The Angel Of Devil's Camp. Lynna Banning

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      “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. A knife slipped into his heart and he snapped the Bible shut. Handing it to O’Malley, he started down the hill.

      She did not look up. Her leather shoes scrabbling on the steep rocky slope, she kept walking, dragging a satchel in one hand and a bulging sack in the other. She didn’t slow down until she almost ran into him.

      “My stars, where on earth did you come from?”

      Tom’s eyebrows rose. “More to the point, ma’am, where in hell did you come from?”

      She let go of the satchel, and it plopped onto the ground with a puff of dust. “The supply wagon from Tennant. The driver brought me out on condition that I deliver this.” She thrust the sack toward him.

      Tom accepted the bag and peered inside.

      “It contains six bars of soap, a dozen lemons and two bottles of spirits. He said it would hold you until next week.”

      “Only two bottles?”

      She nodded. “One is for medicinal purposes. And six bars of—”

      “Lemons?”

      “Mr. Jacobs said they were to combat scurvy.”

      Tom stared at her. Her eyes were a curious shade of gray-green, almost the color of tree moss.

      “Besides delivering Mose Jacobs’s scurvy remedy, what are you doing out here?”

      Her spine went rigid as a tent pole. “I am calling on Mr. Peabody. Walter Peabody.”

      “Why?” Tom said carefully.

      “It is a personal matter, sir. Between Mr. Peabody and myself. If you would be so kind as to conduct me—”

      “Peabody’s dead.”

      Her face went the color of chalk. “I beg your pardon?”

      “An accident. His ax slipped and he bled to death.”

      The stricken look on her face sent a band of cold steel around his chest.

      “But…” Her voice wobbled. “He can’t be! We were to be married. I came all the way from South Carolina to marry him.”

      “I’m real sorry, ma’am. We’re just burying him this morning.”

      “I see.” She swallowed and lifted her chin. “Yes, I do see.”

      Tom stood rooted before her, wondering why he couldn’t speak.

      “May I…view his remains? You see, we never met. I have no idea what he…” She pressed her lips together.

      He could not bear to look at her face. Except for her unsmiling mouth and her pallor, she could be any pretty young woman out for a Sunday walk. He’d seen Union soldiers with less composure.

      Tom hesitated. His left eyelid began to twitch. Lifting the travel satchel from the ground, he pivoted away from her. “Come with me.”

      Meggy followed him up the hill, his low, tersely spoken words sending a swarm of butterflies into her stomach. She stepped on the hem of her dress, stumbled over protruding tree roots as she tried to keep up with his long-legged stride. Where the ground leveled out near a stand of fir trees, he stopped short. “Coffin’s over there, next to the grave. Best hurry before we nail it shut.”

      Her heart hurtled into her throat. She had seen bodies before. Old men. Young men. Federal soldiers as well as Confederate. Why was she so frightened now?

      She took a step forward. In the coffin before her lay a slight man with pale-gold hair and mustache, a narrow chin and thin lips.

      She stood absolutely still. It was a mistake to look at him, but she couldn’t help herself. Walter Peabody would have been her husband, had he lived. She had traveled all the way from Seton Falls to be this man’s wife. And now…now…

      Now she was not only unmarried, she was also in a fix, stranded out here alone among a bunch of exceedingly rough-looking men. Yankee men. And she had not one single penny in her pocket.

      “Seen enough?” A low voice spoke at her back.

      “Oh. Oh, yes, I expect so. Thank you. I—”

      “Okay, Swede, close it up.”

      “Sure thing, Tom.” The big man dropped the lid on the box.

      Meggy’s legs turned to jelly, and she looked away.

      Then a steadying arm pressed under her elbow. “Name’s Michael O’Malley, ma’am. I’m thinkin’ you’d be Miss Hampton?”

      She nodded at the russet-haired man. He wore a wash-worn Union Army shirt, faded stripes still intact, and wide red suspenders. A Yankee. She started to pull away, but she was so unsteady on her feet she could not stand alone. She let him guide her to the edge of the grave, where the bearded Swede was nailing down the coffin lid. Each blow of the man’s hammer sent a tremor through her body.

      Whatever would she do now? Walter had paid her train fare, but the stagecoach to Tennant had taken all of her meager savings. Here she was, in a godforsaken wilderness with no money and no prospects.

      The tall man, Tom, opened the Bible and cleared his throat. “The Lord is my shepherd….”

      Meggy’s throat tightened. Poor Walter! Cut down in the prime of his life, with no kin to mourn for him except her.

      “He leadeth me beside…”

      She moved her lips silently over the words of the psalm. Would Walter Peabody rest in peace among Yankees?

      “Yea, though I walk through the valley…”

      She opened her mouth and joined in. Tom shot her a glance over the top of the plain wood coffin. The look on his face stopped her breath.

      Eyes as sharp as a steel saber cut into her. The blue was so intense her mind conjured the morning glories she’d planted against the back fence of the parsonage. СКАЧАТЬ