And One Rode West (53 page)

“Oh, Jeremy!” she murmured suddenly, searching out his eyes. “I could never understand it, all those years, watching Callie and Daniel and Kiernan and Jesse. It was so tragic for them. To love the enemy—”

“I’m not your enemy, Christa!”

“But, oh, God, Jeremy, you were for years! I used to fear the sight of blue uniforms horribly. Every time I saw a soldier in blue I prayed fiercely that it was Jesse.
Jeremy, you have to understand. The Union soldiers came onto the peninsula to burn and destroy.”

“They had to reach Richmond!” he said softly. His strength was suddenly failing him. He’d been so swept up by her words, so torn, so anguished.

And then so awed. Watching her speak now, watching her eyes, still so wet with tears, he knew that everything she was saying was the truth. She loved him. He didn’t know if it was the blood that he had lost or the simple miracle of those words, but he could stand no longer. He started to fall.

“Jeremy!”

Supporting him, she lowered them both to the ground. He leaned against the tree, his eyes closed. He opened them. Tears were damp against her cheeks. He touched them tenderly.

“Camerons don’t cry.”

“Oh, my God, Jeremy!” she whispered. “Don’t you die on me, please, don’t you die on me!”

He smiled very slowly. “I wouldn’t die now for all the promises of heaven!” he said.

She caught his hand and kissed it. “You need to rest.”

He nodded, then shook his head sadly. “My God, Christa! What a miracle. You’ve just said that you love me. We’re all alone in some of God’s most beautiful country, sweet green trees, a bubbling brook, and I can’t even stand!”

She exhaled on a shaky sigh, her fingers curling more tightly around his hand. “You are going to live, I think!” she whispered. She sat beside him, leaning her head against his. He was silent for a minute.

“Christa, it’s still going to be hard. There is so much bitterness. Most southerners do hate northerners. There’s equal hatred in the North. The hatred will live for years. For generations. The difference, of course, is that—”

“The difference is that you won!” Christa interrupted.

“Right. The difference is that we won.” He shifted, tilting up her chin. “Can you live with that?” he asked her very softly.

She smiled, lowering her lashes, resting her head against his shoulders. “Yes.”

“You’re certain?”

“I can live with anything, if I’m living with you.”

“But I’ll still be surrounded by a lot of Yankees.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said.

“You don’t hate Yankees anymore?”

She turned, smiling ruefully. “I still hate lots of Yankees,” she admitted. “It’s just that—it’s just that I love you far more than I hate them.”

“You hate them so passionately!” he stated.

Her smile deepened. “Right. So just imagine how very, very deeply I love you.”

He leaned back. His fingers moved in her hair. Branches stirred and rustled over them. The brook bubbled by. “Christa!” he murmured.

“Yes?”

“You are, in every way, the perfect cavalry wife.” He mustered all of his strength together and turned, taking her into his arms. He planted a very tender kiss upon her lips. “And I adore you!” he whispered.

Then, his strength spent, he leaned back against the tree and slept.

She stood in the stream, stripped of her doeskin, doing her best to scrub her flesh as the Indians did, with the clean rocky sand from the shallow water. A sudden noise alerted her and she looked up quickly. She had imagined that they were so deeply in Indian territory that they wouldn’t be disturbed by any casual passersby.

It was no casual passerby. Jeremy was up. He had
shed the uniform he had so carefully donned over his wounded flesh. Ripped and bruised, he was beautiful still, she thought.

No. More beautiful than ever. The long red gashes had been gained in his quest for her. Some of them would scar. Maybe it was good. She would remember for all time just what he had sacrificed for her.

“You shouldn’t be up!” she whispered to him.

He stopped before her in the water. The sunlight was playing upon it, mirroring both of their images. They were both, she thought, rather beautiful at the moment. Naked and glistening in the sunlight, as natural as Adam and Eve.

If the Comanche were near, she thought, they would never disturb them now.

It was the wild, wild West.

It was almost Eden.

He walked toward her. No, maybe not Eden. They were not so perfect as Adam and Eve. Despite his rippling bronze muscles, he was torn and wounded. And she was beginning to round more daily now.

But maybe that was why now they were so especially beautiful to one another.

He came before her and took her into his arms, kissing her with a slow burning fever and passion. “You’re injured,” she reminded him.

“Oh, no, I’m feeling much, much better now. And I don’t care if every gash in my body breaks open, I can’t wait to make love in a new way.”

“A new way?” she asked huskily.

“With you whispering against my kiss that you love me, and with me crying out those same words every step of the way.”

“Oh!” she said simply. He began to kiss her. Her lips. Her throat. Her shoulder.

“Jeremy.”

“Yes?”

“I love you …”

Winter seemed very slow and domestic after all that autumn had brought.

On October fifth, a treaty was signed with the Comanche, among other Indians. Christa had thought that Jeremy would have been pleased, but he didn’t seem to have much faith in it.

“I don’t think that our side really intends to keep with it,” he told her frankly. But winter and cold came to Fort Jacobson, where they had finally settled with Jeremy’s regiment, and there were no disturbances over the long months.

There were miracles.

Robert Black Paw survived. Once she returned with Jeremy—and was greeted like a heroine by all the men and women, including Mrs. Brooks—she tended to her husband first, then to Robert, seeing to their wounds with the doctor they found stationed at the fort, Remy Montfort.

Dr. Montfort was a civilian. He had been in the Indian territory for the duration of the war, and he claimed he had never taken sides. Christa didn’t know if that was true, but he was a lively old codger with twinkling blue eyes, and she liked him very much.

When Jeremy and Robert were fully on their way to healing, she let him know her own fears about the baby. “Life is miraculous,” he assured her. “And wee ones are far stronger than we imagine. You wait and see. Things will come along just fine.”

They did. On the morning of Saint Patrick’s Day, she awoke with startling pains in her back. She didn’t say anything at first, because Jeremy was expecting a company from a fort along the Canadian and she didn’t want to disturb him if it was a false alarm. She went over to Celia’s cabin where a number of the women
had gathered to knit booties—Celia was expecting her own baby in the early summer. An hour later, she felt a pain so strong that she jumped.

“Christa McCauley! You’ve been in labor some time, haven’t you, young woman?” Mrs. Brooks demanded.

“I—I don’t know, Mary,” Christa said. Now they all knew that Mrs. Brooks’s Christian name was Mary. Jeremy had seen to it that the fort had been supplied with a likable young reverend, and Mrs. Brooks had been so pleased that she had actually learned to smile. Maybe the Comanche had changed her.

“I’ve never done this before!” she said. The pain came again, almost on top of the other one.

Clara Jennings jumped to her feet.

Things weren’t perfect. Clara was still awfully hard to swallow upon occasion. But even she had changed. She had taken it upon herself to teach Nathaniel French.

Nathaniel didn’t particularly want to learn French, but in the interest of interracial relations, he had determined to do so. “There’s a great difference between a man like Nathaniel and a field hand!” Clara had announced.

“The difference is in the learning,” Nathaniel had told her.

That had seemed to go over her head. But it didn’t matter, not to Nathaniel. He was a wise, peaceful man who knew that changes could take a lifetime. Maybe several lifetimes, he had told Christa.

“I’ll go for the colonel!” Clara said.

“No, no, please! I do know that this will take lots of time,” Christa said.

“Now, Christa, how—”

“My brother is a doctor,” she reminded them. She bit her lower lip for a moment. “He was probably the finest doctor in all the Union army!” she said. But then
she gasped because the pain had come again, very quickly.

“Oh, dear!” Celia was on her feet, too, but it didn’t matter, because Mary Brooks hadn’t waited. She had taken the initiative and gone for Dr. Montfort. “Well, well, so this is it, eh, Christa McCauley? Let’s get you back to your own bed in your own quarters, young lady. When did you first feel the pains?”

“Early this morning. Before six. But still—”

“This young one could come at any time, Christa! You’ve been as active as a worker bee all this time, and that often speeds things along.”

“What can I do?” Celia asked quickly.

“Why, boil water, of course!” Dr. Montfort said, his eyes twinkling. “And maybe somebody had best go for the colonel!”

Dr. Montfort said that the baby did come incredibly quickly. Christa supposed that it did, knowing how long it sometimes took other women.

But in the time that it took the baby to come, she was assuredly wretched enough!

She grit her teeth against the awful pains and she tried hard not to cry out. But after Montfort told her that the babe was almost there, she felt one pain so tearing that she could not keep quiet, and she cried out.

She was surprised to hear a soothing voice. Fingers curled around her own. She opened her eyes. Jeremy had come. They had told him to wait outside, in their parlor in the fort. He hadn’t done so.

“This is it, Christa. Bear down now, push!”

She pushed, and she fell back exhausted. She pushed again. She was certain that she nearly broke Jeremy’s fingers. Montfort chuckled, very pleased. “The baby’s head is here, Christa, now just one more …”

And the baby was born. Her baby. Jeremy’s. “It’s a
boy!” Jeremy cried out. He stood beside her and kissed her, and she smiled, exhausted as she was, and reached for the little bundle.

He was beautiful. No, he was red and wrinkled and screaming furiously, his little fists batting away.

Jeremy kissed her forehead, marveling at their new creation along with her. “I think that noise he’s making is a Rebel yell,” he teased.

“Nonsense,” Dr. Montfort told them. “He’s simply too young to announce politely that it’s a very frightening new world and that he’d like some warmth and sustenance, please!” He arched his brow at Celia and Mary, who were still in the room. The three of them quietly left the new parents alone. Just a bit awkwardly, Christa loosed the nightgown she was wearing to feed the tiny bit of new life in her arms. She gasped, startled, at the first fierce tug, then laughed. “Oh, Jeremy, I was so frightened so often for him! Yet he seems so strong!”

Jeremy drew a finger down the baby’s downy cheek. “Oh, of course, my love. He’s outstanding. Look at his parents. And that was a Rebel yell. My God, look at that hair. Pitch black. And his eyes are blue—”

“I think most all babies start out with blue eyes,” Christa told him.

“Well, we’ll see,” Jeremy murmured. “He needs a name.”

“Josiah!” she said quickly. She leaned her face against the baby’s soft, damp hair. “Josiah, for your brother.”

“Christa, it isn’t necessary—”

“He was your brother, and Callie’s brother, and you two loved him very much. Both of my brothers came home.”

“He was a Yankee.”

“I know.” She nuzzled the baby’s head. “But his father is a Yankee, too, and I love him very much.
Josiah first, for your brother. James for a half-dozen Camerons.”

“Josiah James McCauley,” Jeremy said softly. He kissed Christa’s forehead. “Thank you. And thank you for my son. He is exquisite! Like his mother.”

There was a tap at the door. Dr. Montfort stood there, clearing his throat.

“Let’s take the little one, shall we, Colonel? Your wife really needs some sleep.”

Jeremy nodded.

“She came through it fabulously, Colonel!” Montfort added proudly.

Jeremy smiled. He smoothed back Christa’s hair and spoke softly to her. “I knew you would do fabulously. After all, my love, you are a Cameron.”

Her hand slipped into his, seemingly so fragile and so feminine. He remembered what Darcy had told him. “She was the bravest woman I ever saw.” The bravest, the finest. Despite her delicate beauty, she was incredibly strong. She had survived so very much to come to this day.

Her fingers squeezed his. She was exhausted, but her eyes were brilliantly blue and very beautiful, and her smile was soft and enticing.

“I was born a Cameron,” she told him. “But I am a McCauley now.”

His smile in turn was miraculously tender. He leaned low and kissed her lips. “Mrs. McCauley, my dearest Reb, I do love you! This Yank has surrendered most willingly to the South.”

Epilogue