Redeeming Gabriel (7 page)

“Her daddy brought her in over a week ago,” Camilla said, nonplussed. “She doesn’t seem to be getting better, no matter what the doctors do. They’re afraid they’re going to have to—” She bit her lips together and brushed the little pink toes of Lecy’s good foot. “We need to pray for her.”

“We need to do more than pray for her.” Gabriel looked around and snapped his fingers at an ancient orderly in a stain-spattered coat. “You there! Bring me some—” He caught Camilla’s eye. She stared at him wide-eyed. He raked his hand through his hair.

“Who
are
you?” she whispered.

He glanced at Lecy. “If the oafs would treat their instruments with carbolic acid before they operate, most of these gangrenous infections would never occur. I’ve—I’ve followed enough field surgeons to know that.”

“Dr. Kinch is one of the finest surgeons in the South. I’m sure he’s doing all he can.”

“He’s doing all he can to line his pockets.” Gabriel rose and stalked toward the doorway.

Camilla hurried after him and grabbed his arm. The muscles were corded, his expression angry. “I won’t let you speak that way about the greatest doctor who’s ever lived in this area. You don’t know him.”

His black glare scorched her. “You’re right. I don’t.”

Camilla dropped her hand. “What’s carbolic acid? It sounds dangerous.”

Gabriel took a breath and looked away. “It’s an antiseptic. If it’s sprayed onto wounds and the instruments used to operate, it somehow keeps infections from growing. Nobody really knows why.”

“Do you think we could get some? Maybe Dr. Kinch doesn’t know there is such a thing.”

“Maybe he doesn’t.” Gabriel was silent for a long moment, then gave her an enigmatic look. “Listen, Miss Camilla, I’d like to help that little girl, but I’m just a traveling preacher. If you want to inquire about carbolic spray, go right ahead, and I’ll try to convince your famous doctor to try it.”

Camilla stared at him, confused by his sudden coolness. “We should help Lecy if we can.”

He smiled. “Ah. There’s the rub.
Should
and
can
are often mutually exclusive.”

As Gabriel helped her into the buggy and started the horses toward home, Camilla’s heart was heavy. She hoped her unhappiness had nothing to do with the door Reverend Gabriel Leland had just very firmly shut in her face.

The sun was going down and mosquitoes were beginning to spread out from the swamps as Gabriel made his way on horseback down to his uncle Diron’s shack on Dog River. He couldn’t stop thinking about that little girl in the hospital with the infected foot. Maddening that, without the necessary medicines, he could do so little. He could only hope that Camilla would be able to locate the carbolic spray. Then he would think about the risk of exposing his identity by bringing himself so overtly to the attention of Dr. Kinch.

He tied Caleb to the hitching post outside, stepped over an emaciated hound lying across the doorjamb and entered the shack without bothering to knock. This time of day, Uncle Diron wouldn’t be indoors anyway.

“Uncle!” He felt his way through the dark, obstacle-strewn one-room shanty. “It’s Gabriel!”

He wasn’t surprised that there was no answer. The old man was all but deaf.

The spring screeched as Gabriel shoved open the screen door and stepped out onto the back porch. Diron’s iron-gray curls rested against the back of a cane-bottom rocker, the broken leather boots propped against one of the skinned pine posts supporting the porch. Huge, knotty hands wielded a bone-handled knife against a small chunk of cedar with delicate precision.

Gabriel approached the rocker and stepped into the pool of light cast by an oil lamp on the porch rail. The old man looked up, his rugged face lighting with pleasure as the knife blade flicked away into the handle and clamped Gabriel in an unabashed bear hug.

Then just as strongly thumped him on the ear.

“Ow!” Eyes watering, Gabriel backed up a pace. “What was that for?”

Diron’s black eyes sparkled like marbles beneath bristling gray brows. “Staying away so long without writing, you good-for-nothing whelp! All that highfalutin education, and you can’t even put pen to paper to let your old uncle know you’re alive.”

Gabriel touched his stinging ear. “Uncle, you know you can’t read.”

“Could always find somebody to read it to me.” The old man lowered himself into the rocker with a grunt and jerked his chin toward the other chair. “Sit down, boy.”

Gabriel obeyed. His father’s brother had always been crusty. “I’m sorry I lost touch. I figured you’d be better off without me making trouble.”

Diron snorted without bothering to deny the charge. He flicked the knife open and went back to work on the figure of his dog, Ajax. “You’ve grown into a man.” Diron glanced at Gabriel with a sly smile. “Do the women still follow you around in droves?”

“Haven’t had much time for women lately.” But a vision of a curly haired, golden-eyed moppet floated through his brain. In truth, he’d thought about little in the past few days but the fact that Camilla Beaumont had assumed his sermon was a message from her cousin, Harry Martin. Which meant she had been corresponding with a Federal officer.

And her papa didn’t know.

“Uncle, I’ve got to ask you something.”

“Tell me where you been for ten years,
then
you can ask me questions!”

Gabriel sighed. “Well, for the first couple years I roamed up and down the rivers. Gambled away what money I had left. Then I decided a job might be in order, so I went west and worked a few ranches. Punched cows so long I’m plumb bowlegged.”

Diron looked skeptical. “With your education—herding cows?”

“Uncle, the cows don’t care whether you spout Latin declensions or sing bawdy-house ditties.” Gabriel folded his arms. “An education wasn’t anything but a drawback in most of the places I’ve been.” He held up a palm. “I don’t regret it, uncle. I appreciate everything you sacrificed to help me get through college and medical school. It just—didn’t work out. I’m sorry.” He rose and moved to the edge of the porch, where he stood looking out at the river. “I’ve given up medicine for religion.”

Behind him Diron gave a disbelieving snort. “What? Why?”

“They threw me out of medical school at the end, remember? No diploma, no license. I had to find another profession, so I’m riding the circuit as a preacher now.” It was time to address the delicate topic of his identity. Gabriel was grateful for the darkness hiding his expression. “And I changed my name to Leland—so make sure you call me that.”

“You changed your name and got religious.” Resentment laced Diron’s tone. “So I’m not good enough for you anymore.”

“You know that’s not true, uncle.” Gabriel gentled his voice, tamping down the temptation to blurt out everything to his mentor and foster father. He turned and found the old man bowed over his whittling. “I mean, I am religious, and I need to distance myself from what I used to be. But you’ll always be my favorite old man.”

Diron grinned a little. “Some of the tales I could tell about you…”

“Uncle—”

“Aw, don’t worry. I can keep a secret when I have to.”

Gabriel turned sharply to study his uncle’s shadowed face. He looked around more closely. Even in the uncertain light of the flickering oil lamp, he could see improvements around the old shack. New steps with fresh paint. The pier, which had been a mess last time he was here, extended gracefully out into the river, a sturdy fishing boat bobbing against it. “What’ve you got into around here? Fishing’s never been so lucrative.”

Diron shrugged and flicked his knife across the pine. “I’m doing some work for Chambliss Brothers.”

Gabriel leaned against the post and stuck his hands in his pockets. “There can’t be many men in this part of the country who’re making money instead of losing it.”

“Beckham Chambliss is a smart businessman.” The old man grinned. “Strikes when the iron’s hot.”

Gabriel shook his head at the pun. “I suppose the war brings in machine shop trade.”

“Now you’re thinking. The secret’s providing what the military needs.” With a cagey look Diron leaned toward Gabriel. “If you’re interested in investing, I could put in a word.”

“I might, if the basic funding is secure.”

“As secure as it gets this day and age.”

“I don’t know.” Gabriel pretended to hesitate. “Who’s the bankroller?”

“Swear you’ll keep it to yourself.”

Gabriel nodded.

Diron lowered his voice as if Ajax might carry tales. “The major stockholder of the Mobile and Ohio Railroad.”

Gabriel released a soundless whistle. Ezekiel Beaumont, then, was a man with not just a finger but an entire fist in the Confederate military pie.

And his daughter had intercepted a sensitive Union document. God have mercy if she let that document get into the wrong hands.

Chapter Six

C
amilla found Portia in the warming kitchen, transferring hot yeast rolls into a wicker basket. The housekeeper was perched atop a wooden stool situated in a stream of sunshine pouring through the open window, her big Bible open on the table.

Camilla plopped into a rocker in the corner beside the empty fireplace and pulled a half-finished sock and a ball of yarn from a quilted bag. “Portia.”

Portia glanced up. “What, honey?”

“What are you reading?”

“Galatians five—the fruit of the Spirit. Gotta remind myself every now and then.”

“‘Love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance: against such there is no law.’” Camilla sighed. “Why is it so hard to do all those things?”

“’Cause they’re not things you do. It’s what you
are
when you’re under the Spirit’s control.”

Camilla knitted fiercely for a moment. Had she been under the Spirit’s control yesterday when she’d been in the company of Reverend Leland? He had upset and confused her so that she’d hardly felt like herself.

She put her hand into her pocket and fingered the paper she’d been carrying around all morning. “Portia, if I tell you something, will you promise not to scold?”

“I can promise you’ll be sorry if you
don’t
tell me.”

What had she expected? “Well, the night I heard—you know…”

Portia gave her a head-down, under-the-eyebrows stare.

“When I went back to the boat I was given this message. I think it’s from Harry, but I can’t make head nor tails of it.”

Portia’s lips tightened. “I told Mr. Jamie there wasn’t no future in encouraging that Martin boy. Not when he’s up there on the wrong side of the Mason-Dixon.”

“But it didn’t come through Jamie this time. And it’s different, somehow. For one thing, he didn’t sign it, and he didn’t give me a key to decode it.”

“Let me see.” Portia took the paper Camilla handed her. “Why you got to set your heart on that rapscallion…” She frowned. “What’s Joshua and the land of Canaan got to do with anything?”

“I don’t know.” Camilla’s needles attacked the sock again. “Do you suppose he’s on a spy mission? Maybe he’s trying to tell me he’s coming down south.”

Portia smoothed the paper. “Could be. He spent a lot of time here with your family when he was in medical school. He knows the area inside out and could blend in. But I hope he’s not planning to make his base here. We got troubles enough of our own.”

“What do you mean?”

“Rumor says the Federals will target Mobile next, now that New Orleans fell. Military regulations will be tighter. The colonel asked some mighty awkward questions when Willie took him the liquor. We got to be more careful than ever. The freedom runs are over ’til further notice.”

“Portia, no!”

“We can’t risk our station. Burn this thing. We can’t take no chances.” Portia slapped the Bible shut.

Camilla tucked the note back into her pocket. “Why don’t you like Harry? He’s on our side.”

Portia picked up a knife to stem a bowl of bright red strawberries. “I got nothing against him. But it’s been a long time since you’ve seen him, and I’m afraid you’re mixing up romance with politics.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Portia sucked in her cheeks. “Haven’t you had this discussion with your grandma already?”

“Lady won’t let me talk about Harry. Oh, Portia, I want…I don’t even know how to tell you what I want!” Camilla stood and plucked a strawberry from the bowl. “Harry used to listen to me and teach me things Jamie and Schuyler wouldn’t, and he treated me like a grownup. He said when I got old enough, he’d marry me and take me to Tennessee where it snows on the mountains and the leaves turn orange in the fall…”

“Milla, baby, come here.” Portia opened her arms and scooped Camilla into the safe harbor of her embrace. “Now listen real good and try to understand what I’m gonna say. Harry Martin’s the only boy besides your brothers you’ve ever known. I’m not saying he’s not grown into a good man, but how long’s it been since you’ve even seen him?”

“Five years.” Camilla tucked her face against Portia’s shoulder. Remembering the day Papa had found out Harry had Yankee sympathies still put a shiver between her shoulder blades.

Portia stroked her hair. “Doesn’t that strike you as a long time between conversations?”

“We’ve stayed in touch.”

“Milla.” The strong, dark hands, sweet with the smell of strawberries, cupped her face. “What if he’s using you?”

“Harry wouldn’t—”

“What’s he write to you about?”

Camilla stepped back. “He tells me he misses me! That he remembers the fun we used to have. He’s interested in everything. My sewing, how the fishing’s been…Schuyler’s schooling, Jamie’s runs to Cuba…” She hugged herself, remembering the last few letters before it had gotten so hard to get correspondence through the lines. Harry had asked questions about Papa’s railroad business that she’d taken for simple family concern. Portia’s wry expression forced her to wonder. “Harry wouldn’t use me!”

“Maybe not. But I hope you won’t waste your life waiting on a man who doesn’t consider your welfare above his own.” Portia went back to the strawberries. “The Lord wants to give you to a man after His own heart.”