The Rebel Wife (31 page)

“I think Kitty suits her better, but yes, my wife to be is your sister.”

Carleton shook his head. “Don’t that beat all. Never expected her to catch herself a newspaperman. She isn’t much for words and such.”

“You’d be surprised at what she’s accomplished since you left. She’s one determined lady.”

“She’s dogged, that’s for sure. I sure hope nothing bad has happened to her.”

“She should be fine. No one knows she’s here or what she’s up to.”

Carleton laughed, but without any humor. “Neither do you, it appears.”

An instant passed, no more than that, as the comment echoed in his head. Then the plank walls, the noxious smells, the dirt, and the pain faded away. The world squeezed down to the gist of Carleton’s words. “What do you mean?”

“She came in with the Women’s League this afternoon. Surprised the hell out of me to find her in the eating hall handing out foodstuff with a bunch of Yankee do-gooders.”

His blood heated. “Damn her hide. I should’ve known she wouldn’t stay put.”

“That’s my Lou. Gets herself into more pickles.” He swiped the crusted blood from the corner of his mouth. “I got this trying to keep some damn bluebelly from pawing her.”

His gut lunged. “Did the bastard hurt her?”

“Didn’t appear to. But the ruckus exposed her ruse. Last I saw, Lawrence and Major Beale had separated her from the other ladies. Gives me the shakes thinking about what they’ll do to her. They’ve been trying to get at us ever since—” He snapped off the rest with a click of his teeth.

Loyal and astute. Lance was definitely Kitty’s twin. “No need to worry. I know all about Bart and the Lawrence vendetta.”

“She told you?”

“Everything.”

“Dang. You must really mean something special to her.”

“She’s special to me, too. Real special.”
If anything were to happen to her
...He pushed stiff fingers through his tangled hair.

“Lou usually lands on her feet. Just like a kitty. You give her that nickname?”

He nodded, the only response he could give at the moment without his voice cracking.

“Where’d you two meet?”

That was a story for his and Kitty’s children. To be told around the hearth on a cold winter’s night while sipping mulled cider, like his parents had done with him. He pulled himself together and gave a simple, “On the way to Point Lookout Prison.”

“Point Lookout? She’s been trailing me that long?”

“Her and her friend Jeb.”

Carleton’s head and shoulders came up. “Jeb’s here, too?”

“No. Unfortunately, he took a bullet in the back while running from a Yankee patrol just north of Point Lookout.”

“Oh, hell no. Did he make it?”

“Far as I know. He’s recuperating in the prison hospital. Once he’s strong enough, I arranged for him to be sent to my grandfather’s home in Baltimore. Kitty wouldn’t leave Maryland until she knew he was safe.”

Carleton nodded. “Jeb means a lot to Lou and me. Thank you for seeing to him.”

“Glad I could help.”

“Well, future brother-in-law.” Lance clapped him on the shoulder. “Welcome to the Carleton clan. Though the only thing that’s gonna get you is an early grave.”

The bolt scraped back, and the door screeched open. A stab of sunlight silhouetted the burly frame of Beale’s henchman. The wait was apparently over.

“On yer feet, you two,” Wilson growled.

Jack groped in the dirt and palmed a rock-hard lump of clay. If an opportunity presented itself, he wanted to be prepared to take advantage of it.

He squinted against the glare of light. “Where are we going, Sergeant?”

“Shut yer trap, Porter, and just do as I say.”

Lance rolled to his feet and offered a hand. “Come on. Let’s see what they want with us. At least we’ll be out of this sweat box.”

And into what
? He seized the boy’s hand and found a dirt clod being shoved into his palm.
Great minds think alike
. He rose, pretended to steady himself, and pulled out of Lance’s grasp. “Thanks. I’m good.”

Carleton nodded and hobbled toward the door. Boy had more grit than Kitty gave him credit for.

Jack paused in the doorway as his vision adjusted to the abrupt change in light. The blinding brightness set his skull back to thumping, and he pressed the heel of his hand against his temple. He needed a clear head for what lay ahead. Something told him it was going to be bad.

The sergeant jabbed his spine with the rifle butt. “Move along, Porter.”

He clenched his teeth around a nasty retort. It’d only egg the brute on as Carleton had said. And his sore head couldn’t take another wallop.

Wilson herded them down the now deserted street. Jack glanced skyward. The sun sat two hand-widths from the horizon. Three o’clock or close to it. Mealtime. That meant the prisoners and guards would be at the eating hall and almost guaranteed there would be no witnesses.

They weaved around frame buildings and crossed over a stagnant creek. Firm ground gave way to soggy sod. A muddied stench rode the breeze. They were getting close to the river. Ice coated his insides. Would water turn out to be his final resting place after all?

“Turn left at the next building.” Wilson punctuated the order with another poke of his rifle.

The shadows behind the structure weren’t deep enough to disguise two distinctly shaped boxes. The coffins, lids off, sat placidly in the cool of the shade, waiting to be filled.

Chapter Nineteen

“It’s empty, Senator Morgan, sir.”

Empty? She pushed past the guard. The opening to the pit gaped like a wolf’s maw, ready to snatch her into its gullet. She fisted her hands and stepped into the doorway. Bart Lawrence and his dastardly deed no longer held sway over her. She was whole again. Thanks to one man.

She peered into the gloominess. The cell was barren. And rancid. The smell swirled around her, burning her nostrils. Her stomach churned at the thought of her brother and Jack trapped in such a skunk hole. She whirled and stalked toward Major Beale. “Where are they?”

He gave a careless shrug, at odds with the tightness rimming his eyes. “I have no idea. I ordered them put in here.”

“And you also ordered Sergeant Wilson to ‘take care of the situation in the pit.’ What did you mean by that?”

He remained mute, his expression unreadable. Unlike his fat partner. Lawrence twitched and fidgeted, gnawing on his fingernail like it was a chicken bone. Worried, was he? If Jack and Lance were found dead, a noose would soon be worrying his neck.

“I ask again,” she said through clenched teeth. “Where are my brother and—”

A gunshot cut into her question. Another shot followed right on its heels.

“It came from that way,” shouted one of the guards. “Near the river.”

Senator Morgan pointed to the soldier. “Lock the Major and Mr. Lawrence in that cell until I can sort this out. The rest of you come with me.”

Louisa hiked up her skirt and joined the senator and his posse in a footrace for the river. She tossed a prayer skyward that those shots didn’t mean what she thought they meant. Lance and Jack were fine. They had to be. She didn’t want to consider the alternative.

The path ahead curved around a row of frame buildings. As they made the turn, a figure dashed from the shadows, his tattered shirttails billowing behind him like sails on a ship. It took only a second to recognize the ragged hair and shuffling gait.
Lance
!

Before she could call out, one of the guards took a bead on him. “Halt or I’ll shoot!”

Lance paused, glanced over his shoulder, then hunkered down, arms upraised. “Don’t shoot. I’m unarmed.”

Sergeant Wilson emerged from the side of the building, rifle pointed at Lance. “Gotcha now, you damn—” He stopped in his tracks, eyes going wide as he caught sight of the other soldiers with their guns trained on him.

“Drop your weapon, Sergeant,” the Senator ordered.

Wilson eyed them for a second, then finding a smidgen of smarts somewhere in that empty skull of his, dropped his rifle and raised his hands.

“Take the sergeant into custody.”

As the soldiers rushed to carry out the senator’s orders, Louisa sprinted to her brother and launched into his arms. “Oh, Lance, thank God.” Tears of relief and joy burned her eyes.

“My sweet, sweet Lou.” He gave her a fierce hug and kissed the top of her head.

“When I heard those shots...” She shuddered and tightened her hold. “I thought you were dead.”

“Nah, honey. I’m fine. Wilson shoots worse than he smells. And that’s pretty dang bad.” He pried her away from him. “Here now, you’re gonna get all dirty.”

“I don’t care. I’m just happy you’re alive.”

“I am alive, thanks to your husband-to-be.”

Husband-to-be. Maybe. Maybe not. Jack Porter had a lot of explaining to do before she jumped the broom with him. She turned in a circle, scouring the area. “Where is he? Wasn’t he with you?”

Lance glanced over his shoulder. “He was, ’til we took off in opposite directions.”

She went cold as if suddenly doused by a bucket of icy water. “Was he shot?”

“I don’t know. Like I said, we ran in opposite directions.”

“Then I have to find him.” She whirled and raced for the spot where Lance and Wilson had appeared. A salty, metallic taste flooded her mouth. Better a bitten lip than a shredded heart.

“Wait! Lou!”

She kept going. Jack was out there, possibly hurt—or worse.

A sprint between buildings brought her to a barren plot that stretched to a low berm. Footprints tracked through the red clay, some climbing the embankment, others heading back the way she’d come. He wasn’t that way, so...

She scrambled up the hill, slipping and sliding in the loose soil until she reached the top. “Jack!” She cupped her hands to her mouth, calling in one direction and then the other. “Jack Porter!”

Nothing. The footprints disappeared into the mush at the edge of the river. Her stomach sank. Surely he hadn’t tried to swim to freedom. He was terrified of deep-running water.

She scrabbled along the spine, listening to the tumbling water and the breeze playing tag through the tufts of grass. She strained to hear other sounds.

A faint noise rose over the rush of the river.

She froze and cocked an ear. The sound came again, louder this time.

She followed the noise, hands outstretched to keep her balance on the ridge. Just beyond a rocky outcrop, a patch of white shimmered in the mud. Heart thudding, she plunged down to the river bank. Her boots sank in the soggy loam. She fought the pull of the sucking mud and rounded the outcrop.

Only the upper half of his body was visible. The rest disappeared into a mire at the river’s edge. He turned his head, his dark gaze latching onto her.

She slumped against the rock. He was alive! Stuck faster than a fly in molasses, but still alive.

“Kitty. Thank God. Help me out.”

She angled closer to the hillside where the ground was firmer and extended a hand. When his fingers closed around her wrist, she dug in her heels and tugged.

He twisted back and forth, trying to free himself. “Harder, Kitty. Pull harder.”

She clenched her teeth and pulled with all her might. A loud sucking noise sounded, then he sprawled at her feet, gasping for breath. She sank to her knees beside him, working to fill her own lungs.

After a few seconds, he rolled to a sitting position, heels pressed into the soft mud. “We have to go. Wilson—”

“Is under arrest. Along with Major Beale and Henry Lawrence.”

“How?”

“Your journal. I showed it to Senator Morgan, and he agreed something smelled awful fishy. He made Beale take us to the pit, and when we discovered you and Lance missing and then heard those gunshots, he had them locked up until everything could be sorted out.” She swept at the mud clinging to his sleeve. He hated being untidy. “Reckon they’ll get a taste of what you and Lance had to put up with in that nasty cell.”

“Gripes, Kitty. Do you know how dangerous coming to the prison was?”

“I knew. I waited long past the time you said you’d be back. Then I had to see if you needed help.” She pushed upright and brushed dirt from her palms. “Good thing I did. You and Lance were in a right pickle.”

A shout carried over the hillock. “Lou? Lou, where are you?”

“Over here, Lance. Everything’s fine.”

Jack rose beside her, shucking mud from his hands and arms as he stood. “Your brother’s unhurt then?”

“Yes.”

“I’m glad. We got on well while locked in that cell. Had a nice long talk.”

More fodder for your article, no doubt.
She braced her legs, then eyed him from head to toe, checking for bullet holes and blood. “You sure you’re not hurt? No gunshot wounds? No broken bones?”

“I’m fine. Just covered in this damn mud.”

“Good.” She swung her hand in a sweeping arc and landed a stinging slap along his cheek.

A second passed. Then another. He blinked, mouth sagging like a dumbfounded oaf. “What did you do that for?”

She gathered her skirts and started up the hill. That wounded tone wasn’t going to make her feel guilty. She was the wronged one.

“For being a rotten, lying polecat.”

****

“Now that we’re all cleaned up, it’s time we talked.”

He’d bathed in the chamber down the hall. His hair was still damp and mussed from toweling. One unruly lock dangled rakishly over his forehead. She wanted to smooth it into place. She shoved her hairbrush into her satchel instead.

“You haven’t said two words since we left the prison, Kitty. What has you so upset?”

A light breeze ruffled the curtains and lifted fine strands of hair across the top of his head. Confusion and hurt showed in his face. With effort, she pulled her gaze away. How easy it’d be to give in, looking at his sorrowful, hound dog expression. She was tired of giving in. Tired of backing down. If she’d learned anything from this whole mess, it was her own ability to stand her ground.

She picked up her satchel and walked to the wardrobe. It wasn’t that far, really, but enough to give her some breathing room.