Erin's Rebel (2 page)

Had it been Mrs. O’Connell? A lantern glowed near her tent. Upon investigation, he found two men standing over what appeared to be a woman lying in a heap of calico skirts and petticoats. One of the men held a mare by the reins; the other hefted a lantern.

“What happened?” Will said.

“The lady fell from the horse, sir,” the private holding the animal answered.

Kneeling at the woman’s side, he tilted her face toward him. He motioned to the other soldier. “Bring the lantern closer.”

Mrs. O’Connell, a young widow serving as one of the camp’s new laundresses, lay limp and still. What the hell had the laundress been doing on a horse in the dead of night? He gazed at her placid face. Long, red-gold lashes brushed against her rounded cheekbones, ghostly pale in the candlelight. Blood oozed from one delicate nostril. Her bosom rose and fell gently, drawing his gaze to the swell of her breasts.

The first day the Irish woman had arrived in camp, feelings stirred in him he’d thought died with Anne. After his wife’s death, he’d vowed not to give his heart to another woman. Losing her had torn out his soul.

“What happened?” Will addressed the thin private with the lantern.

The soldier glanced at his companion and shrugged. “We think the horse reared up, sir. Then we heard her scream and came a-runnin’ just in time to see her hit the ground.”

Will nodded. Could be she’d imbibed a bit too much tonight. He’d heard the new laundress kept a bottle of whiskey in her tent, but so far, he hadn’t witnessed any improprieties.

He studied the motionless figure. Doc Matthews could determine the extent of her injuries. As he lifted her, he smelled no hint of alcohol, but a feminine scent overwhelmed him. Soap and something sweet he couldn’t identify.

He hadn’t held a woman for two years. The softness of her curves increased the yearning he’d been denying. Leaving the other men to tend to the horse, he carried her across the camp to Doc.

****

Erin groaned. Her head and neck hurt like hell, and so did her nose. In fact, everything hurt. What had happened? She reached to the back of her head, where her fingers closed around a damp cloth. When she opened her eyes, a sharp pain knifed through her skull.

Focusing her thoughts, she recalled flashes of a dark, rainy highway. A truck hurtling toward her. The tree.

She turned her head and squinted into the yellow-white glow of a lantern. She wasn’t in her car but lying flat on her back.

Someone moved beside her. A man with a heavy drawl spoke. “Are you all right, ma’am? Can you speak?”

She stared at him. Was she in a hospital? No. The gangly, sandy-haired man with the handlebar mustache wasn’t wearing scrubs. He appeared to be in his early thirties and was dressed in an oversized, striped blue and white shirt draped over tan wool pants with a set of suspenders dangling to his knees. This sure wasn’t an emergency room.

“Where am I?” she croaked. “What happened?” Blinding pain shot through her skull, again.

“You were thrown from a horse. Do you remember?”

“Horse?” She shook her head, then the sharp pain stopped her. “Ow, everything hurts.”

The man pried the damp cloth from her hand and pressed it against the back of her head. “I don’t feel any broken bones, but you’ve got a nice sized lump right here. I reckon you have a nasty headache. Just what were you doing on that mare this hour of night?”

“I wasn’t on a horse,” she said. “I’ve never been on a horse in my life. It was a car crash. I hit a tree when that truck slid in front of me.”

“A bad fall like that could have affected your mind, Mrs. O’Connell.” The man eyed her. “You’re not making a lick of sense.”

“O’Connell? No. I think you’ve made a mistake, Doctor.” She scrutinized him. “You
are
a doctor, aren’t you?”

He grinned. “Now I know your mind has been affected. I’m Doc Matthews. We met two weeks ago when you first came to camp.”

“I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

Prickles of fear shot through her. When she made to rise, her legs tangled around mounds of material. She stared down the length of her body. Was she wearing a long dress?

“Where am I?” Leaning on one arm, she glanced around and studied the walls of the spacious, white canvas tent. With the pain in her head making it difficult to see, she blinked to bring things into focus. Only then did she fully notice her surroundings. She lay on a canvas wood-frame cot while other, empty cots stood in rows along one wall of the tent. A long, wooden table with spindle-back chairs occupied the opposite corner. An oil lantern on the table illuminated the interior. Assorted corked bottles of colored glass, in various sizes and shapes sat beside—what looked like—antique medical instruments. Had she stumbled into some kind of reenactment? A friend of hers from the paper had been into Civil War reenacting. She’d visited his camp, and it had looked like this.

Cradling her aching head between her hands, she blinked, squeezing out tears that obscured her vision. On the edge of the table sat a pile of cream-colored ceramic plates, bowls, a few teacups, two pitchers, and an assortment of wood-handled utensils.

“Where am I?” she repeated. She struggled to untangle her feet from the skirts and reach the floor. She gasped. Not only did she wear a dress, but her white sneakers had been replaced with black leather lace-up boots. “Why am I dressed like this? Where are my clothes?”

A long strand of red-gold hair flowed over her shoulder. She reached up and realized it was attached to her head. The close-cropped style she normally wore was gone. Her fingers brushed over long, loose strands tumbling over the nape of her neck. She pulled out hairpins stuck in the thick, tangled mass.

Alarmed, she pushed herself to her feet. The momentum caused her to sway, and a bout of nausea made her stomach churn.

Doc reached out to steady her. “Whoa there, ma’am. Don’t go running off so all-fired fast.” He pressed her back into a seated position on the cot.

Through the haze of pain, something clicked in her memory. “Did you call me Mrs. O’Connell? My name is Erin...Erin Branigan.”

The doctor frowned. “Your Christian name is Erin, but your married name is O’Connell. Could Branigan be your maiden name? Hitting your head could’ve caused a lapse in your memory.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my memory. I’m Erin Branigan. I’ve never been married. I was in a car accident on my way home.”

“Railcar? That don’t make a lick of sense. Far as I heard, you never left camp.”

“No—I mean—I don’t understand any of this.” A knot formed in her stomach.

“The blow to the head has affected your memory. Just rest a spell, and everything will come back to you.”

“I don’t know who the hell you think I am. I just want to know where I am and how the
hell
I got here. I have to get back home.”

The man backed up a step and raised his hands, palms out. “Calm down, ma’am. There’s no cause for cussing. And what happened to your brogue?”

“My what?”

“Your choice of words is odd, too. I’m having a hard time catching your meaning.”

Is this guy for real? He obviously understands English.

But another thought sent a chill down her spine. What had happened to her car? It could still be back on the road, or already been towed. The vehicle would be traced to her, and her mother would be notified as next of kin. Her mom would be frantic when the police can’t locate her.

Her cell phone must still be in the car, along with the rest of her belongings. But where were her clothes?

“Listen, Mr.—ah—Doc,” she said. “I need to make a phone call. My mother will be worried sick. I guess I should call the local police, too.”

His brow furrowed. “I thought you said your mother lived in Ireland. And what in tarnation is a phone call?”

She sighed in exasperation. “Don’t you have a cell phone?”

A blank expression took over his face.

“I’ve heard you re-enactors can be strict, but there must be a pay phone somewhere around here.”

He shook his head. “You should rest, ma’am. I’ll mix up a headache powder for you. You’ll feel a mite better once you get some sleep.” After lifting her ankles onto the cot, he pushed against her shoulders, forcing her to lie down.

As he walked away, she glared at him. No way could he force her to stay.

While he occupied himself with the colored bottles on the table, she rose and steadied herself as a wave of pain coursed through her. Her head spun, and she nearly plopped back down. But sheer determination pushed her forward. Edging toward the open tent flap, she peered outside. Until her vision refocused, everything appeared fuzzy.

Where the hell am I
?

After glancing back to be sure he wouldn’t try to stop her, she eased through the canvas flaps. Rows of different sized tents surrounded her in the rosy glow of dawn. A large tarp overhead shielded the tent’s entryway. Two black cast iron grates sat a few feet beyond the tarp. Burnt logs nestled among cinders sent wafts of white smoke into the air, while cast iron skillets and pans sat atop one of the grates. The scent of wood smoke reminded her of nights spent beside a cozy fireplace at her grandmother’s house in Candor.

Tents were lined up in a partially cleared area with a few trees standing among them. A handful of men dressed like Doc, in loose shirts and gray or tan trousers held up with suspenders, milled about. This had to be a reenactment. If one of them could drive her back to her car...but on second thought, the car would be in no condition to drive. She had to get hold of her mother.

One man with straight, copper-colored hair touching his collar and a full beard crouched over a grate where flames crackled. The contents of his pan sizzled. The smell of bacon sent a wave of nausea through her. She doubled over, afraid she might retch.

“Ma’am,” someone called, startling her. “I’m mighty pleased to see you’re up.”

She turned in the direction of the deep voice.
Am I
dreaming?
She licked her dry lips as she stared into the dark eyes that had haunted her dreams.

“Ma’am? You look a might peaked.”

As he moved closer, her knees turned to jelly. Strong, hard-muscled arms embraced her, offering support. Her head spun. She lifted a hand to stop the motion and encountered wool, a double row of metal buttons and a rock-hard chest. The enticing aroma of sandalwood mixed with a musky, masculine scent, plus a tinge of wood smoke invaded her senses. Had she hit her head harder than she’d thought?

She gazed at his lightly tanned face. Firm lips tilted upward slightly at the corners surrounded by a thin chocolate-colored mustache curving into a neatly-trimmed beard covering only his chin. Thick, dark hair brushed his collar and curled from beneath a broad-brimmed black hat. Her pulse raced as she leaned against his long, solid frame. Night after night in her dreams she’d run her hands through those curls.

“How can you be here?” she murmured.

“Pardon me, ma’am?”

“I don’t understand.” She tried to wrench from his grasp, but he gathered her close, lifting her into his arms. “What are you doing?”

“Taking you back where you belong.” He carried her to the tent entrance where Doc peered out.

“Will, what the devil is going on?”

“I assume you didn’t give Mrs. O’Connell permission to leave.”

“I did not.” He scowled. “I told you to rest.”

The dark-haired man carried her inside and laid her on the cot. She propped herself on an elbow to get a better view of the man Doc called Will. Broad shoulders tapered into a narrow waist accentuated by the cut of his gray frock coat trimmed in gold braid.