Scarlet Leaves Page 2

  "It is," Taggart replied, realizing it had been a mistake to use his own saddle, no matter how comfortable it was. "I confiscated it after the Battle of Shiloh."

  She aimed her rifle at a spot between his eyes. "You don't say? That still doesn't explain your Yankeefied way of talking, does it?"

  "Well," he replied good-naturedly, feeling secure enough to put down his hands and laugh a bit, "I went to college up North, and their way of talking kind of wore off on me." He rubbed the back of his neck, wondering if she would let him out of the pond now. "Yes sir, my loyalty is to old Jeff Davis and the bonnie blue flag.''

  Silky nodded wisely. "It is, huh? Well, Charlie and I are going to give you a little test and see how much of a Southerner you really are."

  "Fine," he replied, understanding that his only hope was to play along with her. "Go right ahead."

  She studied him thoughtfully. "All right ... tell me what goes into homemade soap?"

  Taggart rubbed his chin. Being raised in one of the finest homes in Cleveland, he'd always used hard-milled French soap, and had never given a second thought to its components. But dredging up information from his West Point chemistry classes, he took a wild stab and, speaking up confidently, answered, "Alkali, some kind of fatty acid, and"

  "Wrong," Silky came back, abruptly cutting him off. "Around here we make soap from water, lye, and bacon drippings."

  Taggart shrugged negligently. "Well, anybody can miss one question, you know."

  Charlie shot him a lopsided grin. "How long do you let whiskey work afore tannin' it off?"

  Taggart sighed, having no idea. "A week?" he guessed, frowning at the boy.

  Charlie hooted with laughter. "That whiskey would taste like a hog died in it, mister. You run white lightnin' on the fifth day."

  Not giving Taggart a chance to recover, Silky pinned him with a keen gaze. "What kind of wood do you use for a crow call?"

  He chuckled, knowing he would get this question right. "Pine or ash, of course."

  She shook her head. "Every true Southerner knows crow calls are made from green dogwood branches."

  Taggart's temper rose higher. He hadn't come on an intelligence-gathering mission for General Grant to stand in a pond of cooling water at sunset and be interrogated by this wildcat. If he couldn't unearth the number of General Joe Johnston's troops and relay the information tO his contact by November 15th, hundreds of Federal soldiers could lose their lives, and the Union Information Bureau would be humiliated. But at this particular moment Silky Shanahan and her repeating rifle were in control of the situation, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

  "I'm going give you one more chance," Silky announced in an ominous tone. "In what phase of the moon does a person set fence posts?"

  Taggart almost laughed at the ridiculous question, then remembered at the last second that he was on trial. "In the full of the moon," he answered boldly, thinking his chances one in four.

  Silky laughed deeply. "Every child," she began with a smug smile, "knows that fence posts are set during the waning of the moon. You set 'em any other time and they'll wobble around like loose teeth."

  Seeing Silky sight on him again, Taggart put out his spread hands, wondering if she was going to blow him to smithereens. "Come on, now. You can't be serious about this. I'm a Reb through and through!"

  "Funny, but somehow I don't believe a word you're saying." She waved the rifle at him. "Now get out of the water. I'm arresting you in the name of the Confederate States of America." She cocked the weapon with a chilling click. "And I'm taking you to the smokehouse and keeping you there until I can turn you in."

  With two rifles bearing down on him, Taggart could only climb from the pond, water dripping from his body. What a hell of a predicament this had turned out to be. Cold steel nudging his back, he grabbed his clothes and boots, realizing he'd get precious little information about General Johnston if he were locked in a smokehouse.

  With feisty Silky Shanahan as his jailer he had a prodigious problem indeed, but at this particular moment he had no idea on God's green earth how to solve it.

  Hearing a rooster crow, Taggart woke up in the earthysmelling smokehouse, light filtering between the weatherbeaten boards and streaming over the hard-packed dirt floor. A few hams and slabs of side meat dangled overhead, emitting their own tangy aroma. Still groggy, he stretched his stiff muscles, thinking he'd never had a worse night of sleep in his life. With a weary sigh, he recalled everything that had transpired since he'd been taken prisoner of war, as Silky had called the ridiculous abduction.

  While Charlie had stabled his horse, Silky had marched him to the little shack and locked him inside, saying he could sleep on a pile of empty sacks heaped on the ground. She'd warned him that the smokehouse was "bull strong and hog tight," and after she'd left, he'd found that she was right, for all his efforts to break down the door or pull out a plank had met with defeat.

  Depression spread through him as he thought of his surprising capture, knowing how his fellow agents in the Information Bureau would laugh if they discovered he'd been abducted by a plucky woodland sprite. He only hoped Silky wouldn't discover the hefty bankroll of counterfeit bills and coded cipher hidden under the false bottom of his saddlebagboth meant to smooth his spying expedition into the South. Somehow, he thought, hardening his resolve, he had to convince her he was a Reb or all would be lost.

  Although Taggart had never known anyone in the Shenandoah Valley, he actually did have an aunt Clara who, when she was alive, had lived in Norfolk. Pacing about the near-empty smokehouse, be racked his brain, trying to recall his childhood visits to her home. Quickly he flipped through his memories, sorting out everything that had impressed him as being particularly Southerneverything from pecan pralines to mint juleps.

  Just then the sound of footsteps crunching over gravel reached his ears, and he knew that someone was nearing the smokehouse. Within seconds, the door flew open, letting in a rush of cool, fresh air, and revealing Silky, standing with the dawn blush to her hack. She was bareheaded this morning, but still wore her buckskins and still clasped a rifle in one handa rifle he knew she wouldn't hesitate to use. In the other hand she clutched a tin plate, supporting a piece of corn bread and a fruit jar filled with buttermilk.

  "I brought you some breakfast, Yankee," she announced bluntly, shoving the food at him. "It doesn't seem right to let a man starveeven a Yankee."

  Taggart accepted the tin plate and, noticing that her hand shook a bit, gave her a wide smile before scanning the area outside the smokehouse. "Where's your cousin?" he inquired, his voice threaded with light amusement.

  Her eyes darkened. "Charlie? He's home with his granddaddy. That's the only menfolks that's left in the Blue Ridge nowboys and graybeards."

  Although Silky had made no attempt to be provocative, there was something soft and vulnerable about her that made Taggart's blood run a little faster even as she held the rifle on him. In fact, meeting her reminded him of drinking his first glass of champagne: a heady, once-in-a-lifetime experience, full of potential for dire consequences. From the restless look in her lovely eyes, he was happy to note his presence was having a potent effect on her as well. Purposefully, he let his gaze travel from her blushing face to her luscious cleavage, then back to her smoldering eyes.

  He set the plate on top of a barrel. "I was wondering," he asked casually, "if you had any watermelon-rind preserves to go with this corn bread?"

  Her heavy lashes flew upward. "How does a Yankee come to know about watermelon-rind preserves?"

  He laughed lightly. "Why, I grew up eating them. But I haven't had any in a coon's age, and lately I've worked up a real hankering for them."

  She slid him a suspicious glance. "You're not still trying to convince me that you're a Reb, are you?"

  "But I am," he answered passionately.

  Her questioning eyes roamed over him. "Then how come you're so ignorant about Southern things?"

  "Because you asked me
about country things," he replied, being so bold as to lightly clasp her arm.

  Silky, feeling warmth flush her skin where the Yankee had touched her, moved back a step, disturbed by the pleasant feelings swirling within her. Lordamercy, she never knew fighting Yankees could be so stimulating. Excitement trickled down her spine as Taggart made another inspection of her figure. She'd never gone calf-eyed over a Southerner, much less a Yankee, and she deeply resented the reaction of her own body.

  She inched back a bit farther, but the rapscallion went on, his beautiful eyes boring into her, his husky voice filled with warmth and confidence. "I was raised in Norfolk," he said, smiling and showing strong white teeth, made even whiter by his dark mustache. "No one there talks about making moonshine or setting fence posts," he explained in a reasonable tone. "Ask me about the city, the great houses, the shops, the balls."

  Doubt welled inside of her. "I-I don't know about those things," she replied slowly. His comment about the watermelon-rind preserves had made her doubt her own judgment, and as he plunged ahead, rattling on about the glories of Norfolk, she could feel her confidence eroding.

  "Here, let me give you a little test," he suggested, his face suffused with amusement. "What does it mean if the left corner of a gentleman's card is bent down and returned to him?"

  She stared at him, having no idea.

  "At a formal dinner, who's served first, and where is the dessert spoon placed?" he quizzed, disarming her with another smile. "What time does the theater usually begin?" he continued, overwhelming her with the rush of questions. "What length gloves does a lady wear to the opera and how soon should thank-you notes be written? How long"

  "Stop," she interrupted, laying a hand over her heaving bosom. "I don't know the answer to any of those questions."

  Soft laughter tumbled from his lips. "No, you wouldn't have need for such knowledge here in the mountains ... but that doesn't mean you're not a true Southerner, does it?" He gestured at himself. "I may have failed your test on country things, but that doesn't mean I'm not a Reb the same as you."

  Silky grudgingly held his gaze.

  "Why, I love everything Southern, especially Southern food," he vowed, brushing a callused palm over her cheek. "I was raised on it. Sweet-potato pie, grits, collard greens, black-eyed peas, corn bread ... "

  Her heart did a somersault at the touch of his hand, and, trying to ignore the weak feeling sweeping through her, she suddenly blurted out, "What's the name of General Lee's horse?"

  He looked at her with surprise; then a satisfied smile crept over his lips. "Traveller."

  "What does J. E. B. stand for in Jeb Stuart?" she asked, her composure now seriously ruffled.

  With crossed arms, he leaned against the doorjamb, his eyes sparkling. "James Ewell Brown," he answered confidently, now so near she felt the warmth of his body engulfing her.

  "Where was Jefferson Davis born?" she inquired, her heart beating faster.

  His sensuous lips curved upward. "Christian County, Kentucky."

  Still holding his gaze, she picked up the tin plate, realizing

  he'd taken advantage of her with his charming ways and suggestive glances. She had no intention of returning his subtle advances, but at the same time, for some unexplainable reason, she knew she was going to give him another chancea chance he probably didn't deserve.

  "Come with me," she ordered, nodding at her log cabin that nestled in a close of dark pines. "I'm going to give you a final test."

  Confident he was making progress, Taggart walked across the dew-jeweled landscape, well aware of the rifle pointed at his back and the baying of three vicious-looking hounds that raised their hackles as he passed. Squawking chickens flapping all about him, he spied a milk cow tied in front of a ramshackle barn that was in the process of being shingled. Sprinkled over the roof in a haphazard manner, the shingles sat at odd angles, telling him the workman wasn't acquainted with the finer aspects of the craft.

  Once they were inside the cabin which smelled of warm biscuits and sausage, the cozy atmosphere wrapped itself around him. Furnished with a table and chairs and old bedsteads, and decorated with copper pots and strings of onions that hung from the rafters, the room was filled with items of daily living. Several rifles were placed across a deer-horn rack above the hearth, reminding him of an illustration he'd once seen in The Last of the Mohicans. After circling the interior with his gaze, he decided every item there had been produced when the Blue Ridge Mountains had lain on America's western frontier.

  Silky plunked the tin plate on the table and gestured a slim finger at the chair, ordering him to sit down.

  Taggart, feeling his stomach rumble with hunger, expected to be served flaky biscuits, but after she'd gone to a cupboard lined with shelves of home-canned vegetables in glass jars, she set a bowl of cold boiled okra before him. He stared down at the congealed contents, which reminded him of a stringy mass of green wallpaper paste, but which he knew wouldn't be as appetizing.

  "Here you go," she announced, scooping some of the okra onto his plate. "This was left over from supper, but since you love Southern food so much," she added with a suspicious gleam in her eyes, "I thought you might like a little for breakfast." She handed him a fork along with a meaningful glance. "All true Southerners love okra, you know."

  Taggart stared at the slimy mass again, wanting to tell her that no one, not even Robert E. Lee, ate okra for breakfast, but he realized the seemingly frivolous test was really a very clever maneuver on her part. Since okra was an exclusively Southern vegetable, and very much an acquired taste developed over many years, most Northerners would gag on their first bite of the boiled version. He only wished the vegetable had been fried, which was the way it was served at his aunt Clara's. That he could stomachbut cold boiled okra at this time of day was enough to turn even the strongest stomach.

  Silky tossed back her flaming hair. "Well ... Lieutenant Taggart?"

  Taggart, finding it ironic that his whole future might depend on his ability to consume the dish before him, speared one of the okra pods. It drooped limply from his fork. Bravely he plunged the okra into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed, trying to forget it reminded him of a slimy grub.

  When he caught his jailer's questioning gaze, he shook his head with relish. "My, this is really tasty," he mumbled with a full mouth. He swallowed hard and, forcing down another pod, gave her a wink. "If it was any better, I think I'd rub it in my hair."

  With wondering eyes, she handed him the buttermilk. "Here's something to wash it down."

  If there was anything Taggart hated worse than boiled okra it was lukewarm buttermilk, but, taking a deep breath, he clasped the fruit jar and drained its thick, sour contents, fighting back a strong urge to retch.

  After he'd finished the bowl of okra, he set it aside and, marshaling every last ounce of strength within him, asked, "Do you have any more?"

  Silky gave him an astonished look. "Who was Stonewall Jackson's chief of artillery?" she questioned, easing down in a straight-backed chair beside him.

  "Colonel Stapleton Crutchfield."

  "Why was he retired?"

  "He lost a leg at Chancellorsville," he answered, recalling the instance from an intelligence briefing.

  A soft expression on her face, Silky heaved a doleful sigh. "Lieutenant Taggart," she said in a thoughtful tone, "maybe I've made a mistake. There seems to be a fair-to-middling chance that you might be what you say you are."

  Hope flickered within him.

  Silky smiled gently, her eyes moist with emotion. "In fact, I've decided you're either a Reb or the best liar in the whole state of Virginia."

  Taggart laughed at the backhanded compliment, amazed that her position had changed from adversary to friend so quickly.

  "I'm sorry I detained you, Lieutenant," she went on, placing her rifle on the table, "and I apologize for your night in the smokehouse. You must have thought I was crazy, but with the war going on a person can never be too careful."

&nb
sp; Now that the weapon was out of her hands, Taggart stood, thinking he'd finally extricated himself from the ridiculous situation. "I understand, miss," he replied, feeling strangely sad he'd be leaving his plucky adversary. "As you say, with the war raging a lady must be careful, indeed."

  Silky rose beside him. "I know that's right. My brother, Daniel, is soldiering with Uncle Joe Johnston, and you'd be surprised the letters I get telling about Yankee rascals taking advantage of Southern womenfolk." She folded her arms under her bosom and walked about the table. "Some wounded men from Daniel's company," she added thoughtfully, "are coming back for sick leave in a couple of weeks."

  "Oh? Why is that?"

  "It seems the convalescent hospitals are so full, most of the soldiers that can walk are being sent home to recuperate." She gave him a slow smile. "The whole hollow will turn out to welcome them, and I'll bet those soldiers will have stories about Yankees that will curl your hair."

  When Silky's words penetrated Taggart's brain, he captured her gaze, realizing that his abduction had been a godsend in disguise. Information about General Johnston's troops was just what he was looking forbut he'd thought he would have to ride into the heart of Virginia to find it. With a burst of insight, he realized that if he lingered in this cozy hollow the information would come to him. And besides that, now that Silky wasn't peering down the barrel of a rifle, she was more desirable than ever.

  Once again using the smile that had melted half the feminine hearts in Ohio, he ambled to her. "I couldn't help but notice ... you're shingling your barn, aren't you?"

  She stared at him with parted lips. "Why, yes, Charlie and I have been trying, but"

  He clasped her soft shoulders, noting how small and shapely she was. "Why don't I stay a few days and smooth up that roof?" he asked, feeling her body trembling under his hands. "Right now it's letting in as much rain as it's keeping out. I can sleep in the loft close to my work."

  His throaty proposal rushed pleasure through Silky, almost frightening her with its intensity. Even now sexual tension sizzled between them, and an inner voice told her it would be best if she refused the offer. But at the same time she was powerfully drawn to him, in spite of the dangerous risk that the attraction presented.