The Angel Of Devil's Camp. Lynna Banning

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ down the walkway and out the front gate, lugging her satchel. For half a heartbeat, she wavered. The yellow rose rambling along the fence needed pruning, but with all the preparations for Charlotte’s wedding, Meggy had had no time for gardening. She forced her gaze away. It no longer mattered.

      She smoothed her black traveling dress, slipping her hand into the left pocket. The letter she’d carefully folded crackled under her fingers. Dear God in heaven, let this be the right thing to do.

      She heaved the tapestry bag into the buggy and climbed up onto the sagging seat. I will not look back. I will look to the road ahead and be joyful.

      At last! She was free. No more meals to eke out from the squash and dried beans donated by the congregation. No more wedding dresses for Charity or Charlotte, cobbled together out of old tablecloths and scraps of lace. She had remade most of her old ball gowns into dresses for her sisters, and sold the rest for food. A barrel of flour cost 150 federal dollars, a basket of eggs $25. The war had made such a struggle of life!

      She closed her eyes and pressed her knuckles against her lips. The war took everything, even our hearts and our souls. She and her sisters had survived, but the scars would always remain.

      Leaning forward, she patted the satchel at her feet. Inside, on top of her spare petticoat and her nightgown, lay her father’s revolver. She would travel three thousand miles, all the way to Oregon, to marry a second cousin of her father’s, a man she had never seen. It was the only proposal she had ever received, and she most certainly intended to arrive in one piece!

      She gathered up the worn leather reins. “Move on, Bess.”

      The mare took a single step forward, and Meggy’s heart took flight.

      “Colonel, darlin’, wake up!”

      Tom rolled over on the narrow canvas cot and opened one eye. “What is it, O’Malley?”

      “The deed needs doin’,” his former sergeant said. “And you’re the proper one to do it.”

      Tom groaned. Being in charge didn’t let him sleep much. A logging crew wasn’t like an army unit. Loggers were a fractious bunch of misfits with a heightened instinct for survival and an even more heightened taste for liquor and high times. Not one of them would last a day under military discipline. Tom had mustered out two years ago, taken Sergeant O’Malley with him and headed west. The undisciplined men he commanded now obeyed him because he wasn’t a colonel.

      “Tom.” The Irishman nudged his shoulder. “You won’t be forgettin’ now, will you?”

      With an effort, Tom sat up. His head felt like someone was whacking an ax into his skull, and the aftertaste of whiskey in his mouth made him grit his teeth. He figured his breath alone could get a man drunk.

      “Remind me what it is that needs doing, Mick? If it can wait, let it.”

      “The peeler, the one that got killed yesterday? The coffin’s ready and Swede and Turner’s dug the grave. You need to speak some words over the man.”

      Oh, hell, he had forgotten. Wanted to forget, in fact. Which was why he’d finished half a bottle of rye last night. In the past month he’d lost one, no, two bullcooks and a skinner. The timber was turning dry as a witch’s broom and then one of his peelers, a square peg on a logging crew if he’d ever seen one, let an ax slice into his thigh and bled to death before they could load him into the wagon.

      “The men are waitin’, Tom.”

      “I won’t forget, Mick. See if you can rustle up some coffee.” He tossed off the grimy sheet, lowered his legs to the packed-earth floor and stood up. “Tell them I’ll be there.”

      The interior of the tent spun and Tom sat down abruptly.

      “Get me that coffee, will you?”

      “Sure thing, Colonel. And you’ll be wantin’ a clean shirt and your Bible.”

      His Bible.

      He clenched his jaw. His sister had sent it when he’d first joined the army. She had even marked certain passages she liked. He hadn’t opened it since that day in Richmond when he’d read over her grave.

      Today would be different, he told himself. For one thing, he didn’t know the peeler very well. He’d known Susanna all her short life, had raised her by himself after their father died. A familiar dull ache settled behind his breastbone.

      “One more thing, Tom. We found something on the body. You better have a look.”

      “Later.” He stuffed the single folded page the sergeant handed him into his shirt pocket without glancing at it. “Coffee,” Tom reminded him. “And make it double strength.”

      Meggy dropped to the pine-needle-covered ground beneath the biggest tree she had ever seen. She had climbed halfway up the steep ridge, dragging her satchel, which felt as if it was filled with bricks. Her mouth was parched, her stomach hollow, her eyes scratchy. The supply wagon had left Tennant at daybreak, and she had been walking the past hour. Now it was near noon and she could go no farther.

      She gazed up into a sky the color of bluebonnets, listening to the rat-tat-tat of a woodpecker. All at once the sound was obliterated by raucous men’s voices.

      Good heavens, Yankee soldiers. She scooted closer to the massive tree trunk.

      That can’t be right. The war is over. Besides, this is Oregon. She eased around the tree until she could see to the top of the ridge.

      Directly above her, a dozen men in colorful shirts and faded blue trousers stood in a circle. Most had unkempt hair hanging beneath their battered hats. Many had untrimmed beards. Three or four leaned on the handles of shovels.

      Their voices ceased as a man taller than the rest marched up. He carried himself ramrod straight. She knew without a doubt he was a soldier.

      The circle opened for him, and Meggy spied a rough-hewn coffin. She eased forward for a closer look, watched the tall man take a book from his shirt pocket and begin to read.

      Tom cleared his throat, scanned the men gathered at the freshly dug grave site and opened his Bible. He ran his forefinger down the page, stopped at the Twenty-third Psalm. Raising his eyes, he opened his mouth.

      “The Lord is my…”

      Swede Jensen snatched off his red-and-yellow knit cap and bowed his head.

      A flutter of something black through the trees caught Tom’s eye. It vanished behind a thick fir tree, then reappeared. A hawk? He couldn’t be sure. The summer sun was so intense the air shimmered.

      Not a hawk. Too low. Something wrapped up like a cocoon—a bear, maybe? The back of his neck prickled.

      Whatever it was plodded up the hill toward him at a steady pace. No, not a bear. A bear would pause and sniff the air. Not an Indian, either. Only a white man would walk incautiously forward in a straight line.

      He squinted as the figure moved out of the shadows of the fir grove. Not a man. A woman! All in black from boots to veiled hat, with a shawl knotted about her shoulders. Something in the tilt of her head…

      For one awful moment he thought it was Susanna. СКАЧАТЬ