Kary, Elizabeth (45 page)

When
she arrived at the townhouse, Althea was too preoccupied by her own concerns to
notice Nathan Travis waiting in the parlor, and she had thought she was alone
until her son-in-law came thundering down the stairs.

"What
the devil is going on here, Althea?" Hayes demanded. "The servants
say Leigh and Delia have gone off somewhere to rescue Brandon Hale? Who's with
them? Where have they gone?"

"Oh,
Hayes, how glad I am you've returned!" Althea fluttered. "I tried to
tell them not to go, that it was too dangerous an undertaking for two women
alone."

"Damn
it, Althea! Will you tell me what's going on?" Hayes was furious at what
he had discovered thus far, and when Mr. Travis came into the hallway, he
seemed tense and enervated, too.

Briefly
Althea related the incident that had taken place almost a week before, and the
two men's faces became grimmer as the tale unfolded.

"Nevada,
Missouri? Are you certain, Althea, that is where they were going?" Hayes
questioned her carefully.

"That's
over near the Kansas border, where all that bushwhacker trouble has been."
Travis was every bit as concerned as Hayes and showing it.

"Yes,
I'm certain that's what they said," Althea assured them. "Plato,
Brandon's man, was to guide them across the state."

"Good
Lord!" Travis exclaimed. "There are two headstrong women, a slave and
a sick man out there in the roughest, most lawless, no-man's-land there is
anywhere in this war!"

"Althea,"
Hayes instructed, his decision already made, "I want you to instruct the
cook to pack a couple of saddlebags with food for the trip and have someone
saddle the two fastest horses in the stable."

"Are
you going after them, Hayes? Now? Tonight? Before dinner?" Althea asked
anxiously as Travis muttered something about gathering his gear.

"Althea,"
Hayes explained with great deliberation, obviously holding his temper in check
with difficulty, "there may be lives at stake. Now go and do as I
say."

As
Althea scurried toward the kitchen to do her son-in-law's bidding, she heard
him muttering a furious litany as he pounded up the stairs.

"God
damn! God damn! God damn independent women!"

***

September 19, 1862—Near Wheatland,
Missouri

Leigh
settled Bran as comfortably as she could, spreading a blanket on the ground and
bracing a pillow against one of the wagon wheels so that he could watch while
the rest of them made camp. Already Delia had gathered enough kindling to start
a small fire, and Plato was busy seeing to the horses. Leigh herself was
turning away to see to her own duties when Brandon caught the hem of her skirt
and pulled her to a stop.

"Sit
with me a minute before you get on with your chores," he coaxed her,
employing one of his boyish smiles to win his way. "We've hardly had a
moment alone since you arrived in Nevada, and your company is one of the things
I've missed most about being away."

Leigh
had missed Bran too, and it was true that they had not had a chance for more
than the most inane conversation in the three days since she, Delia, and Plato
had arrived at the Widow Garland's door to take him home. Leigh looked down at
him consideringly, trying to discern if he would be better left to rest.

The
pale, spare man before her did not seem to show the weariness she felt, but
neither did he bear much resemblance to the robust boy Leigh had grown up with,
nor the strong young soldier who had marched gallantly off to war. He was too
thin, too worn, too fragile for a man of twenty-four years. Either his illness
or the hardships he had endured in Sterling Price's army had sharpened his
youthful features and destroyed his vitality and strength. But, in spite of the
shocking change in him, he was still essentially Bran, with light and life in
his hazel eyes and mischief in his smile.

To
her way of thinking, he might well have benefited from another week of rest
before setting out across the state, but he had been adamant about leaving
Nevada as soon as they possibly could. Since the stump of his amputated leg was
healing well at last and Bran was free of fever, Leigh had relented. Traveling
relatively short distances and stopping early in the afternoon seemed not to
tax Brandon too severely, but Leigh knew he was still weak and she worried that
he might tire himself out long before they reached St. Louis.

"Leigh,
please. Surely you can spare me a few minutes," Bran cajoled. "I
think there are some things we need to discuss."

Leigh
was aware that it was often easier to do as Bran asked rather than waste time
and energy opposing him. "It was only you I was thinking of," she
admonished, dropping down on the blanket beside him in defeat. "I was
afraid you might be worn out from all the traveling."

"How
hard do you think it is lying in that feather bed from dawn till sunset?"
he challenged. "Besides, I wouldn't have asked you to sit with me if I was
too tired to talk. There aren't things you need to be doing, are there?"

"Well,
I suppose I could change the dressing on your leg," she conceded gruffly,
"so as not to waste the time completely."

While
Brandon waited, Leigh brought out the box of bandages and medicines she and
Delia had gathered for the trip. There were several types of dressings packed
in the sturdy wooden container along with alum and silver nitrate to inhibit
bleeding; morphine, a bit of opium, and chloroform for pain; carbolic acid and
alcohol to clean wounds; as well as calomel, quinine, digitalis, and some
sodium hydrochlorate to treat gangrene. Luckily, Brandon seemed to have no sign
of that, Leigh thought as she began to loosen the bandage around his thigh.

"I'm
glad we're having this chance to talk," Brandon commented casually,
"because I was beginning to think, Leigh, that there were things you
didn't want me to know."

Leigh
felt an uncomfortable warmth rise in her cheeks, and she bent closer to her
work.

"Delia
says you're married, that you have been married for several months." When
she gave him no answer, Bran continued undeterred. "Didn't you plan to
tell me, Leigh? How long did you plan to keep me in the dark?"

His
voice was even and calm, but every word he spoke seemed to Leigh an accusation.

"Why
didn't you write me that you were married? Or tell me about your husband the
other night when Delia was talking about hers?"

Leigh
drew an unsteady breath. She didn't want to discuss her marriage to Hayes with
Brandon Hale, didn't want to acknowledge how soon after the news of his
brother's death she had sought shelter in another man's arms.

But
she also knew Brandon well enough to realize that until his curiosity was
appeased, he would not let the subject drop. He would pursue the truth with
single-minded purpose until he had learned it all. That certainty came from
years of sharing her secrets, whether she had wanted Bran to know them or not.
He had a way of wheedling things out of her no matter how hard she had tried to
resist, a certain way of asking the right questions so that she could never
refuse him an answer. He had always known the places where she hid her
treasures, the presents she had bought or made for everyone at Christmas, when
she changed from a girl into a woman, and even who had given her her first
kiss. She had told him her fears and her dreams, confided her torments and her
joys. She had shared everything with Bran when they were growing up, and he had
shared as much of himself with her. It seemed useless to think of deceiving him
about all that had happened with Hayes, though for both their sakes there were
things Bran could not know.

"How
much did Delia tell you?" Her voice was low and resigned.

"She
said only that you were married at the end of May and told me the man's name,
since you had not seen fit to do so."

Bran
sounded hurt by her omission, and though she had kept her peace to protect him,
she had not meant to shut him out.

"It
was a marriage of convenience, Bran," she explained begrudgingly, "a
marriage of convenience, nothing more. Hayes had compromised my reputation and
was gentleman enough to offer me the protection of his name rather than have me
face a scandal."

Bran
gave a long, hard look. "Aren't you happy in your marriage, Leigh? Is that
why you refuse to discuss it?"

"Bran,
please!"

"Or
is it that you're ashamed of marrying this fellow Banister? What kind of a man
is he, anyway?"

Leigh's
hands faltered momentarily, and the ends of the bandage she was tying slipped
from beneath her fingers.

"Is
there something wrong with Banister?" he demanded. "Isn't he worthy
of you?"

"It's
not Hayes I'm ashamed of, Bran," Leigh confessed and hung her head.
"The one I'm ashamed of is
me. Aren't you appalled at how quickly I married, at
how disloyal to Lucas's memory I've been?"

He
hesitated for a moment, stung by surprise, then put a finger beneath her chin
and raised her face to his. There were tenderness and exasperation mingled in
his expression. "Oh, Leigh, don't be a goose! Lucas has been dead for over
a year, and your life has continued, just as it should. You loved Lucas, and
you made him happy. But he's gone, and even he would not want you to waste
precious time mourning him. You've taken the first step toward making a new life
for yourself, and I'm glad."

Unexpected
tears rose in Leigh's eyes. She had not realized how deeply she felt her guilt
or how relieved she was to be absolved. "Are you glad, Bran? I was so
afraid you would hate me because I had married Hayes."

He
pulled her into his arms and held her close. "No, Leigh, it's as things
should be. Be happy with your new husband. It's the way Lucas would have wanted
it."

It
felt good to be held and comforted by Bran again after all the months they had
been apart, and Leigh realized anew how much she had missed him. They sat
comfortably together with her cheek pillowed on his chest, with his arm slung
around her shoulders, and it was Leigh, not Bran, who drifted off to sleep.

The
sun had sunk much lower in the sky when Bran awakened her. "There are
riders coming," he said, nodding toward the hazy cloud of dust that hung
on the darkening horizon.

Leigh
sat up and looked in the direction he indicated. "Who do you think they
are?"

Bran
shrugged. "It could be Union troopers, that or bushwhackers. It doesn't
bode well for us either way."

"Do
you suppose they'll turn off before they get this far?"

"I
don't know. You'd better warn the others."

Leigh
quickly packed up the medicines and put them in the wagon. Delia and Plato had
seen the dust too, and preparations for the evening meal slowed as they watched
the cloud grow larger and more menacing. Then the distant roar of hooves
reached them, growing steadily louder as the band of men approached. None were
wearing Yankee blue, and that left one possibility even more desperate than the
other. Leigh prayed that the riders would turn aside, but the band seemed
drawn, either by the glow of the blazing campfire or to the stream that pooled
just beyond the trees.

With
a neighing of horses and the eddying of dust, a group of about forty men pulled
up less than a hundred feet from the wagon. They wore no recognizable uniform,
though there were military touches to their clothes: sashes that hung from
shoulders, striped trousers, and bits of braid. But from where Leigh stood, she
could see that they were armed as if for battle, with rifles slung across their
saddles and pistols buckled low on their hips.

As
she watched, the leader dismounted from his horse and limped slowly in their
direction. Then, in spite of her own drumming fear and the grasp Brandon held
on the hem of her skirt, Leigh moved beyond the circle of firelight to meet
him.

"Good
evening, ma'am," the rough-looking man greeted her, taking his hat in
hand. "We saw your fire and thought we might come by to see who was
camping here by the stream."

The
man was fair-haired and slender, only slightly taller than Leigh was herself,
but there was something in his pale, heavy-lidded eyes that spoke of deceit and
some vague menace. He would make, at worst, a formidable enemy and, at best, a
treacherous friend, she decided in that first moment. Then, with every
intention of making him the latter, Leigh extended her hand in a semblance of
welcome.

"Good
evening, sir. I'm Leigh Banister. We're on our way back to St. Louis with my
neighbor who has been wounded."

The
man continued to study her with those strange, shaded eyes, taking in the
curves of her lush body and the proud angle of her head. Then he turned to
where Bran sat. "What army were you with, sir, and who was your
commander?"

Bran
hesitated, and Leigh wondered, as she knew he must, what answer the man
expected. Both Union and Confederate guerrillas were roaming Missouri's border
areas, killing and robbing all those not in sympathy with their cause. Bran's
reply might well decide their fate.