions in Northern and Southern camps were deplorable. He was too far north and too injured to ride a horse back from where he came. And even if he was able to do so, there was a probability he’d end up dead, or, an even worse probability—he’d kill more Union soldiers.

This dreadful war had to stop.

What a dilemma. She sighed with her inability to come up with a solution, placed the quilt over the porch railing, and lingered with a long walk. She circled the house and strolled into the barn, her nose twitching with the dust. The rafters were cluttered with cobwebs and in the descending gloom, she lifted her face into the rays of light that poured between the sideboards…and inspiration blossomed. Hadn’t John mentioned a brother in Washington? Lucas. Tomorrow she’d wire Colonel Lucas Rourke in Washington and ask for his assistance. He would take his brother off her hands, wouldn’t he?

A gentle breeze blew, and with it, all her fears evaporated. Quite pleased with her ingenious decision, she marched into her bedroom and tossed the quilt on the bed.

“General Rourke,” she began, using his formal title. “You have to get rest and I have to get mine. Since I have only one bed, we have to share. Under the circumstances, I expect you to be honorable. You will continue to conduct yourself in a proper manner?”

“Proper is my middle name, Miss Callahan.”

She didn’t like the trace of sarcasm. Things had to end her own way. They just had to. After turning down the lantern, and grabbing a bunch of pillows, she stuffed a barrier between them. “Everything is appropriate. You stay on your side. And that’s an order.”

She lay on her side of the bed. “General?”

“Yes, Miss Callahan?”

“You do know how to follow orders?”

“Only when they come from a higher command.” He answered with imperturbable masculine logic.

“Good, then think of me as your superior.” She turned on her side, presenting her back to him.

“General?”

“Yes, Miss Callahan?”

“Are you still awake?”

“Are you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She tugged at the quilt, turned over again, facing him in the dark. “Your mother was right.”

He let out a long sigh. “About what, Miss Callahan?”

“You should have had more appointments with the hickory stick.”

She felt a rumble of laughter then he turned toward her, serious and with stealth.

Silence loomed like a heavy mist.

In the shadowed moonlight, the general’s eyes fixed upon her, predatory, a physical threat. She had not the slightest wish to embrace that threat, or to cultivate it. His wound did not bother him? No pain?

He raised a hand and tipped her face up to meet his. “I promise to be ‘proper’ if you give me one kiss. You owe me.”

Had he been out of bed when she wasn’t there? How strong was he? His touch was firm and persuasive. “How is it that I owe you?” She pretended not to be affected, her pulse beating wildly like the wings of a sparrow trapped in a cage.

John tensed to break away, told himself he should, that he was obliged to. Her face expectant, radiant in the moonlight, captivated him. “You saved my life.”

Her gaze lowered from his eyes to his lips. “That’s ludicrous,” she whispered. “How did you come to that conclusion?”

John was through with a conversation that was leading nowhere when he had a specific direction in mind. He lowered his head, giving her sufficient time to pull back if she was inclined.

She didn’t. She tipped up her face. His lips stroked hers, and then settled in the most proper kiss of his life. Her lips trembled under his. He sensed her innocence in his bones. The urge to consume was formidable, but he bridled his hunger, took only what she offered, and returned no more than that. It was a compromise, an exchange of something more tangible, more potent, than Rourke was prepared to admit…and he knew…she wasn’t prepared to admit it was something more tangible too.

Ending the kiss took all the restraint John could muster. He could feel her warmth along his body through the pillow barrier. Slowly, deliberately, he forced himself to withdraw, the insinuation of what they had done drugging him with possibilities.

“This won’t do. I apologize for my indiscretion—I mean your indiscretion. Oh, dear…” She placed her hands on her burning cheeks.

He bowed his head. “The fault is mine.”

“This is lust. It must not happen again.” She pushed away and fled the room.

John folded his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. He was playing with fire, ought to leave, head south, catch up with his troops and regain his command.

But he’d never been afraid of fire.

Sometime later, he heard her listening at the door. Assuming he was asleep, she tiptoed in the room then, lay far to her side of the bed, fortifying the pillow defenses and covering them with the new quilt. Years of war had made him practiced, vigilant of his surroundings. He was even more aware of her. He listened to her breathing slow into a gentle rhythm of sleep. Tearing apart the silly barrier, he tossed the pillows on the floor and gathered up her slumbering form in his arms. Before returning to the Cause, he would appeal to his greater inclination. The war would not rob him of this one small pleasure.

Catherine had walked two miles to the town of Pleasant Valley. After forwarding a telegram from the telegraph office to John’s brother in Washington, she headed to the dry-goods store. She took two steps back. On a bench was a discarded newspaper, bannered with another headline of the war’s progress.

The tone of the day’s events contrasted to what Catherine remembered back in 1861, at the advent of the war.
“To overcome the wicked Rebellion to destroy the Union,”
the northern papers had trumpeted and inspired.
“We must combat the lawlessness and treason of Southern leaders as now fully manifested.”

From the battle cry, marched the patriot sons of blood in zealous numbers with their bright uniforms and shiny rifles to conquer their tyrannical and oppressive brethren of the Southern States. Throngs of New York’s electrified populace in perfect ovation to the soldiers’ line of march, filled the sidewalks with drowning huzzahs for the Union accompanied with many touching scenes of farewell.

She had begged her brother, Shawn, not to go. With their parents dead, he had no opposition. Who will manage the Rifle Works? Despite her great criticism, Shawn, enamored with war fever, responded to the call.

Catherine walked the block of stores, the wood planks, creaking beneath her feet. She lifted her nose from the smell of horse dung piled against the blacksmith’s shop then stepped into Dinkle’s Mercantile and Dry Goods, adjusting her eyes to the dim interior.

“Miss Callahan, a pleasure seeing you again,” Elias Dinkle gushed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. He ushered her to a milk can, slapped his apron over it to knock off the dust and offered her a seat. “Goodness gracious, you make the sun come out on a rainy day.” With his fingers, he combed a few remaining strands of hair over his balding pate, and to Catherine’s horror, blew a steady stream from his bulbous nose.

Catherine moved away from her admirer, fingering the bolts of calico. “I’m in a hurry, Mr. Dinkle. Would you be so kind as to help me with some of my purchases?” she said, hoping to remove him to behind the counter. She rattled off a list of her requirements.

“Miss Callahan, why on earth do you need a straight razor and men’s clothes?”

She pointed with her gloved finger. “And boots…those black ones on the shelf.”

“What does a schoolteacher need with men’s boots?” Did his nose glow brighter?

Mesmerized by the rapid motion of his Adam’s apple, Catherine prevaricated. “I’m expecting a visit from a dear sweet cousin and wish to have a few gifts set aside. He’s poor and in need of a few essentials.”

If only the poor cousin excuse was enough to abate Dinkle’s wagging tongue. With certainty, Father Callahan would get wind of it when he returned. No way did she desire to invite that drama. Her uncle and his Irish temper made an angry grizzly look tame. She fidgeted with the licorice jar and leaned forward. “This is all hush-hush. He’s a simple soul, dull-witted, you see.” And then burgeoning with inspiration, she added, “It wasn’t his fault, dropped on his head as a baby.”

Dinkle beamed with delight. The new schoolmarm who he held a snowballing romantic fascination, had taken him into her confidence.

Catherine added a few jars of peaches to her purchases, picked up as many of the wrapped parcels she could carry, and received Dinkle’s proud assurance that he would have Samuel deliver the remainder later in the day.

* * *

Catherine returned to her home, listening to strains of Mozart played over the piano. She moved beside John watching his long fingers perform magic on the keys. “Your talents never cease to amaze me, General Rourke. Besides holding a gun and mounting cannons against Yankees you can engage in the classics?” Her eyes dipped with disapproval to the sheet wrapped around his midsection.

“I’ll remedy the situation as soon as you tell me the whereabouts of my uniform.” He drawled, and then ceremoniously stood as if he were in truth a king, given divine right.

Catherine gaped, staring at the heavy musculature of his chest and torso.
Had he no shame?
Lifting her chin in a bold attempt to end his intimidation, she squeaked, “I had it burned.”

“What!”

His roar rocked the beams of the tiny house. She nodded. Even when he was flat on his back, John was the most formidable foe she’d ever confronted. And when he was angry, towering over her, like he was now, he was terrifying.

“Without my uniform, I’ll be hung as a spy!”

She bit her lip. Never had he been so incensed. “I hadn’t thought of that. I’ve made a few purchases for you.” She presented a blue shirt, pants and black boots.

“That will do me real good when I’m swinging from the nearest tree.”

“It’s better than your current attire. You should be grateful.”

“What for? To be fashionable at my execution.”

“They didn’t exactly have a sale on Reb uniforms at the dry goods.” She shot him a withering glance, turned on her heel, and walked into the kitchen.

His footsteps thundered behind her. Predictable. She unpacked the jars of peaches and held one up. The delectable fruit glowed amber in the light. Did she hear his stomach rumble?

“Miss Callahan, you have brought me gold.”

He made a grab for the jars, but she lunged, withholding them. “Not until you shave and get dressed. I doubt you array yourself at home in such a state. I’m sure your mother would have something to say about it.”

“You wound me, Miss Callahan.” He took the proffered clothes and shaving materials.

Did he growl beneath his breath? Catherine smiled. She would command him through his stomach.

When he finished shaving, he returned to the kitchen and seated her. “Thank you,” she said, and then stared, startled from his transformation. She handed him a bowl of peaches.

Without a shadow of a beard, the clear-cut lines and angles of his face revealed much more of his character. He had a face in which dwelled a great coolness, inspired confidence, and when relaxed like he was now, an accompaniment of merriment.

“Pardon me, Miss Callahan.” He smiled an easy devastating smile, disarming her. “If you are not going to eat your peaches, I’d—”

“Of course,” Catherine said, her mortification burning in her cheeks, caught staring again. What was the matter with her? She pushed the bowl toward him. He looked marvelous. The blue shirt clung to his wide shoulders and the pants fit snugly, outlining his long, lean frame.

“I suppose it would be good for you to take some fresh air.” She offered. The kitchen was getting a little too warm.

“I’m unsteady and not sure of my endurance.”

Catherine reached for her fringed shawl. He was still as weak as a kitten.

* * *

John took a deeper view of her home than he had on his prior jaunts. Columbine, clematis, and early daisies scattered around, and far off the porch was a white picket fence with rhubarb growing wild. Hardwoods followed up the mountains, a family of robins chattered away in a nest in a nearby oak and fresh springtime air, scented with sweet honeysuckle, cooled the sunlight pouring down on them.

Everything at peace.

Once past the barn, John without invitation, commandeered the use of Catherine’s arm, and with shrewd resourcefulness, exaggerated his injury. “What shall we discuss today, Miss Callahan?”

“Tell me about the other commanders with whom you have served.”

He did nothing to hide his surprise. “Such a delicate topic. Most ladies—”

“I’m beyond petticoats and parasols. Do continue—”

How attractive she looked in her blue dress and—how he loved to fence with the charming, Miss Callahan. Lilacs and sunshine, her warm feminine scent spiraled around him.

“Let’s start with your General Lee. Surely you think he is a model to which our Union officers fail. Meanwhile, he recruits and furnishes himself in the farmlands of Virginia, Maryland and Pennsylvania.”

“Our General Lee is a mighty commander. The South’s finest and most revered.” John enjoyed the advantage of his height that offered him an alluring display of smooth flesh, exposed by the neckline of her gown. “The South has had the edge because we use West Pointers as our military leaders. Lincoln, for political reasons, has not picked West Pointers, and the generals he chooses have no more military sense than an old woman. Your General Burnside at Fredericksburg? What folly. Ranks and ranks of Yankees went down like snow, melting as they hit the ground. The entire Irish brigade mowed down against the heights, thirteen thousand men, slaughtered. Your General McClellan or
Young Napoleon?
How about his disaster at Bull Run? Mr. Lincoln would be well-advised to leave McClellan in charge with his apparent unwillingness to engage in battle—would make the security and fortunes of the South absolute.”