B000XUBEHA EBOK (8 page)

Here was another opportunity to say what he’d come to tell her. And once again, he couldn’t bring himself to speak the words.

“We’ll save that for another time if you don’t mind.” He took his watch from his waistcoat pocket and opened the lid. “It’s getting late.”

Standing, he gazed down at her, enjoying how the candlelight softened her mouth and raised a shine to her eyes and hair. Unlike her shapeless work dresses, her town dress molded her body, revealing a full bosom and narrow waist, and when he’d assisted her from the wagon he’d caught a glimpse of trim ankles. She was a fine figure of a woman. If she’d lived in a town where she had no history, he figured every man within a hundred miles would have come courting.

“Good night, Mrs. Ward.”

“Good night, Mr. Cameron.”

They looked at each other for a moment, as if there were more to say, then Cameron nodded and walked down the porch steps into darkness.

At the barn, he checked all the animals, then sat outside on a tree stump and lit one of the short, thin cigars he’d purchased in town.

Damn his hide. He had to tell her. He had to stop playing with the notion that he could ride out of here and leave things as they were. Honor demanded the truth. She had a right to know who she’d been feeding and opening her heart to. She had a right to hate him.

And he couldn’t delay much longer. Della hadn’t asked how long he planned to stay, but she had to be wondering. He’d already stayed long past anything reasonable. He could have—should have told her everything that first night. That’s what he had intended. But a weakness in him had wanted to know the woman whose photograph he had carried for ten years. Who had she been, who was she now? He’d discovered that she was so much more than he’d imagined.

Smoking, gazing up at the canopy of stars, he briefly wondered what it would be like to be loved by a woman like Della Ward. Clarence had been a lucky man. Had he known it?

After a time, he ground his boot heel on the cigar, then stood and stretched, glancing toward the house. She’d carried the lantern into her bedroom, and he saw her silhouette pass the curtains. Did she braid her hair for sleeping, or did she wear it loose?

Turning, he slammed his fist against the side of the barn. He was being a damned fool, and it was time he left.

But first, there was one more question he needed to ask. Since she hadn’t volunteered the information, he knew the subject would pain her.

Chapter 5

Artillery fire shook the ground and showered clods of
earth and ragged leaves on the Reb who appeared at the
top of the embankment. The man ducked his head, then
jerked when he saw Cameron crouched in the gully. A
lifetime passed during the second they stared at each
other, before each of them fired. Cameron rolled to the
side and shot his rifle from the hip. A burning sensation sliced through the fleshy part of his forearm but he
hardly noticed, his attention intent on the red blossom
unfurling on the Reb’s uniform jacket.

The Reb dropped his weapon and clasped his chest as
he sank to his knees. He stared at Cameron until his eyes
closed and he toppled down the embankment, rolling to
a stop a few feet from Cameron’s boots.

Cameron held the rifle on him until he was certain
the man was dead, then he cocked his head and listened
to the explosions cracking trees and throwing up dirt
around him.

Damn all. He was pinned in the gully with a dead
Rebel. And there might be more Rebs in the forest. Scanning the top of the embankment, searching for movement, he removed his jacket and peeled back his bloody
shirt to examine his wound. The ball had passed through
without hitting bone. His luck had held.

After tearing a strip off his shirt, he bound the wound
as best he could, then considered his options. Make a run
for it? Instinct told him that he’d exhausted his luck for
the day. Trying to dodge the hail of artillery would end in
death. Which gave him no choice but to stay in the gully
with the dead Reb until the bombardment ended.

Pressing his back into the mossy ferns, he gripped his
weapon and stared at the opposing bank.

He’d seen the Reb’s face.

Throughout the whole miserable war, he’d deliberately avoided looking at the face of the enemy. He’d
fought in close combat, but the enemy’s faces had blurred,
and that’s how he’d preferred it. The enemy was a single
monstrous entity, different and alien, to be feared and
hated.

But he saw the Reb in his mind standing at the top of
the embankment, shoulders slumped in fatigue, eyes reddened and sore from the smoke and exploding earth. The
man’s uniform was soiled and patched, as shabby and
threadbare as Cameron’s own. He was of medium height,
sandy haired, his eyes were blue gray. For an instant, he
had reminded Cameron of Howard Ellison, a childhood
friend. That’s what his mind recoiled from, the recognition that the Reb could be an ordinary man like Howard
Ellison, like himself.

He relit the cigar stub, smoked, and felt the ground
shake when the artillery fell nearby. How the hell long
was he going to be trapped here?

After a time, he couldn’t restrain his curiosity. He
looked down at the dead Reb. He’d seen countless dead
men. Had seen men torn by canon and ball, had stood
outside the operating tents and stared at hills of amputated limbs. Likely, the man at his feet had seen the same
horrors.

How different were they? Aside from philosophical
differences, were they more alike than not? The question
disturbed him.

Acting on impulse, he slid down next to the man, hesitated, then went through his pockets, driven to know
who he was. Something inside warned that he’d never be
the same if he put a name to the Reb or learned anything
about him, but he searched anyway.

He found a pipe and a nearly empty pouch of first-rate
tobacco. Matches in a tin box. A pocket knife with an
ivory handle, and a gold watch on a heavy chain. And
then a packet tucked in the Reb’s inside jacket pocket,
protected by an oilcloth wrapping.

Aware that he was about to invade the man’s privacy,
but driven to know who he had killed, he looked down
at the Reb, then moved away from him.

His hands shook slightly as he opened the packet and
a photograph fluttered to his lap. For a long time he studied the young woman and man in what was obviously a
wedding picture. Damn it. Then he read the wife’s letter
and a half-written response.

He read the letters again, dropped his head, and covered his eyes. The man’s name was Clarence Ward. He
had a pregnant wife, an ill father, and a distraught mother.
His home was in shambles, in the path of the Union
army, and his young wife was terrified and nearing the
end of her rope.

James Cameron had killed a decent man with family
who loved him and wanted him home. He had killed a
good man because the color of their uniforms was different. That’s what soldiers did.

He turned his head to look at Clarence Ward. In different circumstances, they might have enjoyed each other’s
company. Maybe they could have been friends.

The full wrongness and horror of war seeped into him
like poison. How many good men had he killed? Ordinary men like himself who were just doing their duty and
hoping to stay alive until the madness ended and they
could go home to their families.

He’d been able to perform his duty because the enemy
didn’t have the reality of faces or names. Until now it
had been simple. The gray uniforms were the enemy, and
his duty was to kill the enemy. The enemy didn’t have a
young, pregnant wife or parents who needed him. He
was just the faceless, nameless foe.

Christ. He’d put a face and a name to the soldier at his
feet. He knew something about Clarence Ward and his
family. Nothing could be the same.

He’d killed too many ordinary men in different colored uniforms. He had widowed too many young wives.
He had killed men who had not wronged him or anyone
else. How did a man live with this knowledge?

Standing, he studied Clarence Ward’s face. It wasn’t
fair that Ward, who had a family, was dead. But Cameron, who had no family, would survive. Bending, he laid
his rifle beside Mr. Ward’s body, then climbed up the
embankment.

He started walking north. The war had ended for
James Cameron.

He spent the morning checking Della’s animals. The old sow was healthy. Any chicken that looked poorly would show up in the Sunday stew, so he didn’t concern himself there. He trimmed the manes, tails, and hooves of her horses. Doctored a cut on the ear of her milk cow.

It hadn’t rained since the night he arrived, so he filled the stock tanks from the creek. Decided he’d carry a couple of buckets up to her garden.

That’s when he noticed the laundry flapping on the line. Halting, he narrowed his gaze on three of his muslin shirts, two pairs of trousers, and two sets of long johns. She’d even washed his socks.

Angry, he set down the buckets and went to the house, entering the open door without rapping first. She was standing near the stove, whistling an old lullaby and ironing another of his shirts.

“I didn’t give permission to wash and iron my things, and I don’t want you doing it.”

Her lips had curved when she saw him, but the tentative smile faded quickly. “Why on earth not?”

“It’s not right.”

“It’s no trouble. I was doing wash anyway. Truly, I don’t mind.”

“I mind.”

She set down the iron and tilted her head, studying him with a puzzled expression. “It seems the least I can do is include your wash. Washing and ironing a few pieces doesn’t begin to balance out the work you’ve done, but it makes me feel like I’m giving something back.”

God almighty. Turning, he stood in the doorway, scowling at the road. He understood what she was saying, and in a different situation he would have been pleased and grateful.

Tell her, he ordered himself. Tell her right now that she’s standing in a hot kitchen ironing the shirts of the man who killed her husband.

“Mr. Cameron?”

“You weren’t reared to iron.” Her life had collapsed that day when Clarence Ward had rolled down the embankment. If it were true that Mr. Ward had protected his fortune, then Clarence would have come home to a changed life, but one of comfort. Della Ward sure as hell wouldn’t have been putting up a wash and sweating over an iron on a hot August day.

“Is that what’s bothering you?” She made a sound midway between dismissal and a laugh. “I’ll tell you something, Mr. Cameron.” He heard her place the iron on the stove top and pick up another that was hot. “I wasn’t reared to do much of anything useful. But I’ve learned there’s satisfaction in doing for myself. I like knowing how to cook and put up a wash. Most of the time, I like tending my garden and caring for my animals. It feels good to put my hands in a dishpan full of warm, sudsy water. At the end of the day, I like knowing that I kept body and soul together, and I did it myself.”

When he turned around she wore a peculiar expression, as if she’d said things she hadn’t considered before.

“I have to tell you something.”

“I figured as much. It has to do with that unfinished business of yours, doesn’t it?” She arched an eyebrow, certain that she’d guessed correctly.

Right now she was as beautiful as any woman he had ever seen. The collar of her work dress was open and her skin was dewy from the heat, her throat and face were flushed. A few tendrils of rich brown hair floated around her cheeks. Her mouth was slightly open and he could see the tips of her teeth.

He wished he could walk over to her, take the iron out of her hand, then pick her up and carry her into the bedroom. The image was so vivid that he could picture himself removing her faded dress and her shimmy and drawers. He could see her standing before him in a light sheen of summer sweat, her magnificent body trembling in anticipation of his touch.

He ground his teeth together and clenched his fists. Is this how he respected the man he’d killed? By lusting after the man’s wife? Cursing beneath his breath, he ran a hand across his eyes and down his face.