Scarlet Leaves Read online

  Silky cocked the rifle. "You've done fried my patience," she asserted, her throat almost closing with emotion. "This is my place, and if there's going to be any shooting, I'm going to be the one doing it."

  "You scare me," he scoffed, raking a mocking gaze over her.

  She permitted herself a little smile. "You don't know what scared is yet. Funny thing about a repeating rifleit'll kill you five times before you can blink once."

  Holt widened his eyes in surprise.

  "It's getting plumb dark already," she remarked, her voice a raspy whisper. "It would pleasure me greatly if you and your friends rode on home for supper."

  She could see the man reaching for his pistol, but also realized the inhabitants of the hollow wouldn't tolerate him drawing on a woman who was standing on her own property asking him to leave.

  With a scowl, the sergeant dropped his hand, then limped to his horse and slowly remounted. "You best be careful, missy, who you bring into your cabin," he growled, stabbing his finger at her. "This is war times and it ain't safe, nor smart either, to go takin' up with ever' stranger that comes traipsin' through the woods."

  He moved a hard gaze over Taggart then, jerking his head in the direction of the forest, rode away, disappearing into the deepening shadows. Their faces stony masks, the old men followed, the sounds of their nickering horses gradually fading away.

  Taggart watched Silky lower the rifle with trembling hands. Although fire still lingered in her eyes, her face had relaxed visibly. Knowing it wasn't the time to speak, he remained silent, impressed that she'd taken a stand to defend him. Thank God the irregulars hadn't stayed long enough to search his saddlebags, or they would have found enough evidence to shoot him on the spot. Whether the little spitfire knew it or not, she'd saved his life.

  If she'd wanted to turn him in, if she'd had any doubts about his loyalty to the South, she could have easily given the word, and he'd now be a dead man. Without a doubt he'd completely deceived her with his story, he decided, wondering why that fact should make him a bit sad.

  He'd made it through this confrontation, but there would be other encounters with Confederates, many of whom would be harder to back down. Could he keep up the charade until the wounded troops returned to the hollow and gave him the needed information? And more important, could he cut off his growing feelings for Silky and ride away without looking back?

  Placing his hand on the small of her back, he escorted her to the cabin, thinking those were questions he'd be forced to live with every day he lingered here. "What are we having for supper tonight?" he asked quietly, suddenly realizing that the cabin's glowing lights had never looked prettier.

  She looked up with smiling eyes. "Ham hocks and beans," she answered, tears of relief clinging to her lashes. "Let's eat before the corn bread gets cold."

  The next morning Silky hurried toward her log home, carrying a bowl of freshly gathered eggs in her hands. The morning was nippy and the grass glistened with frost, but remembering the way Holt and his friends had beaten a path for the woods the evening before made her feel warm all over. Once inside the cabin, she smelled burning paper, then noticed Taggart suddenly turning from his place before the hearth, a surprised expression flashing on his face.

  Her gaze traveled to the flames as they licked over a paper with close writing and numbers, then turned the page into gray ashes that dissolved into the fire. After placing the eggs on the table, she met Taggart's eyes, deciding she'd never seen them hold such a look as they did now. What did she see in their depths? she wondered: guilt, concern, regret, or a subtler emotion she wasn't acquainted with?

  He stared at her for a moment. "I was just getting rid of an old letter," he stated, his tone rough and somewhat unsteady. He smiled brightly, a bit too confidently, she thought with a dart of misgiving. "I didn't know you would be coming back so soon," he added, his voice still uneven.

  Silky regarded him, not knowing just how she should respond.

  "Well," he finished briskly, reaching for a jacket, "I'd better be getting up on that roof. From what you say the first snow will be coming soon and I still have some work to do."

  Silky stared at him, feeling her spirits sink, but not understanding just why. "I-I think I'll go into the woods this morning and pick some persimmons," she stammered. "Now that we've had a couple of hard frosts they should be good and ripe."

  Taggart nodded, then shrugged on his jacket, moved past her, and left the cabin.

  After washing a few dishes, Silky put on an old jacket herself, picked up a basket, and departed for the forest. In the distance the Blue Ridge Mountains stretched as far as the eye could see, a misty haze floating over them, and closer in, dark evergreens towered upward like giant sentinels. But Silky's mind was so preoccupied with the burning paper, she scarcely noticed the beauty about her. For a while she searched for persimmon trees, plucking the orange-red fruit and dropping it into her basket. Before she knew it, she found herself back at her thinking place.

  Her mind racing, she sat atop the flat boulder, the noise of the creek and trilling birdsong providing a pleasant background for her troubled thoughts. Why had Taggart waited until she'd gone to gather eggs to bum his letter? she wonderedand why had she felt that thick air of tension between them? There were still so many things about him that left her puzzled. She knew Charlie didn't trust him, but that didn't necessarily prove anything. He was just a boy, and surely jealous now that an outsider had come to pull her attention away from him.

  Yes, Taggart projected an air of danger and toughness that was truly tantalizing, but in him she found none of the cold, rude qualities she'd always imagined Yankees to possess. She sensed that under his brooding good looks lurked a gentleman and a thoughtful, caring lover, even if he'd lost some of his Norfolk drawl up North.

  Silky sat on the boulder pondering the situation for a good half hour; then, drawing in a long breath, she cast aside her doubts. She was wasting her time. She'd stood up for Taggart against the home guard, hadn't she? She should trust her own good judgment and let the matter rest. Holt and his friends could sulk all they liked, and the granny women could gossip about the good-looking stranger till they fell out of their rocking chairs. She'd accepted Taggart for what he said he was, and she'd stand by her decision.

  Kneeling atop the barn roof, Charlie offered Taggart another shingle. "Reckon it'll snow soon?"

  Ignoring the boy, Taggart inched forward, feeling the uneven roof against his knees. He slapped the shingle into place, took several nails from his clenched lips, and banged

  the rough square in place. Several days had passed since Sergeant Holt's visit, and although he hadn't seen the man or his friends again, he was glad he'd taken the precaution of memorizing the coded cipher and burning it, and also breaking the money into smaller bundles and secreting it in his clothing. Now if the men reappeared, he wouldn't be caught with the damning evidence.

  His mind dwelled on Silky, who'd gone to Bear Wallow this morning to bring back a few provisions. With a flicker of anxiety, he remembered the questioning look on her face as she had watched the flames consume the cipher. Had she believed his story that the paper was a letter? That was something that only time would tell, he finally decided with a lingering sense of concern.

  "Lieutenant, you ain't payin' a lick of attention to what I said," Charlie prodded, shaking Taggart's arm and steering his mind back to the present. "I asked you if you reckon it'll snow soon."

  Taggart glanced up. After several hours of work he was only half listening to the boy who'd been rattling on all morning. He gave the fourth nail a last swat for good measure. "I suppose," he replied, tired of the lad's endless chatter.

  Charlie balanced himself against the slanting roof. "I'll bet it does. Up here in the mountains the weather can change overnight, and when it starts snowin' sometimes it goes on for days." He chuckled. "Yessirreebob. I reckon this winter will be as cold as a cast-iron commode."

  Taggart paused to wipe a handkerchief ove
r his damp brow. The cold November breeze felt good against his skin. As he surveyed his work, he noticed the shingling was almost finished, and experienced a surprising pang of disappointment.

  "When there's a real nip in the air like today it always reminds me that hog-killin' time is just around the corner," Charlie went on, a broad grin racing over his face. "What's your favorite part of the hog? Mine's souse. I'm right partial to liver paste, too."

  Taggart hammered down another shingle.

  "Silky always makes sausage at hog-killin' time and has me take it to all the widder ladies in the holier." The boy seemingly never ran out of breath. He shook his head. "I reckon if somethin' happened to that girl the whole dadgummed holier would fall to staves." For one blessed moment he was quiet; then he burst out with, "You ever been married?"

  Taggart studied him, wondering what had brought on the personal question. Although Charlie was always friendly, he knew he really didn't trust him. Then, understanding that, as Silky had once said, the boy was curious as a pet coon, he decided the question was totally innocuous. "No, I've never been married," he answered matter-of-factly.

  "Have you ever had a hound dog?"

  Taggart snorted, thinking his father, who kept a kennel of registered spaniels, would be horrified at the thought of a hound dog lazing on his marble veranda. "No, I've never had a hound dog, either."

  The boy leaned closer, filling Taggart's nostrils with the warm, tangy scent of chewing tobacco. "How about a coon or a crow?" he asked with exasperation. "They're both real smart."

  Taggart tossed his hammer aside. "No, I've never had a hound dog, a coon, a crow, a mouse, a tadpole, or even a one-legged grasshopper," he answered, trying to put an end to the conversation.

  Charlie scratched his head. "Lordy, your folks must have been poor as Job's turkey."

  Taggart laughed; then his curiosity go the best of him. He caught the boy's troubled gaze. "You were going to say something?"

  Charlie tugged his ear. "Naw ... I better not. Reckon it wouldn't be mannersome."

  Taggart sat back, really curious now. "Go on," he commanded. "Spit it out."

  A blush worked its way across the boy's freckled face.

  "Well, I was just thinkin'," he finally stammered, "ththat you've sure lived a dull life. No wife, no hound dog, no coon ... or even a little bitty ol' crow," he said, picking up speed once he'd started talking. "Life must be a pure disappointment to you." He gave him a keen look. "Maybe you should do some long thinkin' about what you want to do in your declinin' years."

  Declining years? thought Taggart. Of course it would do no good to tell the boy he was only thirty-three and a lifetime of exciting events stretched out before him like a golden road. Still, it seemed that never owning a hound dog or a coon made him a real failure. "Yeah, things have been pretty dull, all right," he sighed, deciding to join the game. "Duller than ditch water, sometimes."

  "Duller than a widder woman's ax?" The boy chuckled.

  "Oh, a heap duller than that," Taggart replied, realizing that much of his life had been dull because it was filled with meaningless rituals he'd been forced to carry out because of the family name. Wasn't that why he'd decided to go to West Point ... to get away from a life of boring ease and predictability? "I reckon a lot of my life has been flatter than a mashed cat."

  "Hey, you two," came a voice from the ground below. "Are you all working this morning or just making chin music?"

  Taggart peered over the edge of the roof, and his spirits rose when he spotted Silky. A radiant smile on her lips, she led her mount toward the barn, the wind molding her clothes to her shapely body.

  "I've got some good news," she announced, whipping a battered envelope from her pocket and waving it in the air. "The mail came in from Charlottesville yesterday. I got a letter from Daniel, and Uncle Joe's boys will be back in Bear Wallow day after tomorrow."

  "That is good news," Taggart replied, as he realized his time with Silkytheir shared jests and teasing chatterwas scheduled to end promptly. "I'll have the barn shingled by then, too," he added, the fact hitting him solidly in the gut.

  Their gazes locked and he thought he detected a touch of sadness on her facebut he couldn't be sure. She looked at him for a moment; then, her voice full of forced cheerfulness, she lightly remarked, "Just wanted you to know." Her bosom rising and falling with emotion, she stared at him a moment longer, then led her horse through the open barn doors.

  Taggart put down another shingle and hammered it hard. The soldiers would soon be home and he'd have his information, he thought with deep relief. There wouldn't be any excuse to linger in Sweet Gum Hollow any longer. He could get out of this Godforsaken backwater, ride to Charlottesville, and relay his information to the Union. Then, somewhere deep within him where truth dwelled, he realized this last month had been the best of his life.

  Getting another shingle, he noticed a silly grin on Charlie's face. "Silky's real pretty, ain't she? And nice, too. If she weren't my cousin, I reckon I'd be sweet on her myself."

  Taggart stared at the boy, amazed by his acuity. How did the lad know she'd worked her way under his skin like no woman before? How his friends in Washington would laugh if they knew that he, who'd squired the most fashionable women in the capitol, had gone soft over a mountain girl who'd never been twenty miles from the cabin where she was born.

  Taggart pounded down another shingle, realizing he had to accept the situation at hand, or he'd end up leaving a piece of himself behind when it came time to ride away.

  "You mad or somethin'?" Charlie asked point-blank.

  Frustration filled Taggart's soul. "No, I'm not mad," he muttered, giving the nails several hard swats that reverberated over the roof. He gazed at the boy, irritated by his lopsided grin. "I'll tell you when I'm mad."

  "That's funny," Charlie chirped, his grin now turning into a broad smile. "Just lookin' at you, I woulda sworn you was mad as a rained-on rooster."

  That evening, Silky looked up from her work, her face alight with curiosity. "I still don't understand why so many men were killed."

  Taggart watched her as, garbed in a scoop-necked dress of russet, she sat before the hearth slicing apples into a bowl. For the last ten minutes he'd been pacing about the cabin to burn off energy as he tried to reconstruct the Battle of Shiloh for her. Both harrowing days were vivid in his mind, for before going to work for General Sharpe, he'd fought there under Grant.

  She stopped working and stared at him, the firelight crowning her auburn hair with a glowing halo. ''We were winning at first, weren't we?"

  He held her inquiring gaze, explaining the battle as if he'd fought with the Confederacy. "Yes, at first," he answered slowly, seeing the flashing guns in his mind's eye, "but a lot of the soldiers were new and didn't know much about keeping together in battle."

  The ferocity of the hours stamped on his mind forever, he came to kneel by her chair. "In the smoke, little groups got separated and fought with the Union for a patch of woods or a hill. No one had ever seen such a battle. The trees were stripped of their very leaves by the bullets." He watched the play of emotion on her features. "Johnson was killed that bloody day and Grant had his horse shot from under him."

  Her eyes brimmed with emotion. "I've always imagined what it would be like to go into battle," she remarked, wiping her hand on a dishcloth and placing her bowl on the hearth. "Sometimes I tremble for Daniel. It must be the awfulest thing on earth." Her soft hand clasped his. "What is it like ... can you tell me?"

  Taggart rose and studied her delicate face, knowing he must shield her from the worst of what he'd experienced. "As I think of it now," he answered, recalling the bitter scent of smoke-thick air and the rattle of musketry, "what I remember most vividly is the time directly prior to battle. How quiet and calm it is. It's as if nature herself were holding her breath."

  He walked from the hearth and turned about, seeing her, but almost looking through her as his mind dwelled in the past. "It seems we were usually lying
on the earth behind a fence with our rifles resting on the bottom rails. The men's faces were pale, their features set, their muscles strung like steel. Some major or captain would always cry, 'Steady men! They're coming! Get ready!'"

  Silky's gaze was transfixed upon him.

  "Then the warning click of hammers ran down the lines as the guns were cockedand Lord, what a chilling sound that was, for at that moment everyone knew the shooting was ready to begin." He met her large, liquid eyes, knowing he dared not tell her more.

  Silky searched his taut face, realizing how profoundly the battle still affected him two years after it had happened. "I've often wondered if Yankees feel like us," she slowly ventured, trying to understand a people who, in her perspective, were almost of another race.

  His eyes lit with amusement. "I can assure you they do. They love, and marry, and have babies, and die, just like people in the Blue Ridge Mountains."

  She rose and, smoothing back her hair, walked to him, grasping for words to express what she meant. "But from what I've heard about them, they seem so different," she insisted, noticing the corners of his eyes crinkle in a smile.

  He clasped her shoulders. "As you would to them. Personal taste and beliefs may vary, but below the skin we're all alike. The big things, the important issues in life, are universal."

  Battling her confusion, she looked at him for an answer. "This war has changed and upset everyone," she breathed with a worried sigh. "Do you believe in the Causereally believe the South is doing the right thing?" she asked, finally voicing the question that had been pressing on her heart like a stone.

  He expelled a harsh breath, and, as he began speaking, she heard the raw tension in his voice. "I love my country and I believe in doing my duty," he finally answered. He regarded her with a veiled gaze. "The right thing can be different for different people."