Blessed heaven! Real coffee! She carefully picked up the hot cup, inhaling the fragrance. “Where did you get this?”
“A corporal in commissary fancied himself a master of five-card stud. Those coffee beans were supposedly destined for General Bussey. A gift from General Halleck. Special, you see. All the way from Africa.”
He had a twinkle in his eyes, as if inordinately proud of himself. Wind tousled a loose wave of his brown hair. He had a high forehead. A secret humor seemed to hide behind his lips.
Within moments, he had filled her plate with hot corn bread and bacon and seated himself. As he unfolded the rag that was supposed to serve as a napkin, he asked, “I hope that you slept well.”
“I shouldn’t have taken your bed.”
He shrugged, pointing to a rolled blanket before the door. “It was a pleasant evening to be outside. I just lay there and watched the stars after the clouds cleared. Mostly I just relived the evening.” He paused, meeting her eyes. “Thank you. Not only was yesterday a milestone, but that was the most enjoyable evening I’ve spent in years. I shall treasure it.”
Sarah paused, a forkful of bacon halfway to her lips. “What do you want from me, Mr. Anderson?”
He cocked his head in that surprised, birdlike manner of his, and said, “I’d like to offer you a job.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I keep irregular hours. I have been the victim of petty theft in the past, this camp being what it is. But with the end of the war, our population is going to be considerably more fluid. I’d like the security of knowing my possessions will be here when I return. I’m also a vain man. I want to come back to my camp in the middle of the night and find a fire and warm meal waiting for me. Keep my clothes clean and pressed, see to the care of Jefferson, my horse, and keep my camp and equipment in order.” He pointed with his fork. “And that is all that I am asking of you.”
“Why me?”
“Because through the good graces of champagne and roast duck, you lowered your defenses last night and I got to see the woman who disguises herself within that cotton sack of a dress. The fact that I need someone to take care of my things discomforts me somewhat. While necessity might require that I hire someone, my requirement is that that person be someone whose company, intellect, and competence I respect and enjoy.”
“Where will I sleep?”
“You shall have your own tent and cot. Not only do you have my word that you will not be molested, you also have your revolver.”
He said it with such sincerity, a hardness in his eyes.
“I don’t know if I could—”
“Fifteen dollars a month to start with. If, by freeing me to concentrate on what I do best, I find my income rising, you shall profit thereby.”
She sat stunned.
“Take it, Sarah. If nothing else it will get you out of old lady McGurdy’s chicken house. Though how she’s saved it from being firewood this long is a miracle, I’d imagine that with the war over, she’s going to want to put chickens in it again.”
“People will think I’m your bed thing.”
He nodded frankly, a slight irritation behind his soft brown eyes. “Would it make any real difference in your life? Where you are now an object of pity, you would become one of occasional scorn. You already keep your distance from people, aloof and apart. When approached by a man, you’d no longer have to hide behind that feeble fiction of”—he mimicked her voice—“‘excuse me, I’m looking for my husband.’ If maintaining that reputation of a chaste and frightened woman is important to you, by all means decline my offer. Although what you lose on one hand might gain you some peace and security on the other. Making you unavailable, you might say.”
She ate in silence, relishing every single bite. Food. Money. And a semblance of safety.
She looked him hard in the eyes. “My last employment was in Little Rock. I was the housekeeper for one of the city’s most important women. Her nephew tried to crawl into my bed one night. He ducked at the last instant. Which is why he walked away with only a bleeding neck. Mr. Anderson, I will kill any man who tries to crawl into my bed at night.” She paused. “Even if he’s my employer.”
His pensive stare didn’t waver. Reaching into his pocket, he laid a twenty-dollar gold piece on the table between them, and said, “If those are your only terms, I think we have a deal.”
55
June 6, 1865
Doc coughed as he looked out at the once familiar Arkansas forests and ridges. He reached up with one hand and pulled his dripping hat down over his ears. Wet weather always brought the cough on. He just couldn’t shake the damn thing. It continued to live deep in his chest like a constant tickle.
Butler was driving the rickety spring wagon and doing a good job with the mule. If the rain had served no other purpose, it had swollen the wood and firmed up the wobbly spokes in the wheels and tightened the iron tires on rims he and Butler had been shimming with whittled wedges.
Doc had somehow managed to shut his ears to the incessant chattering as Butler talked to the men. Butler kept pointing things out, saying, “This here’s the Cross Timbers. Last I rode through here was with a detachment of cavalry in service to Tom Hindman.” Or, “Oh, look! There’s the ruins of the tanyard. We used to deliver hides there. Now it’s all gone to disrepair and weeds. Not even a building left.”
As they began to climb the grade onto Pea Ridge, Doc glanced around at the savaged countryside, wet and dripping from the warm rain. Clouds hung
