The Rebel Wife (23 page)

She shot to her feet and rushed toward the exit, grasping the seat backs for support against the sway of the railcar. From her seat to the door seemed like miles, yet the blast of smoky air that greeted her on the platform was a relief. She leaned against the handrail and sucked in several deep breaths, much preferring the smoke to the heated staleness inside.

“I didn’t realize I had died.”

She whirled around at the familiar voice, heart skipping as she met Jack’s penetrating gaze. “Wh-what are you doing here?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “What? No tearful greeting for your dear, departed husband? That
is
why you’re wearing widow’s weeds, I assume.”

The train lurched, throwing her against him and cutting off her reply. His arms curled around her, warm and steadying, and for a moment, she ignored the warning bells in her head and simply basked in the comfort of his embrace.

Hold me, Jack. Hold me and keep me safe.

The train jolted again, and the moment burst like a fragile soap bubble. With a sigh of regret, she pushed away.

He clamped a hand on her upper arm. “Let’s go back inside where it’s less noisome and safer.”

She opened her mouth to refuse but stopped at the deadly expression that crossed his face. She’d best give in to his demand or risk being dragged, or worse, carried back inside. She ground her teeth together and shoved past him into the coach.

He followed her, his fingers fastened like a shackle around her arm. After only a few steps down the aisle, he tugged her to a halt. “Right here will do.”

“But my satchel—”

“Will be fine. It’s less crowded back here. Less chance for you to evade my questions.”

“Jack, I—”

“Sit,” he growled.

Her stomach gave an anxious roll at his tone. He was far angrier at her leaving than she thought he’d be. But she’d only done what she had to do, and he had no right to question her actions. He had no hold over her.

She jerked out of his grasp, resentment replacing her unease as she slid onto the bench. She glared up at him as he sat beside her.
Have at it, Jack Porter
.

He narrowed his gaze. “Why, Kitty?”

“Stop calling me that, the charade is—”

“Over. Yes, you said that. Now tell me why you left.”

“Hmmph. You know perfectly well, why.”

“Would I ask if I knew?”

“You might, given your newspaperman’s nature. Always asking questions. Always picking somebody’s brain. Can’t you ever just let things be?”

He stared at her for a second and then pressed his lips into a hard, impatient line. “Tell me why you ran off. We were in the midst of a fairly serious discussion before we were interrupted, and I thought—” He froze, mouth agape as the pieces fell into place. “It was Duncan wasn’t it? Gripes, he was no threat to you.”

“No threat!” She glanced at the nearby passengers, who either couldn’t hear, or were ignoring their conversation. She lowered her voice anyway. “He was looking for Calhoun.”

“Yes, he was. The lieutenant didn’t show up for the return ride to Point Lookout. Duncan thought he might’ve stopped by for a visit, seeing as how interested Calhoun was in my article. If you had stayed around long enough, you would’ve known that.”

“I couldn’t take that chance.”

“Even if he had come for you, I wouldn’t have let him take you.”

“That’s just why I had to leave, Jack. I couldn’t let you ruin your life for me.”

“My choice, not yours.” He raked a hand through his hair, mussing the neatly combed locks. “God, Kitty, when I think about what could have happened to you last night. All alone in a city filled with soldiers and riffraff.”

“Nothing happened. I was perfectly safe.”

“Where did you stay?”

She plucked at her skirt. “At the general store where I bought this. The storekeepers insisted I stay with them.”

“I’m glad you found a safe place. We were worried about you.”

We
. Sweet, kindly Sally. Granddaddy Porter, who had a heart of gold beneath that gruff outer shell. And Jack. No she wouldn’t think about Jack missing her. That would only bring on a fresh round of regret. “I’m sorry if I worried everyone. But I had no choice.”

“You could’ve come back after Duncan left.”

“No, I couldn’t. You clearly weren’t happy with my request that we part ways. I had to make a clean cut. It was for the best.”

“For the best.” He shifted on the bench, angling all that bone-melting maleness closer. “You’re not thinking this through, Kitty. Getting your brother out of prison is going to be difficult at best. You need the help of someone familiar with the ways of the Army.”

“I’ll manage.” Hopefully better than she was dealing with her feelings for him. “So, I’m guessing since you’re on this train, your granddaddy gave you that loan.”

His mouth went taut as a bowstring. Something flickered in his gaze. Anger? Pain? Both?

“We’re not talking about me, right now.” His voice turned low and pointed. “Have you thought about Calhoun?”

“What about him?”

“You don’t know whether he’s dead or alive. What if he recovers and comes after you?”

It was one of many fears that plagued her. “I hope Lance and I will be long gone from Elmira by then.”

“And if you’re not...”

“Then I’ll take care of the polecat myself.”

“I doubt you’ll be lucky enough to find another unstable statue.”

She stiffened. “If you’re trying to frighten me—”

“Damn right, I’m trying to frighten you.” He leaned toward her as if pressing home his point. “This is not a simple jaunt, Kitty. You could be hurt, or worse.”

“So could you. I don’t want you to be involved in this mess any longer.”

“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m here to stay, whether you like it or not.”

Chapter Fourteen

She stepped off the railcar stairs and onto the depot platform. Passengers streamed around her, eager to fill their bellies during the brief stop. Her own stomach rumbled its need for food, good wholesome food like the pot roast the portly gent had been going on about for the past hour. But she’d have to make do with an apple and crackers just as she had for the noon meal. After the necessary, but expensive, purchase of her traveling outfit, she needed to conserve her funds. A lavish dinner meal was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

She sensed someone behind her and knew by the captivating sandalwood scent who it was. She tightened her grip on her satchel handle. The mule just wouldn’t listen to reason, wouldn’t accept her decision to part ways. And he called his granddaddy stubborn? She blew out a frustrated sigh. Not much she could do about it now.

Once she reached Elmira however...

Jack fell into step beside her. “The porter suggested
The Dumm House Inn
for a quick meal. Why don’t we go there?”

“Can’t. I need to make a purchase at that mercantile across the street. You go on. I’ll find something to eat in the store.”

“I’ll walk with you. Besides, I need another journal. The one I’m working on is nearly full.”

She shrugged and used his earlier words against him. “Your choice.” As she stepped off the curb, two blackbirds swooped in front of her. She halted mid-stride, heart thumping like one of Belle’s hide-covered drums.
No. Please not that
.

Jack’s hand closed on her arm. “What is it?”

“Blackbirds.”

“What about them?”

The pair circled overhead. One cawed three times. Dread soared in her belly. “Dear God, no.”

Jack moved closer as if to protect her. Not that it would do any good. “What’s wrong?”

“Someone’s going to die.”

“Die? Why do you say that?”

“Those birds are omens. Three caws and...” A quiver rumbled through her. “I heard them the day before Papa—” She cupped a hand to her mouth, refusing to say more. Uttering the words aloud might curse someone else.

“Settle down, Kitty. It’s just a silly superstition. No one is going to die.”

“It’s not silly. I know what those birds mean. Something bad is going to happen.”

“Nothing is going to happen.” He gave her arm a gentle squeeze. “I won’t let it.”

She pulled out of his grasp. “For a newspaperman interested in everything that goes on around him, you sure are narrow-minded.”

“I just don’t hold with superstitions. I need tangibles, real things I can touch and see.”

“You can see those blackbirds, can’t you?”

“They’re just birds. Nothing more.”

If only she could believe that. But she’d been raised by Belle Fontaine, a wise spiritual woman who knew to heed such signs. “You believe what you want. I know better.” She glanced skyward, then picked her way carefully across the street. Only thing to do now was keep an eye out for danger.

Inside the mercantile, a balding clerk standing behind the counter gave them a cheerful greeting. Jack, ever the nosey journalist, struck up a conversation with the man, so she wandered toward the back of the store where she found a bin of apples. Thoughts of the blackbirds faded as she searched for a big, ripe one to fill her grumbling belly.

A few feet away, two women flitted around at a table littered with bolts of cloth. A stout lady held up a length of deep purple velvet. “What about this one?”

The other woman eyed the fabric. “No, no, Edla. That’s much too bold for a bedchamber, a parlor maybe.” She pointed to another bolt. “This gold would look much better.”

Edla pursed her lips. “I don’t know. That color is so...dreary.” She shook her head and looked up, her gaze finding Louisa near the apple bin. “What do you think, ma’am?”

They wanted
her
opinion? The only curtains she’d ever fashioned were made from sackcloth. “I’m sorry. I’d like to help, but I don’t know much about fabrics.”

Edla tilted her head to the side and studied her. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

Lordy, the last thing she needed was to call attention to herself. She shook her head and offered a vague, but safe, explanation. “No, I’m not. I’m heading north to visit with relatives. The train made a brief stop for supper.”

The older woman gave her a warm smile. “Welcome to Williamsport. I’m Mrs. Elam and this is my friend, Mrs. Spicer.”

She plucked an apple from the bin and moved closer. She couldn’t very well be rude to such friendly women. Besides, the urge to inspect the lovely fabrics tugged at her. Perhaps one day, she’d be able to sort through similar bolts to decorate her own home.

“Pleased to meet you, ladies. I’m Mrs. Porter.” Drat. She did it again. She needed to come up with a new fake name.

Martha ran a finger over the purple velvet. “So, what do you think, Mrs. Porter? This or that dreadful gold?”

She eyed the two fabrics, then envisioned sunshine pouring through a window framed by pleated curtains. Images always came easier to her than words on a page. “Did I hear you say this was for a bedchamber?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Would you mind describing the room?”

“Certainly. The furnishings are dark walnut with brass hardware. Wallpaper printed with spring flowers covers the walls. The floor is pine. The ceilings are swirled white plaster.”

Sounded like the stately bedrooms at Spivey Point. She tapped a finger to her bottom lip as she considered her answer. She glanced at the two women, each sure their selection was the right one. Best to offer a tactful solution, else she risked hurt feelings.

She lifted a length of olive green velvet. “Personally, I like this. The green would bring out the white and browns and accent the flowers in the wallpaper. It’d give your room a light, outdoorsy feel.”

Mrs. Elam regarded the green for a moment, then draped the end over a nearby table. “This wood is similar to mine. What do you think, Martha?”

“That just might do,” the woman answered. “Try it against that painted vase behind you.”

She moved back several steps and held the bolt up to a vase decorated with flowers and vines. “Well?”

“Perfect.” Mrs. Spicer cut Louisa a sly glance. “And you said you know little about fabrics.”

She shrugged, pleased by their obvious delight with her suggestion. “I don’t. But I can picture the room with all the colors.”

“Yes, my wife has quite the eye for decorating.” Jack eased beside her and placed a hand at her lower back.

She arched to escape his touch. “Ladies, this is my...er...husband.”

After exchanging greetings with the two women, he grasped her elbow, fingers pressing lightly into her skin and making her stomach do those unnerving little tumbles. “I’m sorry to intrude, but I must collect my wife. We don’t want to miss our train and further delay our trip.”

Mrs. Elam wagged her head. “Good thing you weren’t traveling north last week or you would’ve found your trip delayed anyhow.”

“Oh? What happened?” Jack asked.

The woman’s expression grew grim. “One of the trains carrying prisoners to Elmira collided with a freighter just east of Shohola. Horrible crash. Fifty prisoners were killed.”

Fifty...killed.
Her knees turned to mush. If it weren’t for Jack tightening his hold on her elbow, she would’ve collapsed.

“How terrible. It appears we’re fortunate to have missed such a tragedy.” Jack dipped a nod to the two women. “I wish we could chat longer, but we need to be going. Good-day, ladies.”

Louisa mumbled her good-byes and followed him to the front of the store where he paid for their purchases. Once outside, her gaze went immediately to the sky. No birds. No bone-chilling caws. But that didn’t matter; they’d already delivered their message.

“It doesn’t mean a thing, Kitty.”

“How can you say that? The birds. The train wreck. Lance...”

“May not have even been on that train.”

“You don’t know that.”

“And you don’t know that he was. Don’t go inviting trouble.”

“I don’t invite it. It finds me.” First there was Jeb getting shot, and then Calhoun’s attack. Bad things come in threes, so Belle had said. Was the train wreck the third evil waiting to rip into her world?