“Anyway,” she said defensively. “Where are you from? You seem to sound Southern one minute, and Yankee the next.”
“Boston,” he said softly. “My father has a house on the Commons. He’s a banker.” He pointed at her bag. “His money went to Colonel Colt, among others, to build the New England weapons factories. As well as he was doing before the war, I can’t imagine what he’s worth now.”
“My brother went to Boston. Became a surgeon.” She paused. “Last I heard he was in Camp Douglas prison camp. But that’s been three years now.”
“Your parents?”
“Killed in the war. My brothers are gone, maybe dead. I’m all that’s left.”
“Look at us! Grown maudlin. I’ll bet that duck’s cooled.” He stood, rolling the clay-coated ball around into better light. “This is the tricky part. I’ve got to split the clay just right and part it so it pulls the feathers free and doesn’t drop dirt onto the meat.”
“Are you really that good, Mr. Anderson?”
“Hope so.” He grinned up at her. “Let me get you another glass of champagne, and I’ll give it a try.”
54
April 11, 1865
It took two tries. Sarah finally blinked her eyes open, the lids gritty and dry. Nothing made sense. She was staring at canvas illuminated by bright sunlight. Her body was comfortably supported by a cot, a warm and soft blanket tucked around her.
She sat up, suddenly afraid as she stared around. The tent was spacious with a rug on the dirt floor, a metal-bound trunk to one side, a fine saddle in one corner, and a fine double-barreled shotgun rested in a scabbard to the left. An enameled pan, filled with water, had been placed on a folding table at the head of the bed. Beside it rested a small leather bag. Her Colt revolver lay beside the wadded pillow upon which she’d been sleeping.
She remained fully clothed, her worn shoes placed neatly on the rug beside the cot.
Outside she could hear birdsong and faint voices along with the clanking of metal. Somewhere a child broke out in laughter and the sharp rhythm of someone chopping wood carried on the morning.
“Oh, dear God,” she whispered, reaching up to rub her face. Memories came back in bits and pieces. The firing of the fort’s cannons in the night. Bret Anderson enticing her to his camp. The champagne, the remarkable duck he had stuffed with sage, cornmeal, and real pepper before baking it to perfection.
“And I ate the whole thing!” she reminded herself. “He barely had any.” She’d cracked the duck’s bones with her teeth to suck out the last of the marrow.
The same with the champagne. She remembered, somewhere in the small hours of the night, how he’d dribbled the last of the second bottle into her cup.
And then …
She shook her aching head, aware of her pressing and irritated bladder. God, how could her mouth be this dry, her thirst so great, at the same time she was so full of pee?
“What happened then, Sarah?” she asked herself.
Vaguely she remembered him steadying her as she walked around the fire.
God forbid, was that right? He’d actually touched her? And she hadn’t frozen, hadn’t begun to tremble and quake?
She looked down at the pistol, cold, blue, and deadly.
“I’m putting your revolver right here, Sarah. Right where it will be handy if you need it.”
Bret’s words. So reassuring. Damn! He’d really said that?
She combed her hair back with her fingers, realizing what a mess it must be. Her bonnet was folded and had been placed atop her canvas sack. Rising, she smoothed the blanket, replaced the pistol in its holster inside the sack, and checked her pitiful few belongings. Nothing seemed to have been rifled.
“Sarah?” Bret’s voice from outside brought her bolt upright, heart hammering. “There’s a chamber pot beneath the bed. If you need it, there’s also a mirror on the tent pole. I don’t have a brush, but you’ll find a comb in my kit on the table.”
“I … I…” The words didn’t come.
“No rush,” he called. “There’s water to wash if you’d like. Breakfast will be ready whenever you are.”
Breakfast?
For a moment she labored for breath, disbelief vying with instinctive panic. Damn! Her head hurt too much to think. What the hell was he doing? What did he want?
Just … run! She looped her sack over her shoulder, and reached for her blanket.
Her gaze fixed on the washbowl. And then went to the mirror. She hesitated. Damnation! She was making a mistake. One she’d regret. Nevertheless she unslung her bag, walked over and washed her face.
She considered the leather bag. Did she dare?
With trembling fingers she opened it, found a man’s shaving kit and the comb. For whatever reason, she tiptoed to the mirror and began to work at the tangles in her hair. Before she could finish, she succumbed to her insistent bladder and used the chamber pot, holding it so he couldn’t hear. Then she returned to the challenge of her hair.
“What’s the matter with you?” she asked under her breath. “You need to be away from here. Away from him. He’s just another goddamned man.”
Finally she collected her things, and stepped out, her heart pounding. Muscles charged, she fought the impulse to run.
“Might as well attack the day on a full stomach. Got bacon frying. Have a seat.” Bret crouched at the fire and tended a pan that sizzled on the hearthstones. “The corn bread, poor as it is, is my own recipe. Can you believe they can powder both milk and eggs? What’s the world coming to next? Powdered beef?”
She glanced over. Two of his mismatched tin plates had been set at the card table, in the shade. The silverware was placed as if for a formal affair.
Run!
She sniffed the bacon. Her legs might have had a mind of their own. Confused, she seated herself in the far chair.
Bret straightened and brought the enameled coffeepot with him,
