Scarlet Leaves Page 4

  Taggart knew that slaves were almost nonexistent in the high mountains, and Silky didn't understand the moral crusade fueling the fervor of the Northern forces. To her, the Yankees were intruders, bent on destroying a beloved way of life. "If I remember correctly," he said, swinging down from his mount, "South Carolina fired first at Fort Sumter."

  She whirled about, her large eyes searching his face. "Lordamercy. I'll tell you straight out. Sometimes you worry me to death. Why do you keep bringing up things like that?"

  "Just stating another fact," Taggart offered, casually looping his reins about the saddle horn.

  Her solemn expression broke into a hint of a smile. "You have more facts in that handsome head of yours than a pickle has warts, but I'd be pleased if you kept the more depressing ones to yourself."

  Her gaze took in the largest apple tree, whose great boughs drooped with the weight of their colorful burden, then settled back on him. "Come on, we'd better get to work," she advised with a forgiving grin.

  Gunnysacks were drawn from her saddlebag, and after Taggart shook the tree limbs, they began gathering the shiny fruit. When pulled downward, the smaller boughs often recoiled and burst away, but not before showering the earth with fragrant apples, which were scooped into the rough sacks.

  Silky, moving to another tree, spotted Taggart striding purposefully toward her, a roguish light in his eyes. His shirt and trim breeches strained over his huge form, telling her there was nothing but rock-hard muscle beneath the fabric. The man was as awesomely attractive in clothes as he wasNo, don't think of that, she warned herself, trying to forget the way he'd looked in old man Johnson's pool, his body burnished with the sun's last rays.

  Under the shade of the tree, he deposited his sack and took a bite of crisp apple. "Want a bite, Fancy Pants?" he inquired, holding the apple toward her in his big hand. His voice had a husky catch to it, and his lips curved upward in a devastating smile, adding heat to her already warm cheeks.

  Had this ruggedly handsome man told her the truth about himself? she wondered with a gnawing pang of doubt. Some of his comments troubled her deeply, but now that she'd accepted him as a Confederate, she didn't want to consider the alternative. That someone as charming as he was could be a Yankee was unthinkable. With a racing pulse, she accepted the piece of fruit, and he placed his hand over hers, its coiled strength pleasuring her. "Try it ... it's good," he said, his resonant voice sending an aroused tingle through her veins.

  Gently he traced the line of her cheek, and she steeled herself against the surge of desire sweeping over her. She studied his craggy features, amazed at how sure of himself he was with women. Oh, he was a gentleman, all right, but he was a ladies' man, too. You could see it in his eyes. Why, he was probably such a heartbreaker, it would take a tenbuggy prayer meeting just to begin saving him!

  With a leaping bean, she met his searching gaze. Without waiting for permission, he gently took her in his arms. She trembled, acutely aware of his strength and vitality, and felt her pent-up longings clamoring for release. Slowly he bent his head, and his warm lips smoothed over her closed eyelids, ruffling her lashes, then brushed over her lips, soft as a butterfly's wing.

  Almost immediately she noticed a pleasant ache between her legs, and her knees went weak beneath her. She'd never experienced such a feeling, and it thrilled and frightened her at the same time, sending her heart thudding as if it would burst from her rib cage. Lordamercy, he'd only brushed his lips against hers, but she couldn't let this continueshe had to show him this was one mountain girl whose will wouldn't crumble beneath his entrancing charm. Her heart still pounding with excitement, she eased back from him, trying to pretend the half-kiss had never happened. Still, even as she did so, she yearned for the golden warmth and security of his arms, and wondered if she'd ever be as happy as she was this very minute.

  His eyes dancing, he towered over her, looking more amused than angry. "Aren't you going to try the apple?" he murmured in a caressing tone, sending fresh shivers down her spine.

  She held his sparkling eyes, her body still pulsing with warmth from his touch. "Sure," she replied, biting into the juicy apple. "I already know they're good. I should, because I've eaten a jillion of them." Determined to repair her frazzled composure, she handed the apple back to him with a trembling hand. "You know," she remarked shakily, desperately trying to change the subject and put the last few minutes behind them, "sometimes I wish that General Grant would saunter right through the middle of Sweet Gum Hollow."

  Surprise flared in Taggart's eyes.

  "Him and his big cigar," she complained in an irritated tone, mightily relieved the intimate moment had passed.

  Taggart scanned her blushing face. The Union might be winning the war, but he'd just lost his first battle with this sweet Reb. He realized she needed some time to understand the new feelings he'd aroused within her, so he'd best go slow for a while. "Why would you want to meet General Grant?" he asked, accepting the fact that he'd have to settle for apples and talk today instead of real kisses. "What would you say to him if you saw him?"

  She picked up her sack and walked to another tree.

  Amused at the direction the conversation had taken, he followed her, wondering what she'd say if she knew he was well acquainted with the general.

  "I wouldn't say anything to him," she finally answered, pulling down a bough and giving it a shake, "but you know

  what I'd do with him?"

  "I'm afraid to ask."

  She fell to her knees and began tossing apples into her gunnysack. "I'd see that some of the home guard tarred and feathered him and rode him out of the hollow on a rail."

  Taggart considered her words, sorry to hear there was a Confederate home guard in the vicinity. Although home guards were made up of older men and those unfit for regular service, it didn't take that much strength to pull a trigger. Their existence put a new light on his stay in the hollow.

  She looked up with flashing eyes. "And I wouldn't care if the men included Sheridan and Sherman in that little operation."

  Just imagining all those feathers made Taggart want to sneeze.

  Her sack full, she rose with a jaunty air. ''Yes, sir," she said, tossing back her shining cuds. "If there's anything I hate worse than poison, it's a low-down, sorry, blue-bellied Yankee buzzard."

  Taggart hoisted up his gunnysack, thinking this peppery Reb never let up. The last time he'd heard such a superb string of invective had been at a Virginia horse race over fifteen years ago. "Four-flushing," he calmly interjected.

  She stared at him with big eyes. "What?"

  "You forgot to say four-flushing. If there's anything you hate worse than poison, it's a low-down, sorry, four-flushing, blue-bellied Yankee buzzard."

  Silky laughed. "Yes, how could I have forgotten that?" With a companionable air, she clasped his arm. "I tell you what," she proposed happily, "I've got some sugar saved back. Let's go home and I'll make some apple pies for supper tonight."

  She tossed a shiny apple into the air, then caught it and polished it on her sleeve. "These apples will make fine applejack, too," she commented, critically inspecting the fruit before returning it to her sack. "I made a batch last year that I'll let you sample," she added as they carried their burdens to the horses. "It's smooth as a moonbeam."

  Taggart knotted the top of his gunnysack on his saddle horn and swung into place, relieved that Silky still believed he was a Confederate officer, and thankful that he'd been invited back to her cabin for pie and applejack instead of the activity she'd described for the Union generals.

  As they galloped down the trail, reentering the woods, one thought pounded through his head repeatedly, in time with the horses' thudding hooves. Despite the obvious sexual attraction between them, this fire-snorting secessionist would have a rifle at his back and a rope around his neck in a heartbeat if she only knew who he was.

  "You mean to tell me," Charlie croaked in disbelief, staring across the table at Taggart, "that you went
to school right up there amongst them Yankee buzzards?" Silky laughed to herself at the expression on the boy's face, thinking she'd never seen him look more stunned.

  From his place beside her, Taggart lit up an after-dinner cheroot, and puffed on it until he could get it going. Outside, the wind had risen and a few raindrops pecked against the windowpanes, but inside the snug cabin, flames crackled in the hearth and the scent of apple pie permeated the air, creating a warm, cozy atmosphere. "That's right," he answered, rolling the cigar to the other side of his mouth and regarding the boy amiably. "A family connection helped me get an appointment to West Point. After graduation, I was posted out West for several years. Of course, after Jefferson Davis was elected president of the Confederacy, I resigned my commission and offered my services to the South."

  Charlie eyed him with fascinated horror. "Is is true them Yankee buzzards have horns?"

  The sound of Taggart's laughter in her ears, Silky rose from the table to deposit her plate in the dishpan. "Charlie," she drawled, slowly turning about, "that's the wildest thing I ever heard. Yankees are low-down varmints, but any sane human being knows they don't have horns."

  The boy cast a hurt gaze over her. "Well, Wilbur Clingerman over in Snyder's Holler said he killed one the first year of the war, and the critter had little bitty horns on his head, kinda like a yearlin' deer."

  "Wilbur Clingerman is a drunk. The only time he refused a drink he didn't understand the question. He probably saw horns on the Yankee, all right, and if you'd ask him, a tail and hooves, too."

  Taggart combed a hand through his hair.

  With an inward groan, Silky surveyed his droll expression. No doubt he believed all mountain people were as ill informed as her cousin, she decided, wanting him to think only the best of her. Gnawing her bottom lip, she wondered what embarrassing topic the boy would bring up next.

  She didn't have to wait long, for Charlie turned a speculative eye to Taggart. "You got the itch on your head? I saw you scratchin'. A good dose of sulfur, lard, and gunpowder on your scalp will kill it right fast." He frowned at Taggart's cheroot. "Course you can't smoke 'cause it might set your hair afire, but I reckon it'd be all right to chew tobacco."

  The boy blinked thoughtfully. "If you got anything else ailin' you, just ask Silky. She knows a heap about mixin' herbs. Reckon she's herb-doctored near ever'body in the holler. If you need a purgative, she'll fix you up quick as a minnow can swim a dipper."

  Lordamercy, Silky thought with alarm. Had some kind of spell come over the boy? She'd better send him on his way before he brought up something worse than he already had. "Aren't you finished yet?" she asked a little sharply. "You better start for home." She hurriedly placed a clean towel over one of the pies she was cooling. "It's fixin' to come a rainstorm."

  When she'd removed the boy's plate, he stood and snapped his suspenders. "Guess I'll be moseyin' on now," he announced, slapping on his cap and studying Taggart with a satisfied expression. "Think on what I told you about that itch of yours, now."

  With a relieved sigh, she caught the lad at the threshold and handed him a cooled pie. "Take this to your grand-daddy. He's always been real partial to apple pie."

  When the double-battened door had slammed shut after the boy, Silky and Taggart both burst out laughing. "That boy," she exclaimed, shaking her head. "Sometimes I think he could talk a gate off its hinges. And I know he can stay longer in an hour than most people can in a week."

  She removed a brown jug from its place on the shelf, then scanned Taggart's frankly sensual face, excitement rippling through her. "Now ... how about a smattering of this applejack?" Near the table, she paused meaningfully. "You won't be sorry," she teased playfully. "It'll make your ears ring, your eyes water, and sweat pop out on your brow."

  Taggart's white teeth gleamed under his mustache. "Sounds like just what the doctor ordered," he replied, holding out his empty cup with a twinkle in his eyes.

  She began filling the cup with amber liquid, noticing that her hand was a little unsteady. Confound it, she thought, why was it suddenly so important to earn this man's respect and admiration? And why did just pouring him a cup of applejack made her feel all soft inside, like a silly schoolgirl? She'd been thinking of those brief moments he'd grazed his lips over hers all day. Even now, her pulse raced faster just recalling it. Why couldn't she get the disquieting memory out of her head? Not having time to analyze the troubling question, she served herself, then placed the jug aside, her heart quickening with unnamed emotions.

  "You know," she remarked, sinking into her chair, "sometimes I'm about as curious as Charlie myself." Amazed at all Taggart knew and the many places he'd been, she lowered her voice. "Tell me ... what does West Point look like? The Lord knows I'll never have a chance to see it."

  Taggart studied Silky's inquisitive face, then leaned back and remembered the academy he'd attended so many years ago. "West Point," he began thoughtfully, "is situated above New York City in a beautiful setting where the Hudson River cuts a narrow channel through the Appalachian Mountains."

  He looked at her and smiled, recalling the sound of a bugle's burst, and the symphony made by hundreds of boots marching over the parade ground. "The buildings are clustered on a steep hillside above the river. Sometimes on spring nights, I would lie in my bunk and, through an open window, smell greenery and hear the roar of the river." He leaned forward and took her smooth hand. "But I think the academy is prettiest in winter when there are sleigh bells on the nippy air." He ran his fingers over her hand, noticing color stain her cheeks.

  "When I was a little girl," she said in a throaty voice, "Pa bought me a fairy-tale book about a castle on a hill. The things you say sound like they might have come from that book." A second later, her face lit up. "I just thought of something," she breathed, blinking her eyes in excitement. ''You've probably met Jeb Stuart and Stonewall Jackson. Daniel said they went to West Point, too."

  Taggart stood and walked toward the hearth, holding out his hands to warm them. He realized that these generals were heroes to Silky, and, knowing them both, he recalled them as men of principle who'd suffered agonies before casting their lot with the South. Why should he deny her a bit of pleasure because he disagreed with the cause they embraced? "Yes," he answered slowly. "Today Stuart wears a plumed hat and a red-lined cape, and sports gold spurs on his boots, but during his West Point days the other cadets dubbed him Beauty because he was so homely."

  "And poor Jacksonwhat a shame he's dead," Silky commented sadly. "Can you remember anything about him?"

  Taggart stared into the flames, recalling the great general who'd stood like a stone wall at Manassas and died at Chancellorsville a little over a year ago. He tossed the remainder of his cheroot into the fire, then turned, focusing his attention on her rapt face. "Jackson always wore a plain uniform and rode a common-looking mount, but he was a great man and a finer general," he answered with true conviction. "I believe, with his death, the Confederacy lost part of its fighting spirit."

  Silent, Silky rose and walked toward him, her eyes taking on an almost worshipful look. "And Lee?" she inquired, her voice quavering a little. "Have you ever seen the great Robert E. Lee himself?"

  Lee had been at West Point the year Taggart graduated, and he'd been privileged to hear him speak. Once again recalling the general's soulful eyes and genteel Virginia voice, he remembered how he'd always been awed by the man's powerful presence. "I've heard him lecture, and I think," he said softly, truly speaking from his heart, "that he represents all that is fine and noble about the South."

  Silky let out a ragged breath, obviously impressed that he'd met the commander of the heralded Army of Northern Virginia. For a moment they stood quietly, a companionable silence gently settling over them; then she remarked, "This has been quite an evening for mehearing about West Point and those gallant Southern generals."

  Listening to the rain that now pounded against the cabin roof, Taggart studied her inviting lips and her remarkable gre
en eyes that were flecked with gold and glinted beneath long, sooty lashes. Her face softening, she glanced at the ceiling, then back at him. "It would pleasure me if you slept in the cabin tonight," she suggested with a quiet smile. "You can use Daniel's bed."

  Taggart felt a kick of emotion. "But"

  She shook her head. "You don't need to say another word. You don't need to worry what the neighbors will say, because I haven't got any."

  "Your brother" he began, knowing most Southern men would strongly object to the situation.

  A gentle smile graced her mouth. "The war has changed many things." Dimples formed in her cheeks. "Why, Daniel would be proud to have a fine Southern gentleman here protecting me from the Yankees."

  Taggart's conscience twinged with every word she spoke.

  "Besides," she continued in a sensible voice, "how could I sleep in this warm cabin knowing you were getting wet as a drowned rat in that leaky barn?" She eyed the rain-lashed window, then floated her gentle gaze over him. "It's getting a little chillier each day. I know this old cabin doesn't look like much to a man like you, but it's better than the barn." Her eyes shone with happiness. "After all you're doing for the South, providing a dry place for you to sleep is the least I can do."

  Taggart surveyed Daniel's tidy bed with its clean quilt, and it looked mighty appealing compared to the drafty, leaky barn. And how nice it would be to feel cool clean sheets against his skin after sleeping on a bedroll in the open for several weeks. Sending her a broad smile, he nodded his head. "Very well, if you insist, I accept with gratitude."

  Back at the table they drank a little more applejack and talked about the war. Later they tacked a quilt from one of the rafters, separating Silky's bed from the rest of the room to give her some privacy. When she finally blew out the kerosene lamp, the room dissolved into darkness, smoke briefly scenting the air. Firelight alone now illuminated her willowy frame, and for a moment their eyes met and held.