And One Wore Gray (12 page)

He had chosen one of her father’s simple cotton work shirts and a pair of blue denim breeches. He’d found his boots, and they came up to his kneecaps. The whole ensemble should have given him the appearance of a farm boy, but instead he had the look of a pirate about him, dashing and dangerous, and intriguing.

“Will this do, Mrs. Michaelson?” he asked politely.

“Yes, quite,” she told him. She indicated the table, untying the apron she had been wearing about her waist. “Do sit down, Colonel.”

“Why, I thank you, Mrs. Michaelson,” he told her. But he drew out a chair and stood behind it, politely waiting. Callie dished the stew into a server and brought it to the table. Once she had set it down, she allowed Daniel Cameron to seat her.

He did not seat himself immediately, but picked up the wine she had chosen. “Ah, how nice, Mrs. Michaelson. A French burgundy, 1855.” With practiced ease, he uncorked the bottle, casually inhaled the scent of the cork, and expertly poured out the wine into their
glasses. He lifted his to hers, tasted the wine carefully, and grinned. “An excellent vintage, Mrs. Michaelson. I must say, the hospitality here in the North is far more than this Rebel ever dared hope.”

The smile that had just begun to curve Callie’s lips faded. “Must you keep reminding me that you are the enemy?” she asked him irritably.

He grinned and took his seat at last. “Perhaps I should eat before I do so again, since this stew promises to offer an even sweeter treat for the senses than that given by the wine.”

Callie stared at him gravely across the table. “You do have a gift with words, Colonel.”

“Only when I mean what I say, Mrs. Michaelson. May I?” He reached for her plate, and spooned a fair portion of the stew into it. He set it down before her, then helped himself. He tasted a bite of the meat, then another. He was famished, she saw. He went through half the food on his plate before suddenly pausing, having realized that she had yet to touch her fork.

“Excuse me. I’m afraid that my manners have become atrocious as of late.”

Callie shook her head. He’d had nothing but water in almost two days. She thought lamely for something to say. “My mother, sir, raised three sons, and she’d have been delighted to see any man who had been so ill enjoy a meal with such gusto.”

She was startled to realize that his free hand had moved across the table, and that his fingers had fallen over her own. Warm, intimate. His touch sent a quiver tearing raggedly down her spine. “Callie, should all Yankees have your way, war might well have been averted.”

The touch of his fingers, the sensual feel of his eyes upon her, were suddenly too much. She snatched her fingers back quickly.

“There you go again. You are the enemy. If you cannot
remember that fact for a meal, then you really should eat alone.”

He hesitated, then shook his head. “It’s dangerous ever to forget the enemy,” he told her.

“Meaning?”

He shrugged. “Did you know, Mrs. Michaelson, that soldiers trade? Time and again, my Rebel troops have been encamped on one side of a stream, with Federal troops encamped on the other. And all night they send little boats of tobacco and coffee back and forth, and sometimes they get to be darned good friends. Sometimes we’re close enough to see their faces.”

His voice was harsh, his words were bitter. Callie shook her head again.

“There, sir, goes a touch of humanity within this insanity we have set upon. Why should it disturb you?”

“I’ll tell you why it should disturb me, Mrs. Michaelson. One of my young privates became very friendly with a boy from Illinois one night. And then he met his newfound friend on the field of battle the next day.”

“And?”

“And he hesitated to pull the trigger. His newfound friend did not. My private died, Mrs. Michaelson.”

Callie kept her chin high. Her lashes swept over her cheeks. “Colonel, you are not going to meet me on the battlefield, ever. Therefore, you need not worry about my status as an enemy.”

“Ah-—” he began, but then he fell silent, tense and still—listening. For a moment, Callie did not know what he heard. The sound of horses’ hooves pounding against the earth came to her ears. Someone was riding up to the front door.

He was instantly on his feet, vibrant, filled with tension and with readiness for battle. She was suddenly very afraid for him, because she knew then that no one would ever take him easily, he would always fight until the very end.

“Don’t you dare draw a knife on me again!” Callie warned him as he started to reach for her. Despite her words, he was quickly around the table, his fingers creating a vise about her arm as she stood. “Callie—”

“Let go of me!”

“I can’t—”

“I’ve already kept silent about you for two days. I didn’t mention a word about you when the soldier came by today.”

“What?”

A certain tension gripped her as he shook her arm. “Soldiers have been crawling all over the place, Colonel. If I were going to turn you in, I would have done so by now.”

Slowly, cautiously, he released her arm. Callie walked through the kitchen and the parlor, going to the front door. She threw it open and gasped. She wasn’t startled to see a Yankee soldier at her door, but she was surprised to know the officer who came this time.

It was Eric Dabney, Gregory’s friend.

“Eric!” she said.

“Callie!”

Disconcerted to say the least, Callie stared at the Union cavalry captain standing on her porch. He was a young man, in his early twenties, of medium height and build with warm brown eyes and a head full of thick brown hair. He had a sweeping mustache and well-manicured beard. He was an attractive man, Callie thought, but he’d often amused her because of his vanity. She wondered, upon occasion, just how he managed to get in much soldiering, because he was very proud of his mustache and beard, and Gregory had told her once that he spent hours grooming his facial hair.

But he was concerned for her, she knew. She should be grateful to see him on her porch.

As it was, she couldn’t think of anyone she’d less rather see at the moment.

“Callie!” he repeated.

“Eric!” she said and fell silent.

He was certainly expecting more. She had to ask him in.

“Callie, I had to make sure for myself that you were all right. What with Gregory … gone.” he said. He cleared his throat. “I have time for a cup of coffee.”

“Oh, of course, you’ll have to come in!” she spoke loudly. She hoped her Rebel guest heard her. She had no choice. She had to ask Eric in. She could tell he was already suspicious. She should have hugged him and told him how glad she was that he had survived the battle. She shouldn’t have left an old friend on the porch.

What was she doing? There was an enemy in her house. She should tell Eric that this minute.

No. She had made up her mind long ago—maybe right from the beginning—that she was going to shelter this particular Rebel, wrong as it might be.

Besides, she wasn’t sure that Eric alone would be any match for this Rebel, even if Daniel Cameron was wounded. There was a quality of strength about Daniel. He had grown very lean and hard. Callie was convinced that he was very adept with any weapon he might choose to use. He wouldn’t have survived this far if he were not.

The only way to best him would be when he was completely down.

For Eric’s sake, she needed to take grave care.

“I was worried through the whole battle,” Eric said as he took a step closer to her. “As soon as I saw you outside in the lull, I was worried sick. I imagined us losing this ground, I was horrified about the Rebs coming in here and finding you. A woman alone …” He touched her chin, and then he drew her against him in
a warm hug. “Callie, if anything had happened to you …”

She wondered if she was being watched. They were standing in the doorway. She wondered why she should care if her uninvited Rebel guest saw her being hugged by another man.

They were enemies, but Daniel owed her for her silence, and for the care that she had given him.

Still, the thought of his watching her now with Eric made her uneasy.

She broke away, taking Eric’s hands and holding them, but creating some distance between them.

“I’m fine, Eric. And I thank God that you came through this horror alive.”

“I thank the Lord too,” he murmured. “But I mean to come out of this war all right. And I mean to come back here, Callie, for you,”

“Eric, I promise, you mustn’t worry about me!” She assured him as lightly as she could.

“Callie, it’s my beholden duty to worry about you,” he said. He patted her hand and started walking into the house. Her heart began to hammer again. What would happen when they reached the kitchen? How would she explain two plates, two wine glasses?

And the Rebel soldier at the table?

“Gregory was more than my friend,” Eric explained to her as they walked through the house. “He was as close as a brother. And, of course, there’s more.”

She barely heard his words, she was so worried about what they were going to find at the table.

They reached the kitchen, and she dared to breathe easily again. She wasn’t going to have to explain anything. Daniel had disappeared along with his plate and wine glass.

“Callie, I care about you. Deeply.”

“What!”

Eric had swung around suddenly. She was nearly trapped against the entryway leading to the kitchen.

His eyes were dark and earnest. His voice had a waver in it.

“I know that this isn’t particularly the time—”

“You’re right, Eric, this is not the time!” she exclaimed. Where was her wandering Rebel? Watching the scene?

Eric moved closer. He reached out to stroke her cheek, his emotion naked in his face.

Oh, Lord!

“Callie, Gregory hasn’t been gone long, but in this wretched and war-weary world, it has been time enough. We both loved him. Who better to care for you, to love you, in his absence? Callie, don’t—”

“Eric!”

“What?”

“I—I can’t talk about this now. I … coffee! Eric, sit down, let me give you a cup of coffee.” She pressed her hands against his chest and quickly hurried by him. She took coffee from the stove, poured him a cup, and set it across from her dinner plate. “I have stew—”

“I’ve eaten, thank you.”

“Army rations. Have something.”

He shook his head and sat where she had set down his coffee cup. It was the same seat that Daniel had so recently vacated. “Callie, I came to see you.”

She breathed in deeply and sat down. “I appreciate that, Eric, and I’m fine. Thank you.”

He reached across the table, and his fingers curled over hers.

“Callie—”

She pulled her hand back. “Eric.” She lowered her lashes, growing desperate for a way to make him stop without being entirely cruel. She even forgot that Daniel Cameron might still be moving stealthily about her house. “Eric, listen to me, please. It’s simply too soon.
I can’t even think about anyone but Gregory. Please understand.” She raised her eyes to his and smiled as sweetly as she could, giving a promise for a future that could never be. “Give me time. I’ll pray for you; you will come back.”

Eric swallowed down his coffee in a gulp, his eyes never leaving hers.

He set the empty cup back down on the table. Callie gazed at it.

The coffee had been hot. She hoped that his throat was scalded all the way down to his gullet.

Eric stood up, drawing her along with him. “Just think about me, angel. Please, just think about me. Cal-lie—Callie, I will love you until my dying day!”

Startled, she blinked. She wanted to give him something to go away with, some sign of affection. She had never realized that he felt this kind of emotion for her, and she had never given any thought to her feelings for him. He had been Gregory’s friend. She had loved her husband. His friends were her friends.

And if war had never come, no man would be acting this way. She would have still been clad in black, shielded from the passions and emotions of others.

Eric would face bullets and swords and bombs in battle. He could easily die before another month was over.

She brought a smile to her lips. “Eric, I care for you. You know that. For the moment, my heart lies out back with my husband,” she said softly.

“Tell me that I can come back,” he urged her.

“Eric, I will be praying that you are able to come back,” she said. She meant that: he must make it back through all the battles.

That wasn’t what he heard at all.

His eyes lit up, and a smug, triumphant smile went sailing across his features.

His mustache fairly twitched.

Callie sighed, ready to correct him, but then decided against it. Who knew what tomorrow would bring.

He drew her fingers to his lips, kissing the tips. “Then, Callie, I bid you good-bye. Till this cruel war is over!’” He quoted from the song that grew more popular daily.

Callie nodded. “Good-bye, Eric. Take care.”

She walked with him through the parlor again and stood in the doorway while he moved past her.

He suddenly pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

It was probably a passionate kiss. On his part. It was merely a surprise to Callie. She pressed against him. He made no effort to be daring, he did not try to part her lips, but seemed happy enough to hold her. Just as suddenly as he had touched her, he released her. In the doorway, he saluted her sharply. He whispered her name, turned, and left her, hurrying down the pathway to his waiting mount.

“Oh, Jesu!” Callie whispered aloud. She closed the door and leaned against it, not knowing whether to laugh or to cry.

She rushed back into the kitchen. “Daniel?” she called his name, not whispering, but not speaking loudly, either. There was no answer.

She hurried back into the parlor. “Daniel?”

Again, there was no answer. She picked up her skirts and came running up the stairway. She hurried into her bedroom. The door was already open and she burst through the doorway.

“Daniel?”

He didn’t answer. She sat down at the foot of her bed, then fell flat against it.

“Oh, thank the Lord! The Reb’s gone south!”