Christine Dorsey (12 page)

Shakes? It took a moment for Samantha to realize what he meant. “Oh, yes,” she said, picking up the Rebel’s plate from the table and sliding it into the soapy water. He’d left no scraps. “My brother Luke bought those before... before he left. He planned to build a new barn and use them for the roof.” She emptied steaming water from the iron boiler on the stove into the wash pan and began scrubbing at the dishes. It was easier talking to him if she didn’t have to meet his eyes.

“You still aiming to do that?”

“Build a new barn?” Samantha shrugged. “Maybe.” Actually she hadn’t given it a thought in nearly four years. “Why?”

Jake straightened, and moved across the floor. He didn’t like talking to someone’s back. “Thought I might use some to patch the cabin roof.”

It was on her tongue to say the cabin roof was fine. But it would only take a glance upward to prove that a lie. Daylight shone through the warped shingles, and the last time it stormed, she and Will had barely managed to keep the bedding dry. Still...

Samantha plunged her hands in the steaming water, her shoulder nudging a lock of hair off her damp cheek. Why did he have to come over here to talk? He was so close and so big. She’d thought him large and heavy when she’d taken care of him, but standing, he loomed over her. “Are you sure you’re up to climbing on a roof?”

“I think I can manage it.”

“What if you get dizzy and fall off?”

She would have to bring up his spell last night. Well damnit, he’d been weak from hunger, and he
had
been shot in the chest and delirious. “I won’t get dizzy,” he insisted, daring her to discuss it any further. He didn’t think she would because that might lead to remarks about her crying, or what happened when he tried to comfort her. No, he didn’t think she’d push the issue, and almost grinned when she didn’t.

“Suit yourself,” Samantha said with a shrug. She almost added, if you want to get yourself killed, but stopped herself. Maybe he did want to do just that. When he was feverish, he’d said he wanted to die. Perhaps he planned to throw himself off the roof, and... Samantha looked around to tell him to be careful, but he was already gone.

It wasn’t long till she heard something being dragged outside the cabin. Looking out the window, she saw Will and Jacob Morgan maneuvering the ladder from the barn into place. A little later he and Will were pulling a makeshift travois stacked high with shakes. Then she heard him climb onto the roof and call down to Will. Right then Samantha decided this wasn’t a good time to sew Peggy Keane’s new dress. She’d work in the garden. With a glance toward the ceiling, Samantha marched out of the cabin.

The day was hot for the end of September, and it wasn’t long before sweat trickled down Samantha’s back, pooling in the fabric at her waistband. Her broad-brimmed bonnet did little to shade her from the sun’s rays, but she wore it anyway as she carried water to the withering plants. She’d neglected this chore for days and the brown-edged leaves were a vivid reminder.

“1 should have worried more about my vegetables than some gun-shot Rebel,” she grumbled as she checked the tomato plants. They were doing fine and she plucked a few red spheres from the vine. Then reluctantly her head tilted till she could see the cabin.

Captain Morgan may have started on the back of the roof, but now he’d worked his way to the front. He leaned into the slope, positioning an oak shake over the curled edge of another. Nails stuck out of his mouth at all angles, and Samantha could tell from here that he favored his left side as he swung the hammer.

“Darn fool shouldn’t be up there doing such work this soon,” she told herself as she moved on to her squash plants. Even taking care, he might tear open the stitches she’d painstakingly sewed in his chest.

Samantha stood, making no pretense of doing anything but studying her unwanted visitor. She squinted her eyes against the sun’s glare and watched him shinny down a foot or two. He’d removed his shirt so she could plainly see the bandage wrapped around his chest. It looked startling white against his sun-bronzed skin. No sign of blood.

Still, he shouldn’t be up there.

Grabbing the bucket, Samantha walked toward the cabin, scattering the chickens that strutted toward her. Charity lay on the porch, her head resting in the shade, and she opened one lazy eye as Samantha approached. Standing out far enough to see onto the roof, Samantha called up.

“Where’s Will?” It wasn’t exactly a useless question. She did wonder what had become of her brother. They had started this job together this morning... now there was no sign of him.

Jake braced his boot against a shingle and twisted around. He took the nails from his mouth, backhanding the sweat from his upper lip, and glanced down. The woman stood in a small patch of grass, hand shading her eyes, looking up at him. He motioned toward the barn. “He went for another load of shakes.”

“Oh.” Not a very eloquent reply, Samantha decided, but then coming over to stand near the overhanging eaves wasn’t the smartest thing she’d ever done. It wasn’t that she had any complaint about his work. From what she could tell peering up through the shadow of her hat, he’d done a good job of patching the roof. It certainly looked better than before he started.

Jake shifted. Waves of heat from the relentless sun poured down on his bare shoulders. But that wasn’t the reason his blood scorched through his veins. The damn woman had loosened the neck of her blouse. Two buttons. Two lousy buttons, but even from six feet above her he could see the delicate hollow at the base of her neck, and the gentle swell of her breasts. The sight played havoc with his senses. Where in the hell was her brother?

Lowering the brim of his hat, Jake examined the last nail he’d hammered into the oak shingle. “Will mentioned something about running to the creek for some fresh water.”

“I see.” Samantha turned away. Standing here beneath him was ridiculous. She stepped onto the porch then stopped. Rebel or no, he deserved some courtesy from her. “You’re doing an admirable job, Captain Morgan,” she said after backing up. He seemed surprised to see her back in the yard, and shocked to hear anything complimentary coming from her.

He twisted, sending a shower of wood chips drifting to the ground. “Thank you most kindly, ma’am. It’s a pleasure to work for such a lovely lady.” Jake grinned. His gallantry amazed him and, by the looks of the hand that fluttered to Miss Lowery’s throat, flustered her. At one time he was considered quite the ladies’ man. Richmond mothers paraded their daughters in front of him and he charmed them all. Of course that was before he married Lydia.

A fissure of guilt ran through him. Intellectually he knew his wife was dead. He’d come to accept that. But emotionally he didn’t think he ever would. And that’s why the Lowery woman bothered him. Looking at her made him think of soft Virginia evenings with the scent of magnolias drifting through the open parlor windows and the sound of sweet feminine laughter tickling his ear.

But that was ridiculous. The woman standing below him was nothing like the belles he used to know. They wouldn’t have been caught dead dressed in a plain, sweat-soaked skirt and blouse, with their hair tangling out of a worn hat. Nothing but silks and satins touched their delicate skin.

As for sweet melodic laughter, if the Lowery woman knew how to laugh, he sure hadn’t heard it. Not that he wanted to. He had no business trying to charm this woman. He gave the last nail an extra and unnecessary whack. When he glanced back down, she was gone.

~ ~ ~

Dinner was great. Jake didn’t think he’d ever tasted better. There was stew made from a rabbit Will snared, savory and flavored with wild onions. The fried squash was crisp and the cornbread soft. And Jake was certain he’d made a pig of himself. He stood outside the barn thinking of the days he’d have sold his soul for a fraction of the meal he ate tonight, and shook his head.

Toward the end, outside of Petersburg, and then retreating toward Appomattox, there’d been few supplies. Parched corn began to look like a delicacy.

But she’d fed him a lot more than a handful of corn. A few more days of eating like this, and working outside, and he’d feel as good as new. Then he’d move on.

A flash of lightning shot across the darkened southern sky and Jake stuffed his hands in the pockets of his butternut pants. The wind had picked up, and by the looks of it, there’d be a storm soon. Slowly he made his way into the barn.

~ ~ ~

“It’s going to rain.”

Samantha looked up from the seam she was painstakingly sewing in the purple satin. When had Will stopped reading? She’d been too absorbed in thought to notice the lack of his sing-song voice. “Did you finish
Moby Dick
?”

“I’m tired of reading it. I know what happens.”

“Only because I read it to you.” Samantha shifted closer to the light. “Now it’s your turn.” She pushed the needle through the fabric. “Is there something you don’t understand?”

“Yeah. Why are we making Jake stay out in the barn during a storm?”

Samantha’s lips pursed. “I meant about the book.”

“I ain’t interested in the book. Why’d some guy care so much about a dumb whale anyway?”

“The whale is symbolic.” Samantha paused and looked up at Will. He didn’t seem likely to appreciate a discussion of Melville. “Perhaps we have heard enough
Moby Dick
for tonight.” Will shoved the book across the table as he jerked out of his chair. “But we’ll read some more tomorrow.”

“Aw, Sam...”

“I promised Ma you wouldn’t grow up without learning to read.”

“I can read.”

“And appreciate good literature,” Samantha added before going back to her sewing. She sighed. Getting this gown finished by Friday was another promise she planned to keep if she had to stay up all night. They sorely needed the cash money Mrs. Keane paid.

“So what about Jake?”

She loved her brother dearly, but he could be a persistent bother sometimes. Like now. Samantha regarded him where he’d flopped onto the settee. “What about him?”

“Sounds like it’s going to rain pretty hard.”

“It will be good for the garden.”

“He’s going to get awful wet.”

“A little water won’t hurt him.” Samantha bit off a thread.

“We ain’t talking about a little bit. The last time it stormed, the barn floor was sopping.”

Samantha said nothing as she held the dress closer to the lantern to check her stitches.

“Did you hear what I said, Sam? Jake’s going to get himself soaked to the skin and it don’t seem right after he worked all day to fix our roof.”

“
Doesn’t.
It
doesn’t
seem right,” Samantha corrected, tossing the dress on the table. “And just what do you want me to do about it?”

“Ask him to come up to the house,” Will stated sensibly.

“He’s probably already asleep,” Samantha countered quickly.

“I can still hear his mouth organ.”

Samantha pushed herself out of the chair. She could hear it too. The plaintive melodies he played had haunted her all evening. “Oh, all right. I’ll go get him.”

“I can go.”

“No. If he has to come up to the house, I’ll be the one to ask.”

W
ind whipped at her skirts as Samantha slammed the cabin door behind her. She didn’t want to invite the Rebel into her house. It was bad enough he was here at all. He made her uncomfortable, and she couldn’t explain why.

Oh, there was the obvious. He was a Southerner. And even if she hadn’t been taught from the time she could remember the evils of those who lived below the Mason-Dixon line, the last few years would have been a worthy lesson. But there was more to it than his home state and the color of his uniform.

When she’d taken care of him—when he was weak and at her mercy—Samantha could handle his presence, but now... Now he was up and about and he intimated her. His shoulders were broad. He was tall. He was too male. Altogether too much of a presence on the small farm.

And that was even without the memory of that kiss.

Lightning forked across the horizon, searing the sky with white hot light. It made the tiny hairs on the back of Samantha’s neck bristle, and she hurried across the yard toward the barn.

The strains of a harmonica, sad and soulful, floated on the blustery air. Samantha cocked her head, straining to hear, frowning when the peeling thunder smothered the sound. She didn’t recognize the melody, but it instantly conjured up an image of lost love. Was he playing for Lydia?

Samantha gnawed on her bottom lip, steps away from the barn door, listening and wondering. What had become of Lydia? Had she died during the war? The angry wind tugged at her hair, and Samantha absently tucked a strand behind her ear only to have it come flailing out again to whip around her face.

Maybe Lydia wasn’t dead. Maybe she had left him for another man. Samantha hugged her arms about her waist and shook her head. She didn’t think Lydia—or any woman—would leave Jacob Morgan. And the idea of him leaving Lydia was ludicrous. Unless... unless he was simply going to Texas to find them a home and she was going to follow... with his son.