Little Love Affair (Southern Romance Series, #1) (2 page)

However, he had disappointed Clara. He had brought her to this overlook before he left, grave and quiet, and he had taken both of her hands in his and made her promise that she would look after them.

“The farm’s the most important thing,” he said gravely. “It’ll keep our family forever if we can make it strong again, you and I.”

“You’re not afraid to leave it all to your little sister?” she had asked mischievously, trying to lighten his mood, but his fingers only tightened around hers.

“You’re stronger than you know.” He brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “And clever, and brave.” He drew a deep breath. “Sometimes, I think, too independent for your own good. You know you don’t have to run the farm alone while I’m gone.”

“Solomon...” She had known where this was going.

“Cyrus would make a good husband,” Solomon said fiercely. His face always softened when he spoke of his friend, and she knew the look of hope in his eyes. Cyrus was a good man, successful, and for Solomon, it was the perfect solution: his little sister married to a good man, a trusted friend. He would never force her, but he hoped. “I’ve spoken to him.”

“You didn’t!” She wanted to melt through the stone. “Oh, Solomon...”

“Just to ask him to look after you while I’m gone. I don’t want to leave you without seeing you settled.”

“I am settled,” she said simply. “I’m only nineteen, Sol. I have Cee, and Mother. You’ll come back to us soon, won’t you?”

“I can’t promise that.” His face was anguished. “You know I can’t. Cyrus would be kind to you, and where there is kindness, love may grow. Clara,” he said and sighed. “Think on it.”

“I will,” she said because it was the only thing that would make his fear go away, and because his smile of relief was like dawn breaking. She wrapped her arms around her brother’s shoulders and held tight. “Promise me you’ll come back, Solomon.”

“I promise,” he told her, words stirring her hair.

But he hadn’t.

One shouldn’t speak ill of the lost, Clara knew that, and when she thought of her brother cut down at twenty-five, it was all she could do to keep herself from losing herself in memory, just to avoid the present. It was beyond foolish to keep hoping. It had been months. No word was as good as any letter now.

She couldn’t forgive him for leaving her, and she couldn’t even believe he was gone. Her heart was a tumble of contradictions. The tears were drying on her cheeks. When they had stopped, she did not know, but she must return to her work. She looked down at her hands, where she was still clutching a bridle in one hand. She had been going to the stable to saddle Solomon’s horse, Beauty, and take her into town for supplies.

Supplies they could ill afford. Every month, it seemed, there was another crisis, and Clara felt hope slipping further away. She took her mother’s advice, she balanced the books, and she planted the crops as her father had taught her. It wasn’t her fault, she knew. The harvest two years ago had given less than it should, and they had never recouped the cost. However, it seemed nothing she did helped at all.

Well, sitting here crying certainly wasn’t going to help. She was just standing to dust off the front of her dress when she heard the scream.

Cecelia. It could only be her.

Clara hiked up her skirts and ran, steadying herself on the tree trunks as she careened downhill towards the fields. No matter how many times she told Cecelia to stay in the house, to keep away from the forest, her sister never listened.
You go into the woods all the time!

And now it had happened: for all the times Clara had feared that they might find soldiers in their woods, or refugees, or mercenaries but found nothing, now something had happened at last. Her heart was pounding with fear. Cecelia had not screamed again—was she safe now, or had the scream been her last?

She could not lose her sister too. Clara burst into the clearing at the edge of the fields, looking desperately around herself at the shoulder-high wheat. There. A disturbance, her sister’s pale-brown hair and the flash of red as Cecelia ran for the farmhouse.

She wanted to call her sister’s name in relief, but if someone was chasing her, it would be best not to tip her hand now. Surprise was all she had and, Clara thought wryly as she looked down, the bridle in her hand. Well, it was something. Ducking down, she forged into the field and began to run as quietly as she could, hoping that no pursuers would see the way the wheat rustled around her.

She heard Cecelia a moment before they collided and clapped her hand over the girl’s mouth to stifle a scream. “It’s me! Cecelia, it’s me.”

“Clara!” Cecelia clung to her, eyes wide and scared.

“Keep running,” Clara whispered. She grabbed her sister’s hand and pulled her along, casting an anxious glance over her shoulder. She could hear nothing but the wind and the birdsong, but her heartbeat was pounding. “What happened?”

“I saw a man.” Cecelia’s bottom lip was beginning to tremble. She stumbled and pushed herself up. “He was walking in the woods, Clara. I think there was another one. He saw me and he waved. He was going to come after me. I can’t... please, I can’t run anymore.”

Clara looked over at her sister, trying not to gasp for breath herself. This was one of the times Solomon had warned her about: when she would need to smile so other people would smile, be strong so that they would be strong. Even with her hair coming down out of its bun and a smear of dirt on her cheek, Cecelia was beautiful.

She was a target.

The crashing sound in the wheat behind them let them know that they weren’t out of danger yet.

“Go!” Clara pushed her sister forward.

“What about you?”

“Go! I’m just going to trip him. I’ll be right behind you.”

If only she felt as confident as she wanted to. Her heart was pounding, and Clara very much wanted to be sick. She braced herself, taking a deep breath and gripping the leather of the bridle to swing. The bits were metal, at least something to cause a little bit of pain. Something to give her time to run.

A look over her should showed her that Cecelia had left. She took a deep, shuddering breath. One thing less to worry about. All she had to do was keep this man from catching up.

What about her?

Best not to think about that now. Clara squared her shoulders. A lout, a drifter, a soldier on a horse. She was ready for anything.

Anything, of course, except the man who came falling out of the wheat behind her. Dark-haired and strong-nosed, dangerously thin and still one of the most handsome men she had ever seen in her life.

T
he man skidded to a halt when he saw her. The beard on his face suggested he had not been able to bathe for days and the smell, unfortunately, confirmed it. He was in a shocking state of disarray. His coat missing entirely, and his shirt was torn open, showing the dark hair across his chest.

Clara directed her eyes back to his hastily, hoping she was not blushing. “Who are you?” She brandished the bridle and to her surprise, he did not laugh.

He stopped, holding his hands up, his dark brown eyes pleading, and Clara clenched her hands to keep herself from smiling reassuringly. This man had threatened her sister. He was not to be trusted. And yet, when he stopped uncertainly, ducking his head in an awkward greeting, she found her bobbing her head back, as if she wasn’t holding a bridle out in front of her like a weapon.

Hello,
trembled on Clara’s lips. For a moment, everything seemed right with the world. Just a misunderstanding. A lost man. Then, when she did not speak, he cleared his throat.

“I’m...” He shook his head, as if that wasn’t how he wanted to begin. “I beg your pardon, miss.”

It was the accent that gave him away. His voice was pleasing, smooth and low, but nothing could hide the slow drawl of his words: the softened sound as he tried to say pardon, mimicking northern speech.

Clara’s mouth fell open and she backed away, shaking her head. Southern. He was southern. And that was why his coat was missing, wasn’t it? Two Confederate soldiers, moving north and—

What? Hunting Yankee women, as the men in town claimed?

“You stay away,” Clara said fiercely. She backed away, shaking her head, eyes wide. “You stay away from my family.”

“Miss, please—” He took a step forward.

“I’ll scream,” Clara said desperately. “My sister knows I’m here, you know. She’ll be getting help.”

“The one with the brown hair,” he said. His eyes softened slightly. Regret, or desire?

“You stay away from her, too!” She would kill him if he went near Cecelia. How, she wasn’t exactly certain, as he seemed a good deal taller than she was, broad-shouldered and with strong arms. She’d manage somehow, she had to. She had promised Solomon.

Only she thought a bit desperately now that he really should have had Cecelia look out for her, instead of the other way around. Clara was the one who did foolish things like face men down when they came out of the forest. Cecelia had the good sense to run.

“Miss, I beg you.” He got down on his knees, hands still held up. She could see the hollows of his cheeks, and the light caught the outline of his torso, dangerously thin.

Of course, she could also see the shape of his ribs, the place where the muscles rippled as he breathed. Clara swallowed and looked away before remembering how ridiculous that was. This was not a dinner party, and he was not a man of good standing. He was a rebel soldier. He was trying to tear the Union apart, wasn’t he? He was a good-for-nothing and probably had no manners as well.

Only he
did
seem to have manners, and it would really help if he weren’t so handsome.

“What do you want?” Clara asked finally. Her voice sounded unsure to her own ears, terribly young. He would know she wasn’t going to kill him, wouldn’t he? He was going to see her weakness.

But he did not try to move towards her again, and a look over her shoulder confirmed that no one was sneaking up behind her either.

“I need food,” he said desperately. “And bandages. Clean bandages. We’ve used everything we have.”

“We?” Clara seized on the word.

“My...friend...and I. I beg you—” He broke off and looked away. “I’d never take charity for myself, miss. I’d not ask, but my friend’s wounded. He’ll never make it back to his family if I can’t bind his arm.”

Clara was shaking. “A lot of people aren’t going to make it back to their families.” She wanted her voice to be harsh, to remind him of everything his kind had done, but all she could think of was Solomon lying wounded and dying, and she knew she sounded lost.

“I know.” His eyes said that he did know. They spoke so much pain that she looked away from him. “But he still could make it back, don’t you see?” His voice was low, pleading. “I’ve no one to go back to, but he does: a sister, he said. Like you, miss. A sister who’s waiting for him to come home.”

“Stop,” Clara whispered, shaking her head.
I can’t help you. Not you.

“Please,” he said again. Just one word, nothing more. His hands were still up, his eyes full of pain, and Clara could feel herself crumbling inside. God help her, she wanted to tell him that she would help. What was it about this man? Were all Confederate soldiers so charming?

“Clara?” A call echoed in the fields, and Clara looked over her shoulder desperately. Footsteps were approaching.

It was Cecelia that made up her mind: Cecelia, sixteen and perfectly pretty.

“Get off my property.” She made her voice as hard as she could.

“I promise, I won’t hurt—”

“Go!” Clara stepped forward, desperate to drive him away before he could see Cecelia again, before he could hurt one of them, or have a chance to steal her sister away from her. “Go, or I’ll call the constables! I’ll call them anyway! Go!”

“Miss, he’s going to
die.
” The man pressed his palms together, beseeching.

“And he should!” Clara yelled back at last. “He has a sister? Well, I had a brother, and you’re the reason my brother’s not coming home! You and your friend! Go! Go, or I’ll kill you myself! Just leave!” She could hardly see for the tears, but when she opened her eyes at last, he was gone and Cecelia’s arms were around her.

“Clara!”

“Child?” Their mother’s voice. Millicent, still in the same grey dress she had worn since her husband’s death, was holding Solomon’s rifle. Her eyes, the same blue as Clara’s, measured the girl’s tears.

“He’s gone. I told him I’d send the constables after him.” Clara tried to keep the sob from her voice, and failed.

“You’re so brave,” Cecelia whispered. “Come home now. We’ll send someone into town.”

“No need,” their mother said briskly. She nodded for her daughters to precede her back through the fields. “They’ll run off, if they have any sense at all. And mind the wheat, girls, that’s the harvest you’re trampling.”

“Mother...”

“She’s right,” Clara told her sister softly. She wiped tears away from her eyes and tried to smile over at Cecelia. “You shouldn’t have come back. It wasn’t safe.”

She expected a retort, but Cecelia only looked down at the ground.

“Cee? What is it?”

“I thought...” Cecelia looked away. “I know it’s foolish, you don’t have to tell me...the other one has blond hair, Clara. I saw him in the trees and I thought for a moment...I thought...”

“You thought Solomon had come back,” Clara whispered. She could hardly speak for the lump in her throat.

“Then I saw it wasn’t him. I shouldn’t have screamed,” Cecelia said so earnestly as they walked through the doorway of the farmhouse. “The other one...his whole sleeve was bloody. They wouldn’t have hurt me. Clara, I’m so sorry.”

“You did the right thing,” Clara said simply. She tried to smile.
I thought Solomon had come back.
“You should go brush your hair out.”

“You need to, too,” Cecelia said, and Clara shook her head.

“I’ll be up in a minute.” She stood aside to let her mother usher Cecelia up the stairs, and then she went to the window.

A wind was rising, a welcome breath of cool air over the fields, and clouds were gathering above. There would be rain tonight.