She must have made a move that made him aware of her presence, for he turned quickly, staring at the porch. She was in the light from the house; he was in the shadow. She still couldn’t see his face.
“Good evening!” he called out. He had a low, cultured voice, but it still carried a touch of a drawl. “Please excuse me. I’ve just stopped for water, if I may. And I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind. I’ve not come to hurt anyone.” He paused. Callie knew he had to be reflecting his position. Maryland was a border state in every sense of the word. There were “Maryland” troops fighting for the North and for the South. Even a lone Union soldier took a chance riding here.
“May I?”
He had lifted the dipper from the bucket of water that swung into the well.
Callie stepped out from behind the post, still holding on to it for moral support.
“Yes, of course. Any man is welcome to water,” she said.
“Thank you kindly.”
He sank the dipper into the water, and then drank from it deeply. Callie exhaled, realizing that she had grown so wary because of Eric, and walked the few steps down to the lawn.
This soldier could be a godsend to her. If he didn’t mind waiting just a minute, she could quickly compose her note to the dead boy’s mother and send his things on to her. Perhaps the poor lady did not want to learn that her son was dead, maybe she wanted to live on hope, knowing only that her son was missing.
No, there was nothing worse than the wondering, Callie determined. She needed to turn this letter over to this soldier, along with her own words of condolence. That is, if she felt that she could trust him.
He had just finished drinking, and he seemed to know that she had come down the steps.
“I’m looking for a man,” he said, his back still facing her. “He disappeared somewhere around here in the recent battle.”
The soldier turned around, and Callie stepped back, gasping. For a moment she felt as if she were going to faint.
His face was so familiar in the shadows it might have been Daniel.
His appearance so stunned her that she froze, unable to speak or to move.
He had the same very blue eyes and near-ebony hair. The handsome structure of his face was similar and yet different. This man was just a little bit older. He was perhaps a bit heavier in the shoulders and across the chest. There were a few more lines about his eyes; his face was fuller.
“Ma’am? Are you all right? I assure you, I pose no danger to you. I’ve recently discovered that my brother didn’t return to his troops. If he didn’t return to them, well, I know my brother, you see,” he said huskily, and Callie thought, yes, he knows Daniel well. Nothing on heaven or earth would have kept Daniel from returning, unless he had been killed—or captured.
She still couldn’t quite speak, and so her visitor continued. “I guess I should explain. This man isn’t a Union soldier, but a Rebel. No one saw him killed, and he was rather well known, so I’m hoping that he is alive. He might have been injured. He shouldn’t have been fighting to begin with. It’s a strange story, ma’am, but his commander is an old friend of mine, and word just got through a number of the lines that he hasn’t been seen or heard from since the battle. Have you seen anyone, or heard tell of any missing soldier, trying to move toward the South, perhaps?”
“I …” she paused, moistening her lips. She fought desperately for composure, determined to remain calm.
He strode across the yard to her quickly, hope filling his eyes. He gripped her shoulders, and when he touched her, she at long last felt a warmth dispel the chill that had assailed her.
“Have you seen him? Please, help me! Tell me anything that you can, I am so desperate!”
Her heart beating wildly, she stepped back. She blinked, then she found her composure.
“You met my brother!” he said urgently.
She smiled. “Oh, yes, we met,” she said with irony. She extended her hand. “You must be Jesse.”
“God, yes, I’m Jesse! And Daniel—”
“Is alive,” she said.
“Thank God! Thank God in heaven! Where is he now? Has he headed back? Jesu, our lines are thick around here!”
She shook her head. “He isn’t headed south.”
“Then?”
“Daniel is safer than he has been in a long, long time,” she said softly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“He fell here,” she said, keeping the cloak of composure about her the best she could. “During the battle, he fell here, not far from where you’re standing. He was deathly ill one night, but he roused himself quickly enough.” She hesitated, forcing herself to breathe regularly, even as she stared into these blue eyes that were so very familiar. “Perhaps you should come in. I have coffee.”
He watched her for a moment, obviously aware that there was quite a story behind her words.
“Yes, thank you, I’d like very much to come in. But if you’re certain that Daniel isn’t headed for home, where is he now, Miss …”
“Mrs. Michaelson, Callie Michaelson. Daniel is in Old Capitol Prison in Washington.”
“What?”
“He’s where he’s really safe.”
Jesse Cameron tilted his head. “Maybe, and then maybe not. You don’t know my brother all that well, ma’am.”
Oh, sir, you don’t know the half of it! Callie almost cried. But his words made her uneasy. “What do you mean by that, sir?”
“I’ll be happy to explain. And then, if you don’t mind, I’d like to hear whatever else you can tell me about my brother. Coffee sounds right fine, Mrs. Michaelson.”
Callie turned around quickly, heading up the steps. Jesse Cameron was right behind her.
Dear God, just exactly what was she going to tell him?
And what did he mean by saying that maybe Daniel was safe, and then maybe he wasn’t?
“Do come in, sir,” she told Jesse. He was right behind her by the door and she knew that she needed to go on with her story.
She lowered her lashes, and then she raised them. “Come into the kitchen, sir. I’ll put the coffee on.” Damn these Camerons, she thought. Those blue eyes were so intently on hers.
———— Twelve ————
Mrs. Callie Michaelson was an incredible and fascinating woman, Jesse determined, sitting down to a cup of coffee at her kitchen table.
The coffee was the best he’d had in some time, even though he was lucky enough these days to spend time now and then where the shortages were few. There was cream for it, a taste he’d gotten away from on the battlefield, but which, here in this warm and welcoming place, tasted delicious.
Watching his hostess, he wanted to go home.
She was beautiful. She had a soft, cool reserve about her that, joined with her gracefulness, added mystery to that beauty. The kitchen table reminded him of home; she reminded him of Kiernan, his wife, and suddenly the desire to be back where he really belonged was so strong he could scarcely stand it.
But he couldn’t go home.
He would take this time to search for his brother. Sometimes, there were ways around the war. Beauty Stuart had gotten word through to him that Daniel hadn’t returned after Sharpsburg.
His heart heavy with dread, he had come to the battlefield. He had asked every Union man left he could find about the burial places of the fallen Rebs, but he’d gotten no word on Daniel at all until he had met this woman.
A fair estimate of the body count was in. More blood had been spilled in one day at Sharpsburg than at any other battle. Looking for Daniel could have been a never-ending task.
Friends had tried to dissuade him from the search, shaking their heads sadly.
But he had believed that Daniel was alive, that he would know, somehow, if his brother had died.
So he had strayed by this little farmhouse, and this beautiful woman was calmly telling him about his brother.
When the coffee was poured, she sat, her hands folded
in her lap, her lashes slightly downcast over her eyes.
“The best that I could see, sir, there was quite a skirmish going on here. Cavalry first, then infantry. At first, I believe the Rebels held the area, but then they were frightfully outnumbered and your brother’s men were cut off. There was a lull in the fighting when I found him first, but an officer came by and told me Daniel was dead, and that the firing was about to start again.”
She paused, her lashes rising. Her eyes were large, a fascinating, provocative gray. She was dressed rather primly, in blue cotton edged with white lace that buttoned to her throat. She wore a petticoat, but no hoop, and she should have appeared very much the demure young farm woman.
Her coloring, her radiance, were extraordinary. Her hair was a glory, a deep, dark red, and free as it was tonight, it cascaded like a river of haunting splendor. Her manners were correct, everything about her was correct, but there was still something deeper about her, something beneath the prim exterior, the soft, cultured voice. Tension radiated from her despite her demure calm. Were he not so in love with his own wife, he would probably be fantasizing about this woman. As it was, he thought wryly, the less he told Kiernan about Mrs. Michaelson, the better.
“Was Daniel seriously injured?” Jesse asked her.
She shook her head. That blaze of hair shimmered over her shoulders. “No, I don’t think so. He was knocked unconscious. He must have received a good wallop upon the head. But that was not what made him so ill. He had an old injury, and it must have reopened with his exertion. I have nursed before, but I’m afraid that my experience has not been extensive. I knew that he had a very serious fever, and I worked to keep him as cool as possible. He pulled out of it, and he seemed fine.”
Watching her, Jesse nodded. She had cared for Daniel, she had kept him alive.
But he couldn’t help it. He was curious.
“You did not turn him over to any of the Yankee patrols?” he said.
She shrugged. “There were enough dead men all around me,” she said softly.
Jesse sat back in his chair, a wry twist touching his lip. “I’ve heard my fellow physicians and myself maligned greatly by the Rebs—and sometimes with just cause. But I’ve met an endless array of very good men in this war too. Yankee surgeons who fight as energetically for any man in gray as they would for those in blue.”
“But sir, I did not know what manner of man I might be turning your brother over to,” she said. “I knew he had a brother who was a Yankee doctor, but I’d have had no way of finding you. And besides …”
Her voice trailed away. Her lashes fell, sweeping her cheeks.
“Yes?”
“Well, I was his prisoner in my own home for a while,” she tried to say lightly. “Once I knew how ill he had become, I swore that I’d not turn him in if he’d only release me. I gave my word, you see.”
No, he didn’t see. Jesse leaned over the table toward her.
“But he’s in Old Capitol now?”
He thought that a slight flame made its way into her cheeks. Her gaze suddenly flew up to meet his. “Sir, I don’t know if you’re aware of it or not, but your brother has a rather deadly reputation among your soldiers. I was put into the uncomfortable position of watching them take him—or watching them murder him,” she said. Her eyes dropped again. The edge of a desperate tone entered into her voice. “They wanted him alive. They thought that bringing him in could mean a promotion. I’m sure that they kept him alive.”
“Who took him in? Did you know the men?”
“Er … well, yes, one of them,” she said, waving a hand vaguely. “A Captain Eric Dabney. Do you know him?”
Jesse frowned. Yes, he had heard of the man. He knew a lot about the cavalry troops fighting in the eastern campaigns because he had been cavalry himself until the Union had begun to build a separate medical corp. Captain Eric Dabney. An interesting man. He was known for being cautious with his troops. It was rather difficult to imagine him tackling Daniel.
Not if he had help. Lots of it.
Callie Michaelson looked at him with worry in her eyes. “You do think that … he made it to Old Capitol?”
Jesse nodded, watching her. She was very anxious.
And why not? He had learned in the many “hospitals” where he had worked to patch men up that the war hadn’t changed a thing. Men were still men, some with honor, some without. Despite the fact that his wife Kiernan remained a Confederate, he had seen her be as tender to any young Yank as she might be to an injured Reb.
“I was so torn,” Callie murmured suddenly, and that liquid gray gaze was on him again, beautiful, shimmering its special silver. “I—I truly had no choice in the matter. But when he was taken, I told myself that it had to be for the best. Because he’s safe now. Or, at least he should be.” Her voice was growing anxious again. “You’re a colonel, too, are you not, Doctor Cameron? That’s an impressive rank. If you were to stop by the prison, if you were to make sure that the people there knew he was your brother, maybe they’d be careful not to let anything happen to him. And if he’s locked up, he won’t be able to lead any more raids. He won’t come charging into battle. They were so afraid of his sword. He’s just so determined—” She saw the curious light in his gaze and quit speaking, then flushed again. “Am I wrong? Maybe he’ll be safer.”
“Maybe,” Jesse said. He didn’t tell her that he knew Daniel well and that Daniel would never stay in prison. He’d be looking at every single possible avenue of escape, and if a means was there, Daniel would find it.
Her eyes lowered again, and Jesse almost grinned. Leave it to Daniel. Daniel would never have fallen on the farm grounds of an old woman or a graybeard. No, Daniel would manage to fall here. With this beautiful, exotic woman. He was good with horses, good with swords, damned good with reconnaissance—and good with women.
He started suddenly, realizing then what the tension in her was all about.
She had done more than care for Daniel through a fever. Things had gone much farther between these two.
He sipped his coffee, anxious that she not see what he had discerned in her eyes. She was something, this Mrs. Callie Michaelson. Elegant, reserved, and so composed and well mannered.
It must have been interesting, Daniel, he thought.
He finished his coffee and set the cup on her table. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Michaelson, I do intend to go by and see my brother. And the conditions under which he’s being kept.” He arched a brow at her. “You are on our side, correct?”
“Which is ‘our’ side?” she asked him dryly.
He grinned. “Well, I was talking about the North. But my home is in the South, as you must know. It is a bitter feeling, Mrs. Michaelson, not to be able to go home.”
“I can well imagine, sir.”
He shrugged. “I live for the day when it will be over. When I can ride back and see the house sitting on the river….” He shrugged again. “Sorry, Mrs. Michaelson. I have a wife and a son back there.”
“In Virginia?”
“Yes. A very old plantation. The cornerstone was laid in the mid-sixteen hundreds. It’s very gracious and very beautiful, and sometimes I just pray that the house survives the war.”
“It must be quite a place,” Callie murmured
Jesse watched her smooth her fingers over her skirt.
“Once upon a time it was a very rich estate. Fields lie fallow now—not enough people to work them. Daniel was the one who looked over the estate. He knew how to keep up the house, and he knew what to plant, and what not to plant, and where to sell, and when to hold. It will not be such a rich place once we return.” He paused. “If we are ever able to return. I don’t know, Callie. Some people say that you can never go home again. What do you think?”
“I think that you can always go home,” she said softly. She looked up at him and tried to appear very casual once again. “Your wife and child are there, so far from the world you’re living in?”
“Well, my boy is not very
old. There is no place else where he could have been born, except for Cameron Hall. And Kiernan …” He smiled. “She’s quite a Rebel. It’s an interesting dilemma, isn’t it? Well, I’ve taken enough of your time, as apparently my brother has also done. I’ll leave you, but I promise I’ll write once I’ve seen Daniel.”
“Yes, will you please?”
He nodded. “I’d promise to try to come by, but the war being what it is, it’s hard to make such promises. I will write, though.”
“Thank you.” Her eyes were downcast again. She was the perfect lady. She might not realize it, clad as she was in simple cotton, but Callie Michaelson was every inch a lady.
He hoped that Daniel realized it.
He hurried down her path to his horse, Goliath. Coming to the porch, she called him back.
“Doctor Cameron?”
“Yes?”
“There was a boy who died in my barn. A Union boy. He’s—he’s buried out back, with my family. But I have his effects, a letter for his mother, his bedroll, a few other things. I’d like to write a little note myself. Would you mind waiting just a minute and taking them for me?”
He shook his head. “Not at all.”
She swirled around and slipped back into the house. She returned with the soldier’s things, handing him a letter. Again, there was that anxious look to her eyes. “Would you read the note I’ve written, sir, and see if it will help?”
Jesse quickly scanned her words.
Dear Madam,
I am heartily sorry to inform you of your son’s death, here before my home outside of Sharpsburg. Please know that he knew no suffering, that his death was instant. And know, too, that he died a hero, protecting the men around him even as he fell. We honored him when we buried him, and he rests by my husband’s grave, and near a headstone to my father. May God be with you.
Callie Michaelson
Jesse glanced at her. “Is it the truth?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“It’s a beautiful note. I’ll see that it reaches the proper party.”