Mischief and Magnolias (25 page)

Despite her fears and misgivings, Shaelyn helped load the
Sweet Sassy
for her journey to New Orleans. Boxes and crates filled with bandages and much-needed drugs for the hospital were crammed side by side with ammunition and food for troops so in need. There would be several stops along the way to New Orleans to distribute supplies. As a Southern woman, she wished one of those stops could be for Confederate troops who were just as hungry and in need, but she might as well wish for a cease-fire. It just wasn't going to happen.

Before she knew it, the loading was complete. A core group of young men—boys she had personally trained—who would feed the boiler to produce the steam were on board and already doing their jobs. Steam belched from the stack pipe. The paddle wheel began to turn, water sluicing between the slats, propelling the steamboat forward.

Shaelyn's heart thundered against her ribcage and her throat constricted as she waved to Captain Beckett in the wheelhouse. He returned the greeting then tooted on the whistle.

The feeling of dread had not left her since it first appeared, but Remy had only been able to postpone the trip by one day, though he'd given every argument he could to the general. In the end, she knew there was nothing he could do—and nothing she could do either. One could not stop the world because of a feeling, no matter how much one tried.

Tears blurred her vision as Captain Beckett tooted the whistle one more time and the
Sweet Sassy
, paddle wheel churning water faster and faster, sailed out of view.

She watched for a long time, standing at the river's edge, her gaze glued to the horizon, the lump in her throat massive, until another feeling, different than the dread that filled her, made her take notice.

A shiver wound its way up her spine as if icy cold fingers touched her back. She turned, quickly, and scanned her surroundings. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Several soldiers were making their way back to the warehouse, while a few others stood not far away, talking amongst themselves. None paid the least bit of attention to her.

The feeling persisted though—not only persisted, but grew stronger. As she made her way to the buggy parked down the lane, her eyes darted back and forth, searching for the cause of her discomfort.

She saw him then.

Captain Davenport.

He stood next to his horse, a beautiful black stallion he called Vindicator, the reins held loosely in his hand.

And he watched her, stared at her as if she were the most loathsome woman on earth. She saw anger in his gaze, distrust and hostility in his stance. Shaelyn didn't know what she'd done to deserve or provoke such emotions from the man. They barely spoke. When they did, their words were civil, though hardly much more. She shivered beneath his glare of contempt.

“Are you ready to go home?”

Shaelyn jumped and let out a small squeal of surprise as Remy came up behind her and lightly grasped her elbow. She whirled around to face him and found herself drawn by his charming grin. Whatever concern she had over Captain Davenport disappeared in the soft gray-blue of Remy's eyes. “Yes, I'm ready.”

When she turned back toward the buggy, Davenport was gone, a trail of dust rising from the road the only evidence he'd been there at all. Curiosity burned in her as Remy tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and escorted her to the waiting conveyance. She climbed into the buggy and settled herself on the seat. “How long have you known Captain Davenport?”

Remy limped around to his side of the buggy and climbed in beside her. He shrugged as he picked up and flicked the reins. “I met him at the Academy, but I was ahead of him by three years so we didn't have much opportunity to get to know each other.” Jezebel started walking at a fast clip, tugging the buggy up Silver Street. “I didn't see him again until he walked into the general's lodgings at our last post, announcing he was the new quartermaster.” He glanced at her. “Why do you ask?”

She shook her head. “No reason. He just doesn't seem to be very happy here.”

Again, he shrugged. “He probably isn't. A lot of men aren't happy to be involved with the circumstances they currently find themselves in.”

“Does that apply to you as well?”

The grin that suddenly appeared on his face made her heart thunder and heat curl in her belly. “What do you think?”

She didn't answer. The words died in her throat beneath the warmth in his glowing eyes. Perhaps when he'd first come to Magnolia House, he hadn't been happy, but now? Perhaps he was. Just a little bit.

• • •

“I've been looking for you.”

Shaelyn turned away from the French doors—where she'd been staring at nothing—to see Remy standing in the doorway of the sun parlor, his hand clenched around a wad of paper, though he couldn't hide it all. She sucked in her breath, muscles tensing beneath her skin. The book in her hand, the one she hadn't been reading, slipped from her fingers and thudded to the floor as anxiety and fear knotted in her stomach.

She knew this moment would come, had been waiting for it for several days now. The
Sweet Sassy
was overdue—she should have returned to Natchez almost a week ago.

Remy didn't have to say another word. The expression on his face, the sadness clouding his eyes told her the
Sweet Sassy
, like the
Brenna Rose
, was gone, the men aboard her lost. She'd seen enough telegrams to know one, even crumpled in his hand as this one was. Her heart already breaking, tears burning her eyes, she begged, “Don't say it.”

“I'm sorry.” He held out his arms. Shaelyn was in his embrace within seconds, holding on to him as if she couldn't let go, taking comfort from his strong, hard body, feeling his heart beat.

His voice shook, “The general just left. The
Sweet Sassy
never made it to New Orleans. It's like she left Natchez and just disappeared off the face of the earth. No one has seen her.”

She pulled out of his arms and studied his face. The pain and confusion she saw there reflected her own, but she couldn't give in to those emotions, not now, though she wanted to sink into the floor and release the tears that stung her eyes. Instead, she grabbed the telegram from his fingers and smoothed out the wrinkles.

There were three simple words written by the telegrapher.
Where are you?
It was signed simply
Honor
.

“Anything could have happened.” He visibly shuddered with his words. “A boiler explosion. She could have hit a snag and sunk. She could…”

His voice hitched and he stopped speaking. Pain, not physical but emotional, radiated from his eyes and matched the ache breaking her own heart. Since the war began, she'd lost four steamboats. Made of wood and steel, they could be replaced someday. It was the loss of human life that devastated her and she wished, more than anything, this War Between the States would end before more lives were lost.

“Will you be all right?” Concern for her echoed not only in his voice but in his expression.

That caring became her undoing. Shaelyn cleared her throat, hoping to dislodge the lump there. Tears blurred her vision, and she blinked several times, forcing them away as she stepped into his open arms once more. She hoped she gave as much comfort as she received because he needed it just as much.

• • •

“What say you now, Remy? The evidence is irrefutable. She was there. She heard the plans for the
Sweet Sassy
just as she heard the plans for the
Brenna Rose
. For God's sake, man, she knew every piece of equipment we loaded aboard both steamers. Right down to the number of bandages!” Captain Davenport slammed his open hand on the desktop. “She made the boat ready. She could have easily tampered with the boiler so it would explode.”

They were ensconced in the study with the door closed after the captain had insisted upon this private meeting. Remy had agreed, although a bit reluctantly. After seeing Honor Sumner's telegraph and acknowledging the
Sweet Sassy
may have sunk or exploded, he wasn't in the mood to listen to Captain Davenport, who lately had nothing good to say.

“You didn't do anything about it before but you cannot deny it now. Your
wife
is helping the Confederacy!”

Remy studied his second in command, noticing, not for the first time, how very little the man smiled and how angry he seemed to be all the time. Right now, Davenport's face held a tinge of redness, but something else too. Something Remy couldn't define.

He said nothing, just listened to the captain's accusations as he limped back and forth, stopping now and then to glance out the window and see the one Davenport denigrated. Shaelyn sat on the bench beneath the grouping of magnolias where they'd shared their first kiss. She didn't look at the house. Instead, she huddled within the confines of a heavy shawl and dabbed her eyes with a white handkerchief, the one he had handed her earlier to dry her tears.

“She's a traitor of the worst kind,” Davenport insisted, then reached for the whiskey and poured himself another drink as Remy turned away from the window and the vision of Shaelyn.

“Enough!” Remy shouted, coming to Shaelyn's defense, before he pulled his temper back under control. “She is no traitor, Vince. How could she be? She has never, not once, championed the rights of either the Union or the Confederacy. She doesn't care about this damned war at all. All she cares about is the loss of human life and the young boys who will never go home. She doesn't give a damn about who is right or who is wrong.”

He sank into the comfortable leather chair behind the desk and stared at Davenport. “We don't know what truly happened to the
Sweet Sassy
. She could come back to Natchez at any time. She could have simply been delayed.”

The captain's face reddened even more and his eyelid took on a peculiar tic. “Ha! You just don't want to see what's right in front of your face. The evidence is there if you would only look for it.”

“You're wrong, Vince.”

“Am I? If so, then ask yourself why she didn't offer to pilot or navigate the
Sweet Sassy
. She's done so for every other trip her boats have made.”

Seen from Davenport's view, the evidence, such as it was, seemed damning, and though Remy didn't want to believe it, he couldn't deny suspicion from creeping into his mind.

Why hadn't she asked to accompany the
Sweet Sassy
? Could Shaelyn Cavanaugh Harte cry over the loss of human lives and still be that devious? Would she sink her own boats to further a cause? She was a woman of the South and yet she'd made her feelings clear on more than one occasion, as he had just reminded Vincent. It wasn't the color of the uniform, it wasn't North and South or Yankee and Rebel, it was the color of the blood that offended her the most. And damn it, she had told him of her fears, believed something would happen. Had she tampered with her own steamer? Would she go that far?

Remy shook his head and dismissed the thoughts. He'd never believe that. From what he knew of Shaelyn, she didn't have the heart to harm anyone. She had been devastated when he told her about the
Sweet Sassy.
He couldn't deny that.

And yet, once doubt took hold in his head, he couldn't help asking himself—had Shaelyn made love to him simply to deceive him? So he'd let down his guard? So he'd trust her? The thought left a sour taste in his mouth.

His muscles grew taut and the throb of pain in his leg seemed to increase with every beat of his heart. He remained grateful the steamer had been lost before General Sumner's wife and son were on board. However, the loss of men devastated him. Despite his own rules, he'd grown fond of Captain Beckett. Shaelyn had grown fond of him too. To lose both him and Captain Williams, as well as the other men, had destroyed them both.

Davenport put both hands on the desk and stared at him. “You don't have to believe me, Major, but you should ask yourself where she goes in the afternoon. Who does she see? What does she do?”

Remy snapped back to attention and heard the unbecoming whine in Davenport's voice, something he hadn't heard before.

“It's not just to maintain her steamboats. They're hardly ever here anymore.” Davenport paused a beat or two then said, “You know I'll have to report my suspicion to General Sumner.”

Remy sighed. “No need, Vince. I'll do it myself. She's my wife.” How his heart hurt. Granted, she'd never said she loved him. For that matter, he'd never said those words to her either, but he did love her. From the moment she dared to pour vinegar in his coffee, he'd fallen for her, and despite the fact she said she hated him, he knew he'd love her forever. “I'll take care of it.”

Davenport finished his drink in one swallow, slammed the heavy-bottomed tumbler on the desk, and rose from his seat. He strutted across the room and paused at the closed door. He turned with a look of triumph he tried to hide, though not quickly enough. “Make sure you do, Major. I will report my suspicions—not only to General Sumner, but to Ulysses S. Grant himself if I must.”

Remy quirked an eyebrow but said nothing as he tamped down his rising ire. What could he say? There wasn't any point in arguing. Davenport would believe what he believed and there would be no changing his mind.

Davenport saluted, a half-hearted raising of his hand to his brow, then left the room. Suddenly, the air didn't seem quite so heavy as it had been a minute ago.

A few moments later, Remy heard the heavy pounding of Vindicator's hooves down the drive.

I should write him up for insubordination
.
At least report him for his conduct.

He rose from the desk, overwhelmed with exhaustion and pain, and grabbed his cane. He moved slowly toward the window. Shaelyn was still on the bench where he'd last seen her. She hadn't moved except to wrap the shawl tighter around her shoulders, but at least she no longer dabbed her eyes. He couldn't accuse her of wrongdoing without proof. All he had right now was Vince Davenport's suspicions. And his own doubts.