“Cain’t be too picky these days. Besides, I’m no carpenter.”
“Where’s your husband?” He studied her intently, holding his breath for her answer.
“I don’t have one. I’m a squatter.” She watched his face for reaction. “Most folks in this area are. The real homesteaders moved off mostly when the soldiers came.”
Jesse tried not to give her the satisfaction of knowing he was relieved.
However, her admission that she was a squatter surprised him. “Most squatters don’t admit it.”
“Lieutenant, there’s a war on. Many people have had their homes burned, or destroyed. There are a lot of squatters. People gotta live. Are you hungry?”
“Yeah, a little.”
Watching her move, he disliked the way his body responded to her swaying hips. The dress bounced with her walk. It wasn’t an intentional thing she did.
He’d watched her intently at the creek that morning. Her hips had captured his full attention, such womanly curves. She filled his thoughts. His mind fought the attraction.
“I got a stew on. If you can sit up, I’ll feed you.” She went to the fire and stirred the stew in the pot. “It ain’t the best. I don’t have a real garden or anything, so I make do, but it will nourish you.”
He smelled it, and his belly growled. She looked over her shoulder at him and smiled. He tried to sit up and finally managed with a groan.
She turned to watch him. “I dug the bullet out of your shoulder two days ago.
It was a clean wound. How’d you manage to get yourself so close to the barrel of a gun? Looks like someone just walked right up and shot you.”
“I don’t remember. All I remember is hitting the ground.”
“The Federals were through a few days ago. I didn’t hear any skirmish, and yet there were several with you. You’re a strong one. You showed signs of losing a lot of blood. You were quite pale when I found you and there was blood everywhere.
I’m surprised you can get up and move around so quickly.” She studied him a moment.
She was obviously as curious about him as he was her. “Forgive me, for being so skeptical, miss, but you seem very adept at fixing a wound, carrying a soldier, even identifying my rank. That puzzles me.” He tried a smile again. “It strikes me a bit odd that a woman would know so much.”
She glanced away. “Better watch out, Lieutenant. I might be dangerous. Maybe I’m some kind of spy? Is that what you’re thinking?”
Honesty was always the best. “Well, yes, it’s possible.” She came closer with the bowl of stew. His mouth began to water. “And you can cook, too!” He laughed.
She stared a long moment. “Can you manage or do you want me to feed you?”
She pursed her lips.
He relaxed a bit. “I could do it, but it would be more fun if you did. Besides, I don’t want to redo the damage you managed to clean up.”
She nodded and sat beside him on the bed, her hip next to his. He inhaled her scent and closed his eyes, enjoying it. The woman had few frills to her life, yet she smelled of lilacs.
She stirred the stew and blew on it to cool, then gave him a spoonful. He took it, his eyes meeting hers. She was even lovelier up close, and her youth seemed an odd combination with spying. The woman was barely full-grown, barely past eighteen by the look of her. How did a woman so young, so beautiful, get to be a spy?
Her hair fell over her shoulders and down her back in waves. His fingers itched to touch it. It shone like black silk, cascading about her, not hidden in a scarf like
many Negro women, but flowing and untamed. As she offered him a bite, her mouth fell open. Mesmerized, he stared long and hard trying to temper his urges.
He reminded himself that she was a spy, a very dangerous one.
“Lieutenant, we won’t get much down you if you keep staring.”
“Sorry, I been at war too long, lost my manners. It’s just, I haven’t seen a woman like you before.” He meant that.
“Like me?” she questioned, her brows knitting in a mock frown. “What do you mean…like me? I’m no different than any other.”
“Your color. You don’t look like any black I’ve ever seen…and I’ve been around a few. You’re golden, not black, and your hair is so lovely, and….” His hands itched to stroke her wavy hair.
“And you better eat.” She chuckled, her eyes darting to his.
When he didn’t say anything, she shrugged as though considering telling him something. “I’m part black and part white.”
It was an honest answer, and Jesse wondered how many honest answers he’d get from her. So far he was doing pretty well. “The best parts of each I guess,” he said before thinking.
She smiled as her long curly lashes veiled her thoughts from him. “Are you flirting with me, Lieutenant?”
“No, ma’am, that’s just fact.” He cleared his throat and continued to stare.
“In this old dress, with no shoes, I don’t see how you say such a thing. I have nothing nice…like most women. I live in a shack. I wear tattered clothes that are so old if you touch them they might fall apart.” She laughed, her voice sounding lyrical.
Her dress falling apart brought a mental picture that had his body responding.
“You can’t hide beauty, ma’am.”
She stared into his eyes and studied him openly for a moment. “Perhaps you’re the spy. Do you flirt so with all women?”
“No…just you!” He laughed.
She obviously liked his response. She turned away, and then back to him. “I’m from Louisiana. My mother was a mulatto, the plantation owner’s favorite.
Mama’s husband wasn’t my father.
“I was brought up under a curtain of shame but educated nonetheless. That’s the way it’s done there. Although from my present position, no one would guess it. If a white plantation owner creates a mulatto, he sends them off to school in another area to be educated so that if he’s found out, he has taken the precaution to educate his own children. Of course his white wife usually pretends to be blind or doesn’t care about his extra activities. As long as it is not discussed or brought up in public, everything is fine. It’s a privilege not afforded most slaves, so I’m thankful for that.”
“What are you doin’ in Arkansas, then?”
“I escaped the plantation.”
“How long ago did you run away?” He marveled at her openness and honesty, and studied her face as she gave so much of herself away.
“A little over two years ago.”
“D-did they hurt you or something?” he asked hoping she’d tell him about the whip marks on her back.
“Hurt me? Where are you from? Of course they hurt me. You just don’t know.
The owner raped my mother repeatedly. She was young and beautiful, quite desirable. He couldn’t keep his hands off of her, despite the fact that he had a wife and children of his own. I’m the result of that glorious union. His wife knew what went on. She ignored it. But once in a while I’d see her look at me, and the hurt in her eyes seemed to condemn me. He’d come in the middle of the night and take my mother, in front of me, rutting her like a pig. At first she fought him, and then one day she just quit and lay quietly. Eventually, his wife grew sick and he took my mother to his bed. She became the wife’s handmaiden. But the wife knew, and I think that’s why she eventually died. When my mother grew older and I grew up, I tried to run away. For that they beat me with a whip. Ungrateful, my
father
called me. I didn’t plan on sticking around and taking my mother’s place. He as good as killed her in the end. I saw my chance, and I took it. And I’ve never regretted it.” Her words slurred with unshed tears.
“Did you escape by yourself with no help?”
“My mother’s husband, the one that should have been my father, helped me get away. They killed him during the escape. I never got to thank him. I’ll always
love him for that.” She bit her bottom lip and her eyes took on a faraway look as she spoke.
“This is an intolerable thing…I meant no offense in asking. I’m sorry for your loss. To think such pigs exist.” Taking her hand in his, he rubbed it absently, sensuously.
She stared at his actions, and then slowly pulled her hand away. “Here, look at me and you’ll see.” She opened her dress and let the back down for his gaze. She lifted her hair slowly away. Huge whip marks that had cut to the bone marred the perfection of her golden skin. He touched one. She jumped. He kissed one, she shivered.
She spun around and her dress lowered, her breast almost bared to him. Her innocence seemed out of place, but it shone in her eyes. She didn’t realize the temptress in her.
Jesse drew a breath. His eyes fastened on her dark nipples that peeped above the drooping bodice as she moved; his mouth watered. He wanted her, and if she paid attention, she’d know it.
She blushed as he studied her. Hurriedly, she fastened her dress and let her hair down once more. Obviously uncomfortable, she stepped away and lowered her head.
“Why did you kiss the marks?” she asked, not looking directly at him.
“My mother…she always said a kiss made it better.” Jesse felt her pain, but he clenched his jaw to keep from revealing too much of himself. “I’m sorry. I don’t blame you for running. And I’m sorry I stare at you. It probably makes you uncomfortable. It’s just that you’re so young, so innocent-like, beautiful and shy.”
Her breath hitched, and her golden skin turned almost pink. “White men don’t talk that way to women like me, unless they—” She stopped, peeking at him from beneath veiled lashes. She pressed her lips together. “Maybe you should feed yourself now.” She stood and walked away from him.
He wondered at that. Why, if she was such a seductress, didn’t she stay close?
She had him where she wanted him. Why did she back off? Why did she blush when she caught him staring? Why did she unbutton her dress and show him her
scars in the first place? The act had not been intentionally seductive, but a childlike gesture of trust.
Nothing added up.
This woman had been a victim, her and her family, and to witness her mother being raped? He hadn’t expected anyone like her, a poor, mistreated creature and lovelier than any woman had a right to be.
When he finished his meal, she took the bowl. He reached to touch her hand again. “I’m sorry you were hurt so badly, truly, and thank you for taking care of me. I appreciate your kindness.”
She shook her head as if she didn’t quite believe his words. Unshed tears hovered in her eyes. Was gratefulness such a rare thing in her life? Surely as one of the best spies for the North, she had the gratitude of the Federals.
She hurried away. “You should rest.” She cleaned the dishes and wiped her hands on her skirt.
When she moved about, her leg peeped out from her skirt. As she leaned on one hip to stir the stew once more, his groin tightened. Even the way she stood was provocative, and yet she was unaware. He couldn’t stop looking any more than she could stop being herself, a tempting little lady, and she didn’t even know it. Or did she? Perhaps her charms lay in feigned innocence, enticing without being brazen about it. He was certainly tempted.
“There are no other beds here. Where will you sleep?” He glanced about the room.
“On the floor.” She pretended to be busy.
He stared at the roof a long time. One bed, two people, and a libido that seemed to scream at him every time she shifted toward him. How was he going to sleep?
Before she blew out the candle, she made a pallet on the floor with old blankets. She carried the lamp to her bed and glanced over at him. “Goodnight,”
she called.
“Goodnight.” He looked at her and their eyes met for a long moment before she blew the flame out. Her eyes reflected so many things, all at once, sadness,
fear. But, when she came close, he’d seen a spark in her eyes. Like a frightened animal.
A restless night and a nasty storm didn’t help. Water trickled from the roof holes, and her bed had to be soaked. He got up off the cot, wincing from the pain and walked toward her.
Quickly she stirred, and as he lifted her off the floor, she pointed a gun at his face. “What do you think you are doing?” The huskiness in her voice had him nearly stumbling.
“Getting you out of the rain,” he answered her softly, his eyes going to hers.
“Put me down. I’ll move my bed. You’ll break open your wounds. Don’t you have any idea how to take care of yourself?” Her voice filled with concern for him.
“A lady shouldn’t sleep on the floor while the man takes the bed.”
“I can manage.” She lowered the gun.
He smiled. “So can I.” Grazing her forehead with a kiss, he laid her on the bed.
His heavy sigh spoke volumes.
Taking the dry blanket, he put it closer to the fire and away from the holey roof. He lay down and closed his eyes.
“Lieutenant?” she rasped through the darkness.
“Yes?”
“You’re a very nice man.” Deliberately she turned away from him.
“Get some sleep.” Dreams of her floated through his mind. He closed his eyes to shut her out. She didn’t leave. His wound was painful and he sincerely wished he had a sip of whiskey.
***
The next day, he awoke to frying bacon. He licked his lips as he tried to sit up.
He glanced at his shoulder. Blood oozed onto the bandage once more.
“Bacon?” He sat up, jolted by a sharp pain.
“Salt pork, but if you cut it real thin and fry it, it tastes a lot like bacon.” She raised her voice in exasperation. “Cain’t get no coffee, cain’t get no bacon. Got a
couple of chickens though. We can have eggs.” She smiled at him, obviously letting down her guard.
Her smile was so open, so real, as though he could almost trust her. The sergeant had said
don’t fall for the Black Widow.
Why had he been given such a mission?
The morning sunlight streamed over her, outlining her entire body through the thin dress. He liked her. She’d had a rough time of it, and yet she’d had the guts to escape. She must have known the hazards. He wanted to know so much more about her. This woman lived with danger, and yet to look at her, one wouldn’t know it.
“How’s the shoulder?” Red stained the bandages. She frowned. “I should have cauterized it. I hate doing that, but in this case I will have to. After we eat, I’ll take care of it. You’ve lost too much blood. You’re pale again.”