They were at eye level.

Had she noticed the piercing blueness of his eyes before? Perhaps not. Perhaps she didn’t dare register such things, because he would become a man and not merely an enemy.

His eyes were so sad—that, she had noticed. He was looking at her so gravely.

Such pain.

What happened to you? she thought.

Maria had no sense that he reached for her, nor she for him, but she was in his arms somehow. He held her tightly, both of them caught in whatever this moment was. Their foreheads touched; their breaths mingled. And suddenly his mouth was on hers. She gave a soft moan, completely overwhelmed by the feel and the taste of him. It was as if she suddenly couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t touch him enough, kiss him enough. She had never felt such need, such hunger….

Acclaim for Cheryl Reavis’s recent historicals

The Captive Heart

“A sensual, emotionally involving romance.”

—Library Journal

“A compelling tale that will keep you on the edge of your seat.”

—Rendezvous

Harrigan’s Bride

“…another Reavis title to add to your keeper shelf.”

—The Booknook

1992 RITA® Award Winner

The Prisoner

“…a Civil War novel that manages to fill the reader with warmth and hope.”

—Romantic Times

#604 MISS VEREY’S PROPOSAL

Nicola Cornick

#605 THE DRIFTER

Lisa Plumley

#606 DRAGON’S KNIGHT

Catherine Archer

The Bride Fair
Cheryl Reavis

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Available from Harlequin Historicals and

CHERYL REAVIS

Harlequin Historicals

The Prisoner #126

The Bartered Bride #319

Harrigan’s Bride #439

The Captive Heart #512

The Bride Fair #603

Other works include:

Silhouette Special Edition

A Crime of the Heart #487

Patrick Gallagher’s Widow #627

* One of Our Own #901

* Meggie’s Baby #1039

* Mother To Be #1102

* Tenderly #1147

Little Darlin’ #1177

The Long Way Home #1245

“To the red-shod one—with humble thanks.”

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

Author Note

Chapter One

Salisbury, N.C.

June, 1868

Who is this woman?

Colonel Max Woodard watched as the train conductor pointed her in his direction, then stood waiting for her to make her way across the crowded railway platform. The question stayed in his mind as she approached, and it became more and more obvious that she was not happy about having to seek him out. Four years of war and two subsequent years of occupation duty among the vanquished Southerners had made him more than adept at recognizing their barely veiled contempt. Her enmity didn’t surprise him in the least. The fact that she was about to speak to him in broad daylight and in clear view of any number of the townspeople did.

“You are Colonel Woodard?” she asked without hesitation. She was wearing black—most of the women in the South seemed to be in a kind of perpetual mourning. Or perhaps it was a matter of economics. Perhaps there was nothing but black cloth available to people who had little money to buy even the necessities.

The woman’s voice had a slight tremor in it. Not enough to disarm him, but enough to pique his curiosity as to the cause.

Anger? Fear?

More the former than the latter, he decided. He took the liberty of staring at her. She was too thin and small-breasted for his taste. And she was probably younger than she looked. He had found that to be the case with many of these Rebel women, and he knew from personal experience that near starvation did little to preserve the bloom of youth.

She had ventured out without her bonnet or her shawl, and she was slightly damp from the intermittent rain that had come in fits and starts since his arrival. But she seemed not to notice her missing garb or the weather. He was her focus.

“I am,” he said, meeting her gaze. She looked away, but not quite quickly enough to keep him from seeing the antipathy she worked so hard to keep hidden.

“If you would come with me, Colonel.”

“Why?” he asked, making no effort to do so.

“My father couldn’t meet the train. I have come in his place.”

“And who might your father be?”

“He owns the house where you will be billeted,” she said, clearly determined not to give any more information than she could help.

“I see. And the numerous soldiers who are supposedly under my command. Where would they all be, I wonder?”

Ordinarily, he never objected to spending time in a pleasant and accommodating woman’s company—but this one was neither. And there were certain military protocols to be adhered to. He was the new commanding officer in an occupied town, and no one from the garrison had bothered to meet his train. Indeed, but for a few of his fellow travelers, he didn’t see any of the military about at all.

The woman took a quiet breath. “Some of the soldiers are maintaining the military headquarters. The rest of them are fighting another fire.”

There was a slight emphasis on the word “another.”

“What is burning?” he asked, noticing for the first time a plume of smoke off to his left.

“The school.”

“The children are safe?”

“There were no children there,” she answered, moving away from him. “As you well know.”

“Now how would I know that?” he said reasonably, and he still didn’t follow after her. “I only just arrived.”

She stopped and looked at him. “The United States Congress has seen to it that we here are no longer allowed the luxury of public education—but a fire has somehow started in the school building. It is in real danger of spreading. Every able man is required to put it out, lest the whole town go up in flames.”

He considered it a just fate for this particular town, but he didn’t say so. He glanced skyward. “Perhaps it will rain again,” he said instead.

It was clear from the expression on her face that she had no intention of discussing the weather.

“And perhaps the wind will change in time to spare your army’s storehouses.”

Touché, he thought, and he very nearly smiled.

“Do you usually run errands for the military?” he asked to keep her off balance, and she stiffened slightly.

“My father was asked—ordered—by Major Hunt to retrieve you from the station and take you wherever you want to go. But he isn’t well enough to do so. I came in his stead. I obey my father’s wishes.”

“I see,” he said again. And he was beginning to. She was going to be a dutiful daughter—if it killed her.

“I’ve brought you a horse,” she said, indicating a nearby animal with a military saddle and brand. “I will show you the way either to the house or to your headquarters—or to the fire,” she added as an afterthought. “As you wish.”

She walked on and stepped into a nearby buggy without assistance, then waited for him to untie the horse at the hitching post and mount.

“I am much in your debt, Miss…?”

“Don’t be,” she said. “It was none of it done freely.”

The remark was more matter-of-fact than hostile. He stared at her, impressed by her temerity in spite of himself.

“I prefer the buggy,” he said, for no other reason than to inconvenience her. Her remark warranted at least that—inconvenience.

He had already made arrangements for his belongings to be sent to military headquarters, and he climbed into the buggy beside her without waiting for her permission, sitting down on a goodly portion of her black skirts before she could get them out of the way. She sat there for a moment, struggling not to let him see how much his presence disturbed her. Then, she snapped the reins sharply and sent the horse on.

“No,” he said, when she would have turned the buggy toward the center of town. “That way.”

He pointed in the direction he wanted to go, toward the railroad cut and the outskirts of town. “I insist,” he added in case she believed their destination to be a matter for discussion.

She continued in the direction he indicated, her back ramrod-straight. He could just smell the rosewater scent of her clothes and hair. There were only a few people on the street. All of them turned and stared curiously as they rode past.

“I fear I may have compromised your reputation,” he said.

She made no reply, reining the horse in sharply when it elected to trot.

“Sir, there is nothing out this way,” she said, still struggling with the reins. “If you—”

“I know what is out here,” he interrupted. “And I want to see it.”

It was the third time in his life he had taken this route. The first time had been in the early summer of 1864. He had disembarked from the train—much as he had today—except that then he had arrived in a boxcar with fifty other men and under an armed guard.

He had made a return trip to the depot in late February of 1865. That excursion he didn’t remember at all. He’d been too ill to walk, and several kind souls, who were probably not much better off than he, had carried him. His good friend, John Howe, wasn’t among them, of course. He and John had been captured and sent to the Confederate prison here at the same time, but John had made his escape a month earlier—and with a Rebel girl in tow. John Howe had never been one to do things by halves when it came to women.

The horse finally settled down, and Max indicated where exactly he wanted the woman to take him. When she hesitated, he took the reins from her hands and effected the maneuver himself. She made no protest, regardless of how badly she wanted to, and she kept glancing at him as they rode along.

He had no difficulty locating the entrance to the prison—or what was left of it. He drove the buggy directly over the railroad bridge and into the weeds that now covered the grounds. The stockade walls had disappeared, but there was still more of the place left standing than he had expected. Until now, he had liked to think that General Stoneman, who had been a prisoner of war himself, would have celebrated his raid of the town by leveling the prison entirely and sowing the ground with salt.

But the outer walls of the huge three-story factory building used to confine as many prisoners as was inhumanly possible remained. He got some small satisfaction from seeing that the roof and windows were gone and that the hospital and the cookhouses were mostly rubble. Part of a wall stood here, a chimney there—and all of the giant oak trees inside the compound had been cut down. Only the stumps remained. He couldn’t tell where the stone wells had been, but he could still see the huge burrows in the red clay earth where men had been forced to live and where so many had died. It was only by the grace of God that he had not been one of them.

He abruptly handed the woman the reins and got out of the buggy, standing for a moment to get his bearings. Then he began to walk. The weeds were taking over, but he could still see the scattered evidence of the men who had been held here. Broken glass, the bowl of a clay pipe, a belt buckle, a brass button. He could smell the jimpson weed, but it was an altogether different stench he kept remembering.

He turned and forced himself to walk in the direction of what had once been a cornfield and a dead house, but that, too, was gone. He walked up and down, looking for the burial trenches. He wanted—needed—to stand there again—to be reminded why he’d stayed in the army after Lee’s surrender, in spite of his precarious health and his family’s protests.

It began to rain. A few random drops at first, and then a sudden downpour. He couldn’t see any landmarks. Nothing.

He kept walking back and forth in the area he thought the trenches would be, but there were no markers and no sunken earth.

Where are they?

He had friends buried here—good men who deserved better, men who would have never made their own escape and left him behind to die. He could see their faces again, hear their entreaties.

Please, Sir. You tell my mama how to find where I am—

But he couldn’t tell anyone’s mother where her son had been buried. The lay of the land was different somehow, overgrown and unrecognizable. There was nothing to guide him anymore, not even the foundation of the house where the bodies had been kept until somebody found time for another mass burial.

Where are they!

He felt unsteady on his feet suddenly. He could feel his heart begin a heavy pounding in his chest. It was hard to breathe, and he had to fight down an incredible urge to run. He took a deep breath and abruptly clasped his hands behind his back to keep them from shaking.

It would pass. He knew that. All he had to do was wait.

He glanced back at the woman. She sat in the buggy where he’d left her, pale and on the verge of becoming alarmed. He turned and walked unsteadily in her direction. He wasn’t about to fall on his face and give her any tales to tell about the new colonel.

This time she got her skirts out of the way when he climbed into the buggy. He sat beside her, still fighting down the memories of his captivity.

The rain drummed loudly on the buggy top.

“Do you want to go to military headquarters?” the woman asked after a time.

He looked at her sharply. He’d forgotten all about her.

“Yes,” he said finally.

She snapped the reins and sent the horse forward, turning the buggy in a wide circle and heading back in the direction they had come. He paid no attention to the route she took nor the surroundings until she abruptly stopped.

“It’s there—the upstairs,” she said, indicating a two-story building across from a hotel. Much of the street out front had been taken over by harried-looking civilians—old men, women and children, all of them clearly unmindful of the weather.

“Who are all these people?” he asked, and she kept avoiding his eyes.

“They are…they’ve come because they’re afraid,” she said.

“Of what?”

She didn’t answer him; she merely shook her head, as if it were too complicated for her to explain—or for him to understand.

He stared at her a long moment. “I expect I shall find out soon enough.”

She seemed about to say something, but didn’t. He gave her a curt nod and got down from the buggy, then began walking toward the building that housed the North Carolina Western Division military headquarters. He had to literally push his way inside. Women plucked at his sleeve as he tried to pass, some in supplication and others with an obviously more commercial intent. He ignored all of them to put the fear of God into the first soldier he saw—a hapless private who lolled against a wall happily conversing with a painted woman Max had earlier seen prowling the railroad station for customers.

In spite of Max’s ire, the private somehow found the presence of mind to lead him upstairs, where Max found an unexpectedly young sergeant major in a crowded and disordered room he assumed was an office.

“This way, Colonel Woodard, Sir,” the sergeant major said, as if his new commanding officer hadn’t just kicked a private soundly in the backside.

Max stood where he was, ignoring the fact that the sergeant major clearly expected him to take a seat in the chair behind the cluttered desk. He was not yet ready to delve into the stacks of papers his predecessor had left scattered about, nor was he ready to let go of his pique. He knew that Colonel Hatcher’s departure had been precipitous—the state of the man’s office confirmed that—but he had expected some attempt on Hatcher’s part to effect an orderly change of command.

Max walked to the window and looked down at the street below. The crowd was still there in spite of the rain—and growing, he thought. The woman who had brought him here was trying to drive the buggy through, and she was immediately surrounded by bystanders. But whatever questions were being put to her, she didn’t answer. She kept shaking her head and finally used the buggy whip to send the horse on, giving the crowd no choice but to let her pass.

“Your name, Sergeant Major?”

“Perkins, Sir.”

“What do all those people downstairs want?”

The sergeant major carefully held out a steaming cup of coffee instead of answering.

“I asked you a question, Sergeant Major,” Max said sharply.

“Yes, Sir. Petitioners come to talk to the new colonel, Sir.”

“How is it they knew I was arriving today? Do you ordinarily keep the civilian population privy to the army’s comings and goings?”

“Well, Sir. Sometimes telegraphing gets intercepted up the line—old tricks die hard for some of these so-called ex-Rebs. If the message ain’t got nothing to do with us, they’ll send it on through, like as not. If it does…well—maybe they will and maybe they won’t—either way, word gets out as to whatever information happens to be in them.” He shrugged. He also offered the tin cup of coffee again. This time Max took it.

“These ‘petitioners.’ What exactly do they want?”

“Some of them would be wanting the Oath of Allegiance, Sir. People what finally got wore down enough to come in and ask to take it—so’s they can get some food on the table.”

“It’s taken them three years to get here?”

“Well, I expect you know what the Rebs are like, Sir. Especially the women. They hold out as long as they can. I expect the war would have been over a good year or two before it was, if it weren’t for them.”

Max agreed wholeheartedly—in spite of a noted general’s assertion that he could buy any one of them with a pound of coffee—but he didn’t say so.

“All of them can’t have just decided to take the Oath,” he said. He took a sip of coffee, surprised to find it was quite good. He’d forgotten that some of the best coffee in the world came at the hands of sergeant majors. The skill seemed to come with the rank, regardless of the fact that this particular one didn’t appear old enough to have it.

“Well, Sir, one or two of them are here because they can’t take it,” Perkins said. “Them what carried the Reb flag a little too high during the late war—or them what own too much property and ain’t about to get rid of it. They couldn’t get nowhere with Colonel Hatcher, so they’d be here to ask you to pardon them, so they can swear allegiance and get all the benefits thereof. Then there’s the usual civilian complaints, Sir.”

Max decided to sit down, after all. He was tired. He looked healthy enough these days, but he still suffered from a noticeable lack of stamina. The long train ride from Washington and then the visit to the prison grounds had taken its toll. He took another sip of the coffee, then tried to find a place to put the tin cup among the stacks of papers on the desk. “What kinds of complaints? The men in blue accosting their daughters?”

“No, Sir—not that there ain’t plenty of accosting going on, mind you. There’s some real pretty girls in this town and don’t nothing stir up a soldier’s juices more than running into one of them and knowing she’d just as soon gut you as look at you. The boys take it right personal, Sir, if you know what I mean. And they get to feeling all honor-bound to do something about it. Ain’t nothing builds a man up like turning some little old girl’s head, especially if she thinks she hates the air you’re living on.

“But we don’t generally hear about any of that up here. If the accosting’s mutual, it’s either ship the girl off to her relatives or let ’em get married, which is likely what some of them downstairs have come about—permission for a marriage. Getting married to an army officer is pretty popular here of late—what with the latest batch of local females coming of age. They was about too young to get all worked up about the Cause during the war. All they know is there ain’t nobody left much to marry—except one of us. Sometimes you’d think it was a regular bride fair around here and a man could just go out and take his pick.

“But now, if the accosting ain’t mutual, sooner or later, the accoster gets hisself waylaid some dark night and he don’t come out of it looking as good as when he went in. If you get my meaning. And the boys, well, they do have their pride, Sir. They don’t want to say they got the bejesus kicked out of them by some unarmed Reb daddy or big brother. The tales I’ve heard, Sir, about low-hanging tree limbs and stumbling in the dark on the way to the sinks. It’s enough to make you think this here town is the most perilous place in the world for a man to go heeding the call of nature after the sun goes down—begging your pardon, Sir.

“No, Sir, there ain’t many complaints about ‘accosting’ coming our way. I’d say some of them people downstairs are wanting to get paid for the goods the army commandeers and for billeting officers in the private residences. It was Colonel Hatcher’s policy not to get in a hurry about that. He wasn’t exactly what you would call accommodating to the townsfolk.”

Max looked at him, recognizing a prelude when he heard one. “How far behind are we on paying them?”

“Well, Sir, I’d say about as many months as the colonel was here—but that ain’t the main thing. The main thing is all these here fires, Sir. Six of them, so far. Folks pretty much hold us—that is, Colonel Hatcher—responsible for all the incendiary activity that’s been going on.”

“Why?”

“Well, he got to saying how the townsfolk didn’t suffer enough for having the prison here during the war and whatever bad things happened to them was just what they deserved. It didn’t take long for some to take that as an invitation to run wild with a torch.”

“Anybody hurt?”

“Not yet, Sir, but there’s been some close calls. One of the men barely got a little child out of a house when the fire spread the other night. I guess it’s mostly that what’s got folks gathering out front like they are. They’re wanting you to do something about it.”

Max drew a quiet breath. If he had dared hoped for some quietude here, it didn’t appear likely that he was going to find it. He could feel the sergeant major waiting for him to do his job and take command of the situation. He moved a pile of papers instead and uncovered a battered red-velvet box. It contained a pair of garnet-and-pearl earrings of significant quality and value.

“What’s this?”

“Those, Sir? I’m thinking Colonel Hatcher meant those for his…ah…”

“His what?”

“Well, his woman, Sir.”

“What woman? His wife?”

“Whore, Sir.”

“His—”

Max abruptly closed the box and tossed it on the desktop. He was no prude, but it was one thing for an officer to have his entertainments—and something else again to have his staff so privy to them. And Colonel Hatcher’s departure must have been even more precipitous than he’d thought.

“Sir, I reckon they might be a problem, too,” the sergeant major said after a moment.

“For whom?” Max asked pointedly, and he had to wait for the sergeant major to make up his mind about how much he wanted to tell his new commanding officer.

“For you, I reckon, Sir. This here whor—I mean, woman—I seen her downstairs just now, and I reckon she’ll be wanting them.”

“Then give them to her.”

“Well, they ain’t exactly hers, Sir, even if the colonel did promise them to her. Colonel Hatcher, he called them contraband, because of who they really belong to—but I’m thinking it’s too late in the day for them to be that.”

Max stared at the man, trying to follow his convoluted tale.

“‘Who they really belong to,’” Max repeated. “Yes, Sir. Miss Maria Rose Markham. Colonel Hatcher billeted hisself in her daddy’s house. Them earbobs belong to her and they went missing. See, the colonel had a bit of interest in the lady, but she wouldn’t have it—she had two brothers and a fiancé killed at Gettysburg—her brothers gave her them earbobs before they went off to war—one of them weren’t but fifteen. But even if she hadn’t lost her brothers and her beau like that, she just weren’t the kind to be impressed with the—”

Perkins abruptly stopped, and clearly had no intention of continuing.

“Speak freely, man,” Max said, but Perkins still had to think about it. It was not a sergeant’s prerogative to assess a colonel’s character, even when asked.

“Well, Sir,” he said finally, “Colonel Hatcher, he was fond of telling people that his family came from these parts—he said he had this here relative what was a big Indian fighter and military advisor a hundred years ago. Only these people here keep records of everything, and somebody found a mention of a Hatcher in the court accounts—how he was put in stocks all the time for drunken and lewd behavior—insulting decent women and the like. Didn’t take word long to get around.”

“No, I don’t expect it did.”

“People were kind of laughing behind their hands about it, and that got Colonel Hatcher all the more determined about Miss Markham. Some thinks the earbobs was a kind of punishment for her. That it might have amused the colonel to take something what was dear to her and give it to a whore. Or maybe he thought he could make her trade for them. Sir,” the sergeant major added as an afterthought.

Max sat there. He had enough trouble with the apparently ongoing arson in this town. He had no inclination whatsoever to deal with the epic drama his sergeant major had just revealed.

“Dare I hope arrangements have been made regarding my quarters?” he asked after a moment.

“Ah—yes, Sir. The major was thinking to put you in the same house as was Colonel Hatcher. It could get kind of crowded over there, though, Sir, if Miss Markham happened to move a bunch of kinfolk in now that Colonel Hatcher is gone. It might be you’d be wanting a hotel, Sir,” he added hopefully. “Mansion House or Howerton’s right across the street—”

Max looked at the sergeant major. So. Miss Markham—apparently the woman who had met him at the station—had a champion in this sergeant major, one who wanted the new colonel to know that his behavior regarding her would be duly noted.

But Perkins could rest easy. Max had no designs on Miss Markham’s virtue. He did, however, wish to continue to inconvenience her. He wasn’t all that different from the men under his command. He had just been on the receiving end of a Rebel woman’s disdain, and, like his men, he took it personally.

“No,” Max said. “The Markham house will suit me. If there are additions to the household and I find it too noisy, I have the authority to thin them out. My belongings will be sent here from the station. Have them moved to the house—and make sure the Markham pantry is full and there is somebody to cook and to orderly. And find me a decent mount so I can see about this latest fire. Then, I want you to take some men and close this town down. Every store, every saloon, every bar and grog shop. And the whorehouses, too, while you’re at it. All church services and public and private gatherings are canceled until further notice. The citizens are to be off the streets and in their homes. Start with that bunch downstairs.”

“Yes, Sir! Anything else, Sir!”

“I want all these papers sorted, by date and by urgency—and then I want a burial detail.”

“Burial detail, Sir?”

“That’s what I said. And find me some small pine blocks—like so,” he said, showing him the size with his hands. “Make sure they’re finished—no bark—scraps from a lumber mill if there is one—but you can put that at the bottom of the list for now.”

“Yes, Sir!” Perkins gave a smart salute and left a happy man, in spite of Max’s choice of residence and his mishmash of orders. Occupation duty was tedious at best, and enacting what amounted to martial law was clearly more to the soldier’s liking.

Max sat at the desk, then reached for the red-velvet box again, turning it over in his hands before he opened it. After a moment he abruptly closed the box and put it into his uniform pocket.

Chapter Two

Maria Markham stopped abruptly in the wide center hallway, listening again for the sound of an approaching wagon. The front door was shut, but the downstairs windows were still open to let in the evening breeze until the mosquitoes began to swarm. She stood there, her sense of dread completely taking her attention away from the task of closing up the house for the night and lighting more lamps than they could afford to light.

She had been waiting for the new colonel all afternoon, and she still had no idea what she would do when he finally arrived. She knew what she would like to do, of course. She would like to bar the door and turn him away. She would like to send him and his kind back to whatever hellish place they had come from.

Pennsylvania.

Colonel Woodard came from Pennsylvania. He had served in Rush’s Lancers, a supposedly elite cavalry regiment made up of rich young men from Philadelphia society. His having been a Lancer was likely the reason he was in such an elevated position now—or so her father said. Her father made a point of keeping up with what he considered the pertinent details regarding the occupation army, and he was the one responsible for the new colonel’s being billeted in the house in the first place—and for the two others before him.

“It is for the money, Maria Rose,” he’d explained patiently when she had protested having yet another “guest,” as if she didn’t already know what dire financial straits they were in. The only problem with that logic was that the Yankees never paid for anything—least of all their housing. They “appropriated” whatever they wanted all over town and handed out vouchers the quartermaster never got around to honoring. The town was forever sending some kind of delegation to military headquarters to broach the subject of monies owed, but far as she knew, her father had received no rent payment the entire time, Hatcher, the previous commander had been living here. She had no expectations that this new one would be any different.

Colonel Woodard.

The man she was having to light the lamps for, because she thought he would come into the house unannounced, barred door or not, and she did not want to encounter him in the dark.

She had been afraid of him today in the buggy. He had been civil enough, but his civility didn’t hide what she believed to be his true nature. She realized immediately that he didn’t suffer fools gladly, but, for whatever reason, he chose to keep a tight rein on his emotions. Even so, she could feel how volatile they were, how close to the surface, and he had a kind of dangerous intensity about him she found more than a little disconcerting. She had no idea what people must have thought, seeing them riding out to the prison like that. It wasn’t proper, and the colonel knew it. He made it very clear that the delicate sensibilities of the people in this town meant nothing to him.

She was certain she heard a wagon now, and she stepped quickly into the parlor so that she could peep out the front window. If it was Colonel Woodard, she would take herself to another part of the house. The last thing she wanted the Yankee to think was that she’d been dancing in attendance by the front door on his account.

It was nearly dark, but she could see the wagon clearly enough—one of the farmers making a delayed start home, probably because of the fire. Every able-bodied man had been pressed into service. She couldn’t see any flames now, or even a glow in the sky, but she could still smell the smoke. The wagon rattled on by, leaving nothing in its wake but the sounds of a warm summer night.

She took a quiet breath and let the resentment she’d been keeping at bay wash over her. She had tried so hard to talk her father out of letting another one of them into the house. It was bad enough having to encounter occupation soldiers all over town. They were always underfoot on the streets and in the shops. Some actually came to church and participated in the services—much to the delight of the young girls, who were more than willing to overlook a Yankee officer’s part in the late war for the possibility, however remote, of matrimony.

To that end, some of them had raised simpering to a high art. It had gotten to the point that she could hardly bear to witness it, and she could expect a bevy of eager young females at the front door as soon as word got around that the new—and possibly unmarried—colonel was billeting with the Markhams. If—when—they discovered that he was supposedly from a well-to-do family, too, she would be absolutely inundated with visitors, whether she wanted them or not.

Maria gave a quiet sigh. Perhaps she shouldn’t blame the girls—or their mothers, who must surely sanction their behavior. Who else was there to marry? The war had decimated the Confederacy’s young men. So many of them were dead or invalid, and it was a bitter thing for those who had survived more or less intact to have to live now in a conquered South. Some of them made no pretense at even trying. They took themselves off to California or to Mexico or to South America, leaving the uncertain resurrection of their homeland to whoever remained.

She resented their departure as much as she resented the new colonel’s presence in the house. Having Colonel Woodard here was a classic example of adding insult to injury, and she simply didn’t understand why her father couldn’t see that. Both his sons—her beloved brothers—had died at Gettysburg. Quiet, scholarly Rob, who had treated her as an intellectual equal simply because she was so eager to learn about matters beyond the kitchen and household. And mischievous, lighthearted Samuel, who could always make her laugh.

She missed them both terribly, and her only comfort was that they had been spared seeing what life here had become. Everything had changed. It wasn’t simply the deprivations, the lack of food and money. It was the lack of joy and living day after day in relentless, all-prevailing sorrow.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the gilt-framed mirror on the far wall. The mirror had been cracked three years ago by one of General Stoneman’s raiders in an effort to get it out of the house before one of his superiors saw him trying to steal it. She moved to the side so that she could see herself better and immediately wished she hadn’t. She was so tired, and she looked it.

What has happened to me?

Her brothers would not have recognized her. She hardly recognized herself anymore. She had never been a beauty, but she had been a cheerful and optimistic person.

Once.

People had enjoyed her company. She had never lacked for invitations to balls and parties. Billy Canfield had wanted to marry her. He had spoken to her father, and they had received the blessings of both sets of parents. It seemed so long ago now, but she had that one small consolation to hang on to, at least. She had once been asked—and only she would ever know that his asking had meant nothing.

But her life was about to change for the worse, whether the new colonel billeted himself here or not. She had no hope of escaping her fate and very little time remaining before she was found out. If only she were devious enough and fetching enough to join the younger girls in their relentless, giggling quests for a husband. A husband would solve everything—even if it were one of them—if she could act quickly enough and if she could put aside the dishonor of such a venture and somehow dredge up the self-confidence to attempt it. She still smarted at the memory of Colonel Woodard’s scrutiny at the train station. His assessment of her had been subtle—not at all like the leering she’d come to expect from Colonel Hatcher and his kind. But it had been no less upsetting. She had seen the new colonel study her face, her breasts—and then totally dismiss her.

Like Billy.

Someone rapped sharply on the front door, making her jump. She peered out the window again. A carriage had stopped out front, but she didn’t recognize it. Apparently the colonel had chosen a conveyance in keeping with his position this time—or perhaps there had been no lone women in buggies handy.

The rapping came again, much louder this time.

“Maria Rose!” her father called from his upstairs sitting room. “Will you answer the door or must I!”

“I’m getting it, Father,” she called back, recognizing the threat for what it was. He was looking for an excuse to come downstairs and drink whiskey with a bunch of soldiers—even if they were in the wrong army—instead of coddling his bad heart as the doctor had ordered. She loved her father dearly, but he had to be the most exasperating man in all of Christendom. When his health improved even a little, he never concluded that the doctor’s regimen was working. Instead, he promptly decided that it wasn’t needed any longer. She ran herself ragged trying to keep him from overdoing, failing and then feeling guilty for his numerous setbacks. It had been the same when her mother was living. Somehow his illness was entirely their responsibility. If he felt any personal obligation to follow his doctor’s advice regarding his own health, she certainly couldn’t tell.

“Maria Rose!” her father yelled again.

“I heard you, Father!”

She took a deep breath to brace herself for the coming ordeal, but the door flew open before she could get to it.

“Miss,” the soldier standing on the porch said. “I have Colonel Woodard’s trunk and belongings.”

He didn’t wait for her to give him leave to enter. He motioned two other soldiers to hurry along with the baggage and pushed his way into the house, forcing her to step back to give him room.

“Where will the colonel be quartered, miss?” he asked.

“Wherever he likes,” she said, because the question was merely a token one, and they both knew it. It wasn’t for her to say. She had had enough dealings with these people to understand the fine points. Colonel Woodard wasn’t a guest; he was a conqueror. He could pick and choose his accommodations as he pleased—and would, most likely—even if it meant she or her father would have to vacate them.

“Leave that here,” the soldier said to the two men carrying the trunk and a number of satchels and leather cases.

Two more soldiers came in through the front door loaded down with wooden boxes, a basket of eggs, a ham and three sacks of flour, tracking red mud on the bare wood floor all the way. The floor was walnut—short pieces done in an intricate chevron pattern that caused much admiration among visitors to the house and cleverly hid the fact that, at the time, the scrap pieces were all her father could afford. It was yet another example of his resourcefulness, but it was she who would have to get down on her hands and knees to brush the mud out of the crevices.

“The colonel’s provisions, miss. Light the way to the pantry, if you please.”

She didn’t please, but she picked up the lamp from the hall table and carried it in the direction of the kitchen. They would have no problem locating which larder had been set aside exclusively for the colonel. It would be the one protected from civilian pilfering by a heavy padlock to which no one in the household had the key.

She looked over her shoulder toward the open front door, still expecting the colonel himself, but she could see no soldiers in the yard or in the carriage.

“You understand that these provisions are for the colonel’s use only,” the soldier in charge said as his men unpacked the boxes.

She didn’t answer him.

“It will save you a lot of trouble and grief in the long run, if you do, miss. The quarters for the colonel’s orderly—where are they?” He lit the lamp on the kitchen table.

“Colonel Hatcher’s orderly stayed in the room under the stairs.”

“See to it,” he said to a soldier nearby, handing him the lamp.

“Have you been advised about the new curfew, miss?” he asked as he took a key from his pocket and unlocked the pantry door.

“What new curfew?”

“You—and everybody in this here town—will have to remain in your houses and off the streets. There will be no going anyplace—no public gatherings of any kind—until further notice.”

“Surely church services aren’t—”

“Church is canceled.”

“But why?”

“The colonel means to get to the bottom of all this incendiary activity, miss.”

“I doubt very seriously that we are the ones responsible for burning our own town,” she said.

“Even so—the colonel’s got to start somewhere.”

“Where is he now?” Maria asked. “I would like to lock up the house after you leave.”

“Can’t say, miss. He’ll be here when he gets here. Somebody will need to stay handy to let him in.”

And Maria knew just who that “somebody” would be.

“Maria Rose!” her father yelled from upstairs. “Who is that down there with you?”

The soldier in charge broke into a grin. “Mr. Markham is awake then, is he? I’ll just go up and speak to him.”

“He needs to be resting,” Maria said—to no avail. The soldier went off happily in the direction of her father’s voice, leaving her in the kitchen with the rest of the underlings.

She didn’t stay. She walked back to the parlor and sat down in a corner by the front windows to wait for them all to leave. From time to time, she could hear her father’s laughter upstairs. Her father. What would he say when he found out about her? How could she ever tell him?

But she wouldn’t have to tell him, if she stayed here much longer. Sooner or later, he would know. Everyone would know. Her body was already changing. She could no longer rely on it not to betray her at every turn. She was forever on the verge of fainting or weeping or being sick. The smell of frying pork had sent her bolting to the slop bucket more than once this last week. It was a miracle that her father had not noticed.

She tried to tell herself that she wasn’t the first woman to be in this situation. She would just have to go someplace until the child could be born—if she could find the money and someone willing to take her in. Perhaps if she said she was a war widow—

But there was no money.

And if there had been, she would have to ask her father for it. She’d have to put his weak heart at risk and tell him why she needed it. And even if she went, people would still find out. They always did. The very fact that a young, unmarried woman left town for a time—no matter what the excuse—was enough to raise suspicions. How could she bear it? For the rest of her life, people would whisper behind their hands, wondering about her prolonged absence and only too eager to share their own opinion about whether Maria Rose Markham had been ruined and who had done it.

If Billy were here—

“He would be no help at all,” she whispered.

She abruptly put her face in her hands, trying hard not to cry. Tears were not the answer. She had already cried enough to know that.

“Miss?” the soldier in charge said from the doorway.

She looked up, startled and more than disconcerted that one of them might have witnessed her moment of weakness.

“The colonel said to leave this with you,” he said, crossing the room and handing her the padlock key.

She hesitated, then stood and took it.

“Colonel Woodard has the certification that you took the Oath of Allegiance on file in his office. He expects you to honor it—so try not to sell everything off before he gets here.”

Maria opened her mouth to say something and couldn’t. She was literally speechless. She might steal the colonel’s provisions if anyone she knew were going hungry and she thought she could get away with it—but she wouldn’t sell them.

The soldier grinned and touched the bill of his cap. “Good evening, miss. Oh, and your father is asking for his toddy.”

“You didn’t give him anything to drink, did you?” she asked, still insulted.

“Ah—no, miss.”

She looked at him. He grinned wider.

“I recognize you for the liar you are, Sir,” she said.

“Good evening, miss,” he said again, chuckling to himself as he led his muddy-footed subordinates out the front door.

Maria waited to make certain they had gone, then walked into the hallway, still holding the padlock key. She stood looking at the colonel’s pile of belongings. One leather case was quite large and didn’t appear to have a lock of any kind. It took a great deal of effort on her part not to see if she could open it. She liked to think she was an honorable person, regardless of her Pandora-like inclinations. She didn’t go around snooping in other people’s baggage—even if it did belong to a Yankee—but the temptation was great, nevertheless. She wasn’t interested in military secrets, only in knowing what sort of man this Woodard was, and there might be all manner of information about him in the case.

“Maria Rose!” her father yelled from upstairs. “My toddy!”

“I believe you have already had your toddy, Father!” she called back.

It took the better part of an hour to get him finally situated for the night—and even then she had to bribe him with a cigar in lieu of the spirits he wanted and listen to him expound on the trials and tribulations of having a “willful girl child” before he would agree to take himself off to bed.

She stayed downstairs and put out the lamps she had lit, after all. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—waste the precious oil on the belated colonel. To keep busy, she swept up the muddy footprints as best she could by candlelight, then made sure the doors were locked.

She didn’t dare go on up to bed. She sat dozing at the kitchen table instead. Everything was so quiet. Nothing but the ticking of the clock on the kitchen mantel and the creaks and cracks of the house settling. She had left one kitchen window open, and every now and then she could feel the faint stirring of a breeze. If she had been less tired, she might have wondered why the colonel was so late. As it was, she had reached a point beyond caring. She heard the clock strike ten, then dozed again.

She awoke to a whispered curse, and she abruptly lifted her head. The candle was nearly gone, but she could see the colonel clearly. He was standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding a railroad lantern.

“I need your help,” he said without prelude. “I had intended not to wake you, but since you’re awake—here, take this.” He awkwardly thrust the lantern into her hands. “If you’ll come outside and hold it so I can see.”

He didn’t wait for her to either acquiesce or refuse. He walked out the back door. She had little choice but to follow after him—out of curiosity if nothing else. His horse stood tied to the porch post.

“What is it?” she asked, growing more alarmed.

“My horse is lame.”

She held the lantern higher—because he took her arm and pushed it upward.

“How did you get into the house?” she asked as he bent down to examine the horse’s foreleg and lift its hoof. But there seemed to be more of a problem with his hands than with the horse.

“My new orderly, Perkins. He’s very resourceful. I don’t imagine there is a place in this town he can’t get into if he’s of a mind. If he weren’t in the army, he’d probably be in prison. Well, the leg feels all right—no injury that I can see. It think it’s a stone bruise. Can you undo the cinch?”

She gave him an incredulous look that was wasted in the dark.

“I am not a stable boy, Colonel Woodard,” she said evenly.

“I never said you were. I have injured my hands, and I don’t think I can do it myself. I was in the cavalry, Miss Markham. Regardless of my current duties, old lessons die hard. I must see to my mount no matter what. I don’t want him to stand all night with a saddle on his back. Perkins is off on other business. You are the only other person here at the moment, and you strike me as being reasonably competent. Can we not call a brief truce on behalf of this suffering animal?”

She thrust the lantern back at him so she could undo the cinch. She even pulled the saddle and blanket off while she was at it and dumped them on the back porch.

“Anything else?” she asked.

“He needs to be fed and watered,” he said without hesitation.

“Light the way,” she said, taking the horse by the bridle and coaxing it to limp the distance to the animal shed. She stopped at the trough long enough for it to drink, then urged it into the shed and put it into an empty stall. Her buggy horse, Nell, whinnied softly in the darkness.

“The bridle,” the colonel said behind her, before she could remove it.

She gave a quiet sigh and struggled to unbuckle the bridle, then handed it to him.

“Shine the lantern there,” she said, pointing to a barrel of corn in the corner.

She lifted the lid and reached inside—as much as she hated to when she couldn’t really see where she was putting her hands. It was a carry-over from her childhood, when she once lifted out a rat along with an ear of corn.

“Thank you,” he said as she dumped as much corn as she could grab in one swipe into the stall crib.

She made no effort to acknowledge his expression of gratitude. She pitched a small clump of hay into the crib instead and turned to go. Her only interest now was in taking her “reasonably competent” self back to the house. It wasn’t for his sake that she’d assumed livery duties. She had merely appreciated his remark about a truce and determined that none of God’s creatures should suffer needlessly—regardless of who the human owner might be.

The colonel followed along after her with the lantern.

“I need my trunk opened,” he said as they entered the kitchen. He awkwardly set the lantern on the table.

“It’s in the front hall—”

“The key is in my left shirt pocket.”

She stood looking at him, trying to read the expression on his face. He wasn’t ordering her to do anything—and yet he was. And she was certain that he at least suspected that she was afraid of him. He suspected, and for some reason he was determined to push her until he could make her show it.

But she refused to be pushed. She impulsively reached into his unbuttoned tunic to find the shirt pocket with the ring of keys. This close, he smelled of smoke and horse and tobacco. He needed a shave, and he was clearly exhausted.

“Which key is it?” she asked, avoiding his eyes.

“The one in your hand. It opens the big trunk. I need two rolls of muslin and the bottle of brandy—lower left-hand side.”

She took the lantern and went into the hall. She had wanted to poke through his belongings, and apparently she was going to get the opportunity.

Except that he came with her.

She unlocked the trunk with some difficulty and located the muslin and the brandy—all the while trying to glimpse his personal possessions. A daguerreotype, a book—anything that would validate her already low opinion of the man. She saw nothing but socks and vests—and drawers. He clearly didn’t mind her rummaging through his undergarments in the least. Fortunately, she had had enough brothers not to be alarmed by the sight of normally concealed male clothing.

When she stood up, he was already on his way back to the kitchen. She sighed again and followed, carrying the brandy and the muslin.

“A glass?” he asked. “I’m apt to break things if I look myself.”

She got him one from the shelf, amazed that he expected her to pour, too, and even more amazed that she complied. Her one-handed splash was generous; the spirits didn’t belong to her.

“That’s enough,” he said, holding up an injured hand.

But he didn’t take up the glass. He shrugged off his tunic and held out his arms for her to roll up his shirt-sleeves instead. The shirt was plain but finely sewn and made of a soft, closely woven muslin like the rolls she’d gotten from the trunk. There had been nothing like it available here since before the war.

“If you would be so kind as to bind up my hands,” he said, still waiting for her to get his sleeves out of the way. “The doctor suggests you soak the bandage in cold water first.”

She hesitated, in spite of the fact that she had the skill to do what was needed. The town had had a Wayside Hospital during the war. The trains carrying the wounded had arrived at all hours of the day and night. Even though she was a young, unmarried woman of good family, she had worked around the clock more than once dressing injuries that were so terrible—

She pushed the memory aside. Binding up a soldier’s wounds was an expertise she would have preferred never to have acquired.

Colonel Woodard stood waiting. He had asked—more or less—and she couldn’t, in good Christian conscience, deny him. Whatever small kindness she would extend to a dumb animal she would also extend to him—except that a good Christian conscience had nothing to do with it. She was going to do this for her own sake, for the chance, however remote, that this Yankee might pay his rent and thereby provide her father with the funds she needed to go away.

She rolled up his shirtsleeves. At first she thought his hands must have been burned, but that was not the case. They were very badly bruised and swollen.

She took down a bowl from the china cupboard and placed the rolls of muslin in it, then carried it to the water bucket and filled it full. She could feel the colonel watching her as she worked to saturate the bandages and squeeze out the water.

“Your hands will have to be wrapped tightly to stop the swelling,” she said. “I expect it will hurt,” she added, placing the beginning strip of wet muslin across his palm.

“No matter. That’s what the brandy is for.”

She glanced up at him. He seemed to be expecting her to do just that. She immediately lowered her head and concentrated on the wrapping. She was hurting him, and she knew it. After a moment he half sat on the edge of the table, his hand still extended. She realized suddenly that it was trembling.

“How did you do this?” she asked quietly.

“Someone collected full rain barrels in a wagon and brought them to the fire. The horses shied. My hands were in the way when the load shifted. But your town doctor assures me nothing is broken,” he added. His tone suggested that he didn’t necessarily believe it. “He also said you would be very capable at wrapping them—if I could get you to do it.”

She ignored the remark and tore a split in the last few inches of the muslin, then tied the two pieces in place around the back of his hand. He held out the other one. She wrapped more swiftly now, fully aware that he was inspecting her face while she worked, no doubt verifying his earlier opinion.

“You hate us, don’t you?” he asked.

She looked at him. It was a question he hardly need ask.

“As you do us,” she said after a moment, tearing another slit in the muslin and tying it securely across the back of his hand.

“Perhaps we both have good reason.”

She had nothing to say to that and turned to go.

“Wait,” he said. “I think we need to get the rules of the household established. It will save…misunderstandings later.”

“I see no reason for our separate living arrangements to interfere with each other—”

“They won’t be separate. I expect to be seated at your table for breakfast and—”

“My father is ill. We rarely sit down together in the mornings.”

“Then you will act in his stead—as you did today at the station. If I am to execute my duties well—if I am to put aside my prejudices—I must know and understand the people here. I will have questions and you can assist me with answers—assuming that you want to save your people as much grief as possible. I’m not Hatcher. Things will be different in this town from now on. I also expect to be included when you have guests here for dinner or whatever occasion.”

“Well, you may have to wait a while for that—since we’re all to be kept prisoners in our houses.”

“There are worst places to be imprisoned, Miss Markham,” he said, and in spite of herself she looked away.

“You need not worry about the added work or expense. You have the key to the larder. You may use those provisions freely whether I’m here or not. And my orderly will help you set a proper table or whatever else—”

“I don’t want your charity or your orderly’s help,” she said. “And I don’t want to suffer your presence any more than is absolutely necessary.”

“I’m sure you don’t—but I don’t think I made myself clear. I have the authority to elicit whatever assistance I need from the populace—as I see fit. And at the moment, I require yours. It’s not a matter for discussion.”

He watched her closely. She could sense how much he wanted her to oppose him, and it was all she could do to keep quiet. Her body trembled with anger.

When she said nothing, he abruptly picked up the glass of brandy she’d poured for him and drained it. “Now. If you would show me where I am to sleep—so that I don’t go stumbling about and wake your father,” he said in a deliberate attempt to make it impossible for her to refuse.

She picked up the lantern and walked briskly down the hall and up the stairs, and she didn’t stop until she’d opened the door to the bedchamber off the second-story porch. It had once been hers—until Hatcher appropriated it. She now considered it contaminated and fit only for the likes of his replacement.

“This will do,” Colonel Woodard said behind her. He pushed past her, immediately lay down on the bed as he was, boots and all. And, without giving her a backward glance, he fell immediately asleep.

Chapter Three

Who is talking?

Max turned his head slightly. At first he thought the lowered voices were coming through the window on the upstairs porch. With some effort, he turned over in the bed, realizing immediately that the conversation originated from the other side of the house.

His hands were still wrapped in spite of his restless sleep and still hurt like hell. He flexed them gingerly and immediately regretted it. Even so, the swelling seemed less, and that was something.

He lay there looking around the room. It was sparsely furnished. A four-poster bed, a dresser, a washstand, a chair and small table, somewhat tattered lace curtains, recently washed. No draperies. No rugs. No framed pictures. The wallpaper had seen better days—some kind of stylized flowers in a vase surrounded by a wreath in a pattern that repeated every few inches. A spotty mirror hung from a braided gold cord over the mantel. It tilted downward enough that he could see a dim reflection of himself lying in bed. It was not his first encounter with a well-placed mirror in a bedchamber. The high-class bordellos he’d frequented before the war were full of them. It was a shame this one would go to waste.

“Perkins!” he yelled suddenly, simply to measure his new orderly’s efficiency. He had no idea if the man were anywhere close by or not.

“Sir!” Perkins said immediately on the other side of the closed bedchamber door.

“Coffee,” Max said. “Now.”

“Yes, Sir!”

Max sat up on the edge of the bed with some difficulty, then unwrapped his hands and flexed his fingers again.

Not too bad, Miss Markham, he thought.

He stood and walked unsteadily to the window that opened on the back side of the house. He had initially been too distracted by the pain in his hands to register that everything else hurt, as well. It had been a long time since he’d participated in the kind of physical exertion necessary to put out a fire. Clearly, the days when he could subject his body to any and every kind of strain and misbehavior and not feel any aftereffects were long gone.

He moved the lace curtain aside and looked down into the backyard. The sun was up. The birds were singing, and there was a fine, cool breeze coming in through the window. Maria Markham stood on the dewy grass below and, unless the man with her lived here, she was exhibiting a flagrant disregard for the new curfew.

Max moved slightly to try to hear what they were saying, but he could only catch certain words. From the look of things, however, the conversation was not going well. Whatever verbal bouquets the man was handing out, Maria Markham was not accepting.

“—how could she be better…they need you. Why can’t you see what this is?”

The man reached out to touch her arm, and she stepped away from him.

“You break her heart,” she said. Max heard and understood that quite distinctly.

“I can’t help the way things are—” the man replied.

“Yes, you can!” Maria said, forgetting to lower her voice in her agitation. “Who can but you?”

But then she suddenly relented. “—I will,” she said. “They are always welcome—”

Max looked around at a faint knock on the door.

“In,” he said, and Perkins came in with the coffee.

“Who is that with Miss Markham?” Max asked, nodding toward the window. Even from this distance and without much to go on, he didn’t like Maria Markham’s early morning visitor. It was enough that he was breaking the curfew.

Perkins carefully handed over the tin cup of hot coffee and peered out the window to see.

“You want me to detain him, Sir?”

“No, I want you to tell me who he is.”

“That would be…Phelan Canfield, Sir. Ex-Reb artilleryman. Brother to Miss Markham’s late fiancé and well on his way to becoming the town drunk. He’s married to a friend of Miss Markham’s—Suzanne, her name is. I hear that both the Canfield boys admired Miss Markham, though. Some folks here think maybe Phelan would have turned out better if he’d married her instead of letting his brother have her—on account of she would have made something out of him. Besides that, her brothers—if they had lived—would have half killed him for the kind of misbehavior he’s been showing. Good men, her brothers, or so folks say. But you never know about these things that might have been, do you, Sir?

“Anyway, Canfield and this here Suzanne has got two children—little boys. One’s five—his daddy got to come home on horse leave one winter and that’s where he come from. The other one’s about two or so. Suzanne—now, she ain’t well enough to look after them or keep up her wifely duties, if you know what I mean, Sir. Most of the time Canfield ain’t sober—or he’s disappeared someplace and nobody knows where he got to. It’s usually jail for being drunk and disorderly or one of the whorehouses down by the railroad tracks. He ain’t got enough money to gamble or partake—but I reckon some of the girls take pity on him, him being a Reb war hero and all that.”

Max stared at his orderly. “How the hell do you know all this?”

“People talk, Sir. Alls I do is pay attention when they do it. Most of the folks here work so hard at ignoring us, I reckon they really do forget we’re around. But I ain’t deaf. You can hear all kinds of things at the bakery—it’s on the ground floor down at the hotel—Mansion House. And Miss Markham—she’s come down to the jail a time or two looking for the son of a bitch and thinking he’s been on another one of his binges and got hisself locked up. She takes care of them little boys right much and Suzanne, too. Them boys are a handful—you remember, I did mention, Sir, that this might not be the most restful place for you here.”

Max declined to comment. He held the cup precariously with both hands, savoring the warmth against his painful fingers, and sipped his coffee. After a moment he moved to the window and looked out again—at approximately the same instant Maria Markham glanced up and saw him. She immediately sent Phelan Canfield on his way and went into the house.

“Any chance of getting breakfast, Perkins?” Max asked.

“I believe it’s in the making, Sir.”

“You ‘believe’?”

“Well, Sir, I did get myself run out of the kitchen pretty quick—so I can’t be exactly sure.”

“What the hell did you do?”

“Showed up, Sir,” Perkins said. “That’s about all it took.”

“Perkins, the Markham woman is only this high,” Max said, holding up an aching hand in a fair estimation of her tallness.

“Yes, Sir, but she had this here broom and even if she didn’t use it, she was about to cry—so I just thought I’d let her win this one. And as long as I was shoved out yonder in the backyard, I got me a campfire going to make the coffee. And I seen to your mount—checked the hooves and got the farrier up here. So that’s been done. I got the wash pot filled with water and a good fire under it, while I was at it. It ought to be hot enough about now. Would you be needing it for a shave and the like, Sir?”

“I would,” Max said. “Tell Miss Markham I said to hold breakfast until I’m ready.”

Perkins made a small sound. Just enough of one to let Max know his orderly wasn’t altogether looking forward to another encounter with the daughter of the house.

“Tell her just like that, Sir?” he asked.

“Exactly like that, Perkins.”

A “shave and the like” didn’t take nearly as long as it might have. Perkins had already set up a place in a small connecting room—in what Max guessed had once been a nursery—Maria Markham’s perhaps. The orderly had the tin tub more than half filled. All that remained was carrying the hot water upstairs from the wash pot in the backyard. The biggest delay was caused by finding a wearable tunic. The one he had arrived in had numerous holes burned in it from the sparks at the fire.

Still, the wait would likely not sit well with Maria. It was yet another “inconvenience” he didn’t mind perpetrating—or so he thought until he came downstairs. She had gone to a great deal of trouble from the smell of things—fresh bread, cooked apples, fried meat of some kind—bacon or ham—and coffee.

Mr. Markham greeted him in the hall, a stately-looking man in a threadbare frock coat, if somewhat frail. Maria Markham must have taken after her mother. Max could see no family resemblance.

“Good morning, Colonel! And a fine morning it is. This way, if you please,” the old man said, leading him into the dining room. “I trust you slept well?”

“Quite well,” Max said, the lie coming easily. He had had months of practice when he was still recuperating at home after his imprisonment. Both his mother and his sister, Kate, had asked him that every morning, and every morning he had lied. The truth was that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a restful sleep. Or even a long one. It seemed to be the way of things. He wasn’t the only war veteran to suffer from it—particularly among the ones who had survived a prison. There was no cure, as far as he knew, save laudanum or brandy, not even an accommodating woman helped. He no longer worried about it.

“I see you’ve sustained an injury,” Markham said.

“A minor one. I am much improved this morning—thanks to your daughter. She very kindly bound my hands last night to keep the swelling to a minimum.”

The old man laughed. “My daughter? Ah, well now, that is a surprise.”

Max had the distinct impression that the surprise came not from Maria Markham’s handiness at binding wounds but from her willingness to do so for the likes of a Yankee colonel.

The dining room was as sparsely furnished as the rest of the house. The table should have had six chairs, but there were only three and three places set. The china and the silverware were clearly of good quality. The only problem was that hardly anything matched.

“If you would sit here, Colonel,” the old man said, offering him his place at the head of the table.

“I would prefer the side, Mr. Markham, if you don’t mind. I tend to linger to read and work after I eat, and I like room to spread out. I have no wish to usurp your place.”

“As you wish, Sir,” Markham said. “Maria Rose!”

She came eventually, carrying a tray heavily laden with serving bowls. They were as mismatched as the rest of the dinnerware, and apparently she was foregoing the use of the sideboard and putting everything directly on the table, because there was no one but her to serve.

Max picked up a crisply starched but much-darned napkin and tried not to smile. He understood the not-so-subtle message she was sending him perfectly, as he was meant to do. The Markhams—like the rest of the people here—had suffered for their cause and, vanquished or not, they were proud of it.

He noted, too, that the resolute Miss Markham didn’t wear her severe mourning attire at home—or at least, not precisely. She did have on a kind of black skirt, but she’d put a white blouse with it and then covered over the entire ensemble with a coarse linen pinafore of a faded violet color. It made her look young and vulnerable in a way that was not entirely unbecoming.

“Have you seen my orderly, Miss Markham?” he asked as she set a large compote of a thin, brownish liquid and a bowl of rice in front of her father.

“He is sitting on the back steps—eating.”

“I believe I mentioned that he was to assist you with the meals.”

“And I believe I mentioned that his assistance was not required,” she countered, still unloading bowls.

Her father looked from one of them to the other. “Maria—”

“I must bring the coffee, Father,” she said, disappearing through the doorway. She came back almost immediately with the coffeepot and proceeded to pour.

That done, she left the room again, and Max expected her not to return. She did, however, with a bread basket full of hot biscuits, which she placed near his elbow. Then, she sat in the only seat available—across from him.

“May I take the liberty of saying grace?” he asked just to see the expression on her face.

“Indeed, Colonel,” her father answered quickly, Max thought to head any remarks his daughter might feel compelled to make.

Max made his prayer of thanks concise and eloquent, one that would have done his clergyman great-uncle proud—if he did say so himself. Rather than bowing his head, Max kept his eyes on Maria the entire time. She looked up at him before the prayer ended—as he knew she would.

He left it to her to begin passing the bowls, and he managed to serve himself in spite of the pain in his hands.

“Tell me, Colonel Woodard,” Mr. Markham said. “Have you learned yet to appreciate our fine Southern cuisine?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t often had the occasion to try it,” he answered, still watching Maria. His experience with “Southern cuisine” had been the daily ration at the prison—moldy cornbread that was mostly ground-up cobs, and a cup of watery rice soup. On very special occasions, he had fought off other men for the privilege of eating hog entrails that had been dumped over the wall to the men in the stockade in the same way one might feed a pack of animals. And he had been grateful for the opportunity. His ration, pitiful as it was, had been the only thing he had to barter. He’d prolonged his hunger more than one time in order to purchase his desperate notion of what constituted a luxury—once a single, bloodstained page from David Copperfield.

He still had it.

But he would have to agree that Maria Markham had set an excellent table, regardless of the hodgepodge of china and utensils. She was a fine cook, but she made little attempt to eat what she had taken onto her plate. She kept halfheartedly pushing her food around with her fork and finally drank a small sip of water from her glass.

Max let Mr. Markham carry the conversation—the weather, street repairs, the impeachment woes of President Andrew Johnson. The most likely topic of conversation—the fire and the subsequent curfew—went conspicuously unremarked upon. After a time he realized that the old man was indeed not well. The effort it took for him to speak left him winded, and clearly worried his daughter. At one point he lost his breath altogether.

“Father—” Maria said in alarm.

“I am…quite…all right, Maria Rose. Don’t…fuss over me,” he insisted, and he continued with the meal if not the conversation.

Maria Markham had said when Max first arrived that she obeyed her father’s wishes. And so she did—but it was all she could do to manage it. They ate for a time in silence.

“May I ask you a question, Miss Markham?” Max said, because he thought she was about to get up and leave.

She looked up at him, her expression startled, as if she had forgotten he was there and, now reminded, had no idea what uncouth subject he might broach, regardless of her father’s presence. She also looked very pale.

“I was wondering if you are acquainted with the Howes,” he said anyway. “Major John Howe and his wife.”

“I…know them by sight,” she answered.

“I thought Mrs. Howe was a Salisburian.”

“She is—but we did not move in the same circles growing up. And especially not now,” she added.

He chose to ignore the remark. “Do the Howes live nearby?”

“The…the Howes—” She abruptly stopped. “You must excuse me, Father. I have things I must see to—”

She got up from her chair and hurriedly left the table, disappearing through the doorway into the kitchen.

Max looked at her father, but the old man clearly felt no need to explain her behavior—possibly because he couldn’t. Perkins suddenly appeared in the dining-room doorway, looking as if he didn’t quite know how he’d gotten there.

“Did you speak to Miss Markham just now?” Max asked him, because he thought it the only explanation for the man’s perplexed look.

“Yes, Sir. Very briefly. I believe the colonel needs coffee?”

The colonel didn’t, but Perkins picked up the coffeepot and poured as much as he could into the already full cup anyway.

“Anything else, Sir?” he asked.

“Stay handy,” Max said. “When Mr. Markham is done, you can clear the table. Then you can bring me my leather case. I have reading I need to do.”

Mr. Markham cleared his throat. “My daughter is sometimes very…high-strung. The war was hard on the women here.”

“The war was hard on the women everywhere,” Max said, thinking of the unmarked burial trenches and the women who perhaps still waited to hear what had become of their men.

He took a small breath and tried to let go of the animosity that threatened to overwhelm him. The war was over.

Over.

He had managed to get past the bitterness he harbored after John Howe made his solo escape from the prison. If he could put that behind him, surely he could let go of the rancor he felt for the people in this town who had, perhaps unknowingly, tolerated the mistreatment of Union prisoners.

When the old man had taken his leave and Perkins had gone to fetch the leather case, Max kept watching the door that led to the kitchen.

But there was no sign of Maria Markham.

Chapter Four

Maria heard her father slowly climb the stairs and shuffle out onto the second-story porch. He would stay there, reading, until it became too sunny for his comfort. She had a little time before he came inside again.

She heard the front door open and close—twice. The house had gone very quiet. Colonel Woodard and his sergeant major must have left for military headquarters. He would have a great deal to do his first real day in command. Perhaps he would be as late returning as he was last night.

That prospect cheered her considerably. She gave a quiet sigh and wiped her face again with a wet cloth. She was feeling better—less indisposed, at any rate. She wouldn’t have to make any kind of explanation to the colonel, but what was she going to tell her father? He couldn’t abide rudeness in his children—even if it seemed to be directed at a Yankee invader. And she couldn’t explain that she hadn’t been rude at all. She couldn’t tell him that what he mistook for impoliteness was actually the sudden and overwhelming nausea of pregnancy.

She forced herself to stand up. She couldn’t hide forever, and she had a great deal of work to do. She came quietly down the back stairs into the kitchen. The dishes had all been washed and dried and placed in neat stacks on the worktable. Had she been gone that long?

She looked around impatiently for the leftovers—food she planned to somehow circumvent the curfew and take to Suzanne Canfield. Phelan had said Suzanne was worse today; there was no way she could get anything to eat on her own. And the little boys. Who would feed them? Phelan intended to get back home through the woods—if he could keep out of the sight of the army patrols—but she had no way of knowing if he’d made it. Even if he had, he wasn’t all that reliable when it came to caring for his wife and children. Suzanne had no family here to help her, and neither did Phelan.

She kept looking around the kitchen, but she couldn’t find a single cold biscuit. No pieces of ham. No bacon. Nothing.

She walked into the dining room, thinking that perhaps the bread basket had been left on the table. Colonel Woodard was still sitting exactly where she’d left him, only now he was reading a letter. He barely looked up.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said when she tried to back out of the room.

She hesitated, trying to think of a way to escape. Nothing came to mind.

“What is it, Colonel?” she asked from the doorway, hoping that he only wanted something fetched or carried rather than her continued presence.

“Sit,” he said.

After a long moment she did so—she still needed the money. There was a pitcher of water and a small glass on the table, and a plate with a lemon and a knife on it—none of which she had provided.

“If you would cut the lemon,” he said, “and squeeze some of the juice into a glass of water, please.”

Please.

He didn’t toss that word around much, and she regarded him warily.

There was nothing to do but oblige. The sooner she did as he wanted, the sooner she could go.

She filled the glass, cut the lemon, picked out the seeds and squeezed in the juice, wondering all the while how much a piece of fruit this fine would cost. When she’d finished, she started to push the glass toward him.

“No,” he said. “Drink it. It’s for you.”

“I don’t need—”

“Yes, you do. It will make you feel better if you sip it slowly.”

“You practice medicine as well as head the military government?”

“I want you healthy, Miss Markham. Of course, you don’t have to follow my recommendation. We can have the army surgeon look at you—just to make sure you are not coming down with some illness which might be an…inconvenience.”

“Inconvenience to whom?”

“To me,” he said easily. “I suspect, though, that you are not ailing. I suspect you are experiencing a mild upset this morning—brought on by a late night and by the worry of having unwelcome strangers in your house—not to mention the concern you must have for your father’s health. In which case, fresh lemon juice in water will alleviate it. Please. Drink it.”

She looked at him across the table. He was studying her closely—too closely—but not in the lecherous way Hatcher had. She would have to be careful with this man. He meant what he said about understanding the people here, and he would not miss much that went on around him, regardless of his arrogance. She glanced at his injured hands, and he saw her do it.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m merely returning the favor.”

She waited as long as she dared, then took a small sip of the lemon water. It was…refreshing, and not an affront to her queasy stomach at all. She took another sip, and then another.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice low.

“You are welcome, Miss Markham. Tell me about your brothers.”

“What?” she said, startled.

“Your brothers,” he repeated.

She was so caught off guard that she still didn’t say anything.

“They were killed in the war,” he said. It wasn’t quite a question.

“Yes,” she said.

“How old were they?”

“Rob was twenty-eight. Samuel was sixteen.”

“Where were they killed?”

“Gettysburg,” she said, holding his gaze. She didn’t understand why he was asking her this—when it was obvious to her that he already knew.

“I was at Gettysburg,” he said.

She looked away, still not understanding. There was no malice in his voice and no apology or sympathy, either. It was merely a quiet statement of fact—and she could make of it whatever she would.

“Your fiancé,” he continued after a moment.

“I don’t talk about him,” she said. “Ever.” It was all she could do to remain seated.

“Then you can tell me what I asked you earlier—before you fled the room. Do Major Howe and his wife live nearby?”

“Major Howe is no longer here. I believe he’s returned to Washington.”

“Alone?”

She looked at him. “With his wife and mother-in-law, Mrs. Verillia Douglas,” she said.

“Ah, yes. Verillia. I would have liked to have been introduced to Verillia. According to Major Howe, she is quite the physician in her own right, is that not so?”

“She has helped my father on many occasions. I wish she were…”

Maria trailed off. She was barely acquainted with the Howes, but she knew Verillia Douglas well. And it wasn’t just for her father that she wished Verillia’s return, or even Suzanne. Verillia was the one woman in this town to whom she might speak of her current predicament. Verillia wouldn’t condemn her—she would help her, even if it were nothing more than to allow her a shoulder to weep on.

She realized suddenly that the colonel had said something.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I asked why Major Howe and his family left.”

“I understand there was some concern on his part about the fires—and that he had a disagreement with Colonel Hatcher. My father will know the details. I’m certain he will give them to you if you ask him.”

“Perhaps I will. Tell me, how do the people here view Major Howe’s marriage to a local girl?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Then how do you view it?”

“I have no opinion.”

“Because you only know them by sight.”

“Because I have no opinion,” she said evenly.

“It was a love match,” he said.

“So I’ve heard.”

“Major Howe tells me he would be dead twice over but for his wife. Apparently, it was the man that mattered to her and not his politics. All in all, a very romantic story, don’t you think?”

Maria made no comment. She was far too busy trying to fathom his intent.

It suddenly came to her. He wanted to point out to her, however subtly, that the people here—the women here—had been vanquished in more ways than one. Perhaps Major Howe’s marriage to Amanda Douglas had been a love match—but the ones she was witnessing now weren’t. They couldn’t be more mercenary, and she longed to tell him so.

She glanced at him; he was staring at her across the table.

“Feeling better?” he asked quietly.

“I feel quite fine,” she answered.

“And your friend? Your particular friend—Suzanne. How is she?”

“How did you—”

She broke off. Of course. He had been listening at the upstairs window. The question now was how much he had heard and what he would do about it.

“I assume she is not well,” he continued. “If her husband would chance being arrested to come here—on her behalf. Is that not so?”

Maria ignored the question and asked one of her own.

“How long will the curfew be in effect?”

“The curfew doesn’t apply to you—if you need to see about your friend. I will write you a pass.”

“Why?” Maria asked pointedly.

He held up his bruised hands. “I owe you a favor.”

“I believe that was canceled out with the lemon.”

“Perhaps. But you see, I want you in my debt, Miss Markham, rather than the other way around. I believe our association will go more smoothly if you are. I think you honor your debts. I think such things matter to you.”

She didn’t know whether to be insulted or flattered.

Yes, she did. Without a word, she abruptly stood and walked out of the room, all the while expecting him to object to her leaving.

But he didn’t say anything, and she didn’t stop until she reached the kitchen. She kept pacing around the room, trying to collect her thoughts. Then, she sat down at the worktable, only to get up again. She did not understand this man. Why would he extend to her what anyone would call a kindness—and then go out of his way to make sure she didn’t mistake it for that? Were they both to keep some kind of running tally of favors paid and favors owed?

She gave an exasperated sigh. He had offered to help her. The offer itself—and the reason for it—had been plainly stated. But it was what he did not say that she found so vexing. He could and would help her—and the only impediment would be that her animosity for him and his kind was more important to her than her “particular friend,” Suzanne.

She could hear a commotion at the front of the house: men—soldiers—coming in from the outside.

Officers.

She could tell by the banter. It was the same game of Who’s The Better Man? that the enlisted men engaged in everywhere one went, except that theirs, while no less biting, was more sophisticated and subtle.

She looked anxiously toward the doorway at a sudden burst of laughter, wondering where she could go to escape. Hatcher hadn’t held any meetings with his staff here in the house, but clearly that was not Colonel Woodard’s plan. She could hear a number of them clumping up the stairs—to see her father on the upstairs porch from the sound of it. It would please him to have visitors, the only visitors possible thanks to the curfew.

And her kitchen was about to be invaded, as well. She looked around in alarm as one of them came in through the back door.

“Well, well, well, what have we here?” he said loudly. She moved toward the back stairs, but he stepped into her path.

“I don’t believe you answered me,” he said with an all too familiar smile.

She didn’t return it. She stood there, not quite sure what to do.

“Pardon me, Major De Graff, Sir,” the orderly, Perkins, said in the doorway. “The colonel has remarked particularly upon your absence.”

“Yes. Quite right. Thank you, Sergeant Major.”

“My pleasure, Sir,” Perkins assured him. He waited until the major was on his way to the dining room. “Miss Markham, the colonel needs more chairs. He asks—”

“Tell the colonel there are no more chairs for the dining room—General Stoneman’s raiders used them for firewood,” she said.

“I’ll do that, miss,” he said. “Please don’t run off anyplace. I’ll be right back.”

Maria was feeling queasy again, too queasy to run anywhere other than the back door. She stepped outside, hoping some fresh air would help. If it didn’t, at least there would be no floor to mop.

The yard seemed to be filling up with Yankees, as well. Several tents had been pitched on the grass since she’d last looked out, and four men were working diligently to make a much larger fenced-in place for their horses than she had for her buggy horse, Nell. And it was much too close to the vegetable garden for her liking. She moved to where they couldn’t see her, and she could hear Perkins calling her.

She didn’t answer.

“There you are, miss,” he said, coming outside.

“What is it now?” she asked.

“The colonel says to tell you he has changed his mind about writing out that pass—no, now, don’t go thinking he’s breaking his word or it’s got anything to do with the chair situation,” he added quickly, apparently because of the look on her face.

“The colonel—he’s only just got here, see, and some of these men—well, they didn’t get a lot of discipline under Hatcher’s command—like that there Major De Graff. Colonel Woodard is thinking the patrols might not accept the pass as being official. He says to tell you he will see you about it later.”

Maria didn’t recall asking for an audience. It was bad enough that he had the power to dictate her comings and goings, and even worse to have to remain in a house full of Yankee soldiers.

She gave a quiet sigh. She had to see about Suzanne, and she had no easy way to get there. She had no food to take her if she could manage to make the trip, unless she pilfered Colonel Woodard’s pantry, which she couldn’t do—key or no key—with Perkins so close at hand.

She was essentially trapped with nowhere to go. If she tried to work in the garden, she would have an unwanted audience, and inside, she might encounter De Graff again—or the colonel.

“Maybe you should join your father,” Perkins suggested, as if she’d spoken out loud.

“No,” she said. There was too much work to be done. If she didn’t get to the hoeing, the morning glories would run rampant in the corn and beans, thanks to yesterday’s rain. The kitchen and the hall—and now the dining-room floors had to be scrubbed free of muddy boot prints. The ironing she should have done yesterday instead of going to the railroad station still sat in the basket in the corner. She had two more meals to prepare. She needed to start a fire in the stove in the summer kitchen to cook the dried butter beans she had soaking. If she didn’t, they’d never be done in time. Her father hated butter beans, but it was either that or accept the colonel’s bounty, and she didn’t want to touch his food, if she could help it.

And she was tired.

“They won’t bother you, miss,” Perkins said.

“What?” she asked, because she had been too busy feeling sorry for herself to remember that Perkins was still close by.

“The men. The colonel has given them all strict orders not to accost you on any account—regardless of their rank.”

She looked at him, not at all certain that she believed him.

“I think I will go see my father,” she said. She went quickly up the back stairs and just as quickly changed her mind again. Her father was still on the upstairs porch—but he was deep in conversation with Colonel Woodard.

Her alternate plan was to take herself to the summer kitchen. She would be essentially out of sight of the soldiers in the yard and not apt to run into any of the ones who still wandered over the house. She took the basket of ironing with her, giving thanks as she went that the Markhams had once been well off enough to have this alternate place to cook and work in hot weather. There were a number of windows she could raise to catch whatever breeze might at hand. The important thing was that she would be alone there. She could work and she could think—or not think, as she chose.

It took her only a short while to get the cast-iron stove going and the dampers adjusted and the butter beans rinsed and in the cook pot. She put two sets of irons on the stove to heat, and then dampened the clothes with water and rolled them tightly and put them into a pillowslip.

She had to go back into the house once because she’d forgotten the old sheet she used to pad the table when she ironed. Her stomach had finally settled, and she went down into the cellar to get herself an apple. She could hear that the colonel’s staff meeting was in session—and from the sound of it, things were not going well.

All the more reason for her not to tarry, she thought. Her only wish was to stay out of his way. She returned to the summer kitchen and ate the apple—and actually enjoyed it. Perhaps there was something to the lemon juice “cure.”

When the irons were hot enough, she began pressing her damp petticoats and chemises. From now on, when she did the wash, she’d have to find somewhere inside to hang them to dry. She did not want her underpinnings blowing in the breeze for Union soldiers to see.

She kept ironing, kept worrying about how she could get to Suzanne and how she could thwart Colonel Woodard. She could hear the buzz of insects at the open windows and the murmur of the soldiers still working on their pen. She hummed softly to herself to keep her thoughts from going in a direction she wouldn’t be able to endure.

It was so hot. If they hadn’t been in the yard, she would have done the ironing in the shaded walkway between the house and the summer kitchen. After a time she shed her pinafore and rolled up her sleeves. Then she took off her shoes and stockings, savoring the feel of her bare feet against the cool stone floor. Even so, she still had to wet her face and neck with cold water from time to time in order to stand the heat.

At one point, she looked up at a different sound. Colonel Woodard stood in the doorway.

“I’ve spoken to your father,” he said without prelude—something he did often, she was beginning to realize, as if it didn’t matter how he came to a particular point, only that his ultimate demand was met and with total compliance.

She didn’t say anything, partially because she had no idea what direction the conversation was taking and mostly because she was mortified that he would see her bare feet. She bent her knees slightly to make sure her skirts touched the ground.

“Your father agrees that it might not be expedient to allow you to go see about your friend under a pass. You will be escorted at his request.”

“I will speak to my father about it myself,” she said. She wasn’t about to take his word for anything.

“I believe he is resting now—”

“I will speak to him, anyway.”

“Fine,” he said, turning to go. “But put your shoes on.”

She could feel her face grow even hotter, and she stood there, her mortification giving way to absolute indignation. If the iron in her hand hadn’t been so heavy, she would have thrown it at him.

“Hurry it along, Miss Markham,” he said as he walked away. “The Army of the Republic waits for no one.”

She slammed the iron down—only to pick it up again because an arrogant Yankee colonel wasn’t worth a scorched sheet. She slung the iron onto the stovetop with a loud clang. Then she set about getting her shoes and socks and her pinafore back on, muttering under her breath all the while. When she straightened up, two soldiers were looking in the window, both of them grinning from ear to ear.

“Would you be needing anything, miss?” one of them asked innocently.

She needed a loaded pistol, but she didn’t say so. She ignored both of them and walked swiftly back into the house, her head held high.

Colonel Woodard and Perkins stood in the kitchen.

“Sergeant Major Perkins, tell Miss Markham where her father is,” Colonel Woodard said when he saw her.

“Mr. Markham is asleep on the daybed in his sitting room, miss,” Perkins replied dutifully. “He has had a bit to eat, and he has no complaints—except that he is tired and would like to rest now.”

Maria looked from one man to the other. She had every intention of speaking to her father herself.

“I’m leaving now, Miss Markham. You are still concerned about your friend?” the colonel asked when she headed for the back stairs.

She stopped, realizing that he was once again deliberately trying to provoke her. She closed her eyes for a moment in a monumental effort to keep her temper in check. She would not let him win.

“Yes,” she said, turning to look at him. “I am still concerned. I want to go see about her—if you please,” she added, though it nearly killed her to do it.

“Excellent—Perkins, you know what to do.”

“Yes, Sir!” Perkins said, hurrying away.

Maria moved to get her straw hat down from the peg by the back door, then she stood and waited for her instructions from the colonel and tried not to shred the brim.

“This way, Miss Markham,” Colonel Woodard said.

He went ahead of her into the center hallway. A number of Yankee officers stood around, and all of them stared as she passed. The colonel opened the front door for her—in what had to be purely a token gesture of courtesy on his part. No matter how it might appear on the surface, there was nothing civil about the man. But she had no doubt that her father had been fooled or that he had sanctioned her going.

A carriage sat in front of the house—the same one that had brought his belongings yesterday—and the colonel was going to win after all. She was suddenly overcome with consternation at the sight of it. She simply could not bear to be seen in public with this man two days in a row.

He was halfway to the street when he realized she was no longer trailing after him.

“What is it?” he asked, waiting for her to catch up.

She made no attempt to do so.

“I can’t,” she said, trying not to sound as hysterical as she felt. “My father would not want me to be seen about town with you like this.”

“He didn’t seem to mind yesterday when he sent you to the train station,” the colonel said. “That aside, I told you I had spoken with him. He feels that my escorting you personally to see about Mrs. Canfield is an excellent plan. I must go to my office, anyway. You can remain with Mrs. Canfield until I—or Perkins—can fetch you home again. Unless you prefer to stay here in the company of a bunch of…I’m ashamed to say, very poorly disciplined officers, who may or may not adhere to the letter of my direct orders and remember that they are gentlemen by military decree, if nothing else. Your choice, of course.”

“My choice? It is not my choice! You have me in a corner and you know it!”

“Yes,” he said agreeably. “Are you coming along or not?”

She was, and he knew that, too. She picked up her skirts and walked purposefully by him and climbed into the carriage, ignoring Perkins’s outstretched hand. She had already learned from yesterday’s buggy ride that Colonel Woodard would do whatever he pleased, and she moved into the far corner of the seat to keep him from parking himself on her pinafore and skirts.

But he made no attempt to sit beside her. He took the opposite seat instead and watched her closely—which was worse. Maria turned her head to keep him from looking directly into her eyes.

They rode down the shady street in silence. A pack of dogs, unmindful of the curfew, came bounding out from under a house to nip at the horses’ heels for a short distance.

“Your father tells me you and Mrs. Canfield have been friends since you were children,” Colonel Woodard said. “He said you used to name your pets after each other. I was particularly interested to hear that there was once a little red hen named ‘Maria Rose.’”

Maria glanced at him, fully aware that he was trying to annoy her again, but she didn’t say anything.

“I believe he mentioned ‘The Three Musketeers,’” the colonel continued. “But he didn’t say who the third one was.”

Maria made no reply to that, either. She was looking at the houses they rode past. There was someone sitting on nearly every porch, all of them watching, waiting to see what indignity would be inflicted upon them next, and all of them trying to decipher the meaning of Maria Markham’s letting herself be seen in the company of the new Yankee colonel.

Again.

“Have courage, Miss Markham,” he said.

“I have no reason to fear,” she said pointedly, and she might have meant it if they were not nearing the Kinnard house. Acacia Kinnard ran this town—at least when it came to social matters. Her husband was a man of property and influence—money—even in these hard times. And whenever she snubbed another woman, that woman’s social invitations ended.

“Maria!” Mrs. Kinnard called from her second-story porch. “Is the curfew lifted?”

“No, Mrs. Kinnard. I have permission to see about Suzanne Canfield.”

“Indeed,” Mrs. Kinnard said, obviously pleased. “Well done, Maria!”

“Would you like to visit with this lady a bit?” Colonel Woodard asked under his breath.

“Good heaven’s no,” Maria said in alarm. “I must see about Suzanne,” she added. Knowing Acacia Kinnard, she would want Maria to expand on her success and arrange for all the Kinnard family and friends to escape the curfew, as well.

“I do hope the Ladies’ Literary Society will be able to meet soon,” Mrs. Kinnard called as if on cue. “I so miss our readings. I was truly looking forward to hearing about the Scottish chiefs. Do you know when the curfew will be lifted, Maria?”

“No,” Maria answered, in spite of the fact that the question was by no means directed to her.

“Friday, ma’am,” Colonel Woodard said, taking the hint.

“Friday! Are you certain?”

“I am, ma’am. That is, if there are no further…incidents. We will return to the previous rules and curfew—10:00 p.m.”

“Excellent, Maria!” she called, as if Maria had been the one who made the announcement. “I believe the next meeting—Saturday—will be at your house.”

“No, I don’t think—” Maria began.

“Your house, Maria,” Mrs. Kinnard said firmly. “At the usual time. And I trust your father will want to join us. Gentlemen are always welcome.”

Maria tried to hide her exasperation and waved goodbye instead of answering. A Ladies’ Literary Society gathering was the absolute last thing she needed.

“I hope you are satisfied,” she said to the colonel.

“Being helpful always gives one a certain…satisfaction,” he said.

“You were not helpful, sir,” Maria assured him.

“I don’t believe it would be appropriate to continue the stricter curfew so that you don’t have to entertain the literary society.”

“You haven’t met the literary society,” Maria said, glancing in his direction. To her great surprise the man very nearly smiled.

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