From Vestal Vixen: Time: August, 1865 (Four months after the end of the War Between the States) CHAPTER ONE Lucy Russell almost hit the roof of the stagecoach for the thousandth or maybe the millionth time. Her body, tossed about like a cockleshell in a raging ocean, ached from riding in the dirty, crowded stagecoach. She should have ridden a horse alongside it, as the accompanying group of horsemen did, but the War Between the States ended last April and she had to learn to behave like a lady again. Especially now that she was on her way to the most glamorous place in North America, the royal court in Mexico City. Still, she didn't have to like being confined to the "ladylike" role again, did she? Gazing out the mud-streaked window she was jammed against, she saw a jumble of buildings up ahead. She turned her head, leaning close to the ear of the man next to her. She hoped he'd hear her above the noise of the rocking, swaying coach, "This has to be Galveston, Major." Then added, in a prayer-like whisper to herself, "I surely do hope so!" Her escort, ex-Major Rudd Kirby, Confederate States Army, scrunched between her and an itinerant drummer, stretched toward the window. He looked out and nodded. "You're right. We'll be there in no time now." "I'd still rather have ridden a horse." Lucy pointed to their mounted escorts, six men in a mishmash of different clothing. To her eye, practiced from four years of war, they all rode like cavalry. But on which side? And did she really want to know? The coach hit another deep pothole, and she almost used a word which she knew would shock the major. "At least you can guide a horse around the potholes." "Not always," Rudd said ruefully. "Especially if you're in a hurry. The Yanks were holed up behind a pretty good barricade once and we were trying to move 'em out. When the order came to charge, we took off like the Devil himself was pushing us. My horse misstepped into a pothole, and we both summersaulted right into the Yankee lines." "Good heavens! You did? What happened?" Rudd shrugged. "The Yanks were so surprised they didn't even shoot. One of my friends galloped in and picked me up. Horse was a goner, though. The bluebellies kindly put her out of her misery." His voice trailed off in a sigh and he stared ahead. Above her the reins were tightened, and the coach slowed, then stopped in front of a two-story hotel. Lucy felt the vibrations in her body relax, but it took a while before the irritating rumble and creak of the coach died down, replaced by the snorting and blowing of the team. Then it was strangely quiet. Lucy swallowed to clear her ears. The very last battle of the war had been fought here in Galveston and the Yankees, victorious everywhere else, had lost badly. They'd evacuated Galveston, and her information was that they hadn't yet come back in force. If they had, and if they knew who she was and what her mission was, she'd be stopped. Not only stopped, but quite possibly, hanged. The Yankees weren't above hanging a woman. Lucy shuddered, recalling the woman who was hanged as one of the conspirators in Lincoln's assassination. The driver and his point man clambered down. More slowly, Sally Buckingham, Lucy's former slave and very good friend, climbed off the roof of the coach. Sally wore a simple black dress and a close-fitting turban, both of which were thick with dust. Her cafe au lait complexion was streaked with dirt, and parallel mud streaks ran down her cheeks where the wind had caused her eyes to tear. Lucy leaned from the coach window. "Are you okay, Sally?" Sally shrugged. Things were as they were, and free or slave, her place was with the driver. Lucy didn't like it, but there wasn't anything she could do about it; she couldn't change Southron customs. The driver took off his hat, opened the coach door and bowed to Lucy. "Here we are, ma'am. I hope you enjoyed the trip." "It was fine. Thank you." Lucy gathered her dark green skirts in one hand and slid to the edge of the seat. She poked her black boot-clad foot onto the stool the driver placed in front of the door and struggled to get out without showing any more of her leg than her ankle. Pretending there are no legs under my skirts isn't easy, she thought ruefully. Now peace is here, I guess we go back to all the old ways! Rudd was fussing about her as though he, too, thought she was fragile. I'll get used to that again, too, I suppose. The three men who'd sat opposite her through the long trip from San Antonio were showing impatience. Lucy hurried onto the footstool and let the coachman help her onto the wooden walkway. She climbed the two steps to the hotel, trailed by Rudd and Sally. The lobby, a dusty room redolent of sweat, tobacco fumes and stale air, boasted a dilapidated couch and three tweedy- looking chairs arranged around the clerk's desk. It wasn't much, Lucy saw with dismay. Rudd took off his slouch hat, wiped his forehead and went over to register. General Shelby had wired ahead to ask the hotel to reserve some rooms. * * * Lucy and Sally finally settled into a room on the ground floor, which looked like all the other hotel rooms they'd been in since General Grant destroyed Wycliffe -- a bed, a dresser, a table, and a cheval glass. But the furniture was some better than the lobby had led Lucy to believe, and the thick mattress looked inviting. Lucy kicked off her boots, threw her bonnet onto the bed, and shook out her russet hair. Then she padded over to the window to look out over the Gulf. As she did, a young man came along the boardwalk in front of the window. Deep-set azure blue eyes met hers. There was something familiar about him. He swept off his black slouch hat and a lock of straight brown hair fell over his forehead. He pushed it back impatiently and bowed. He was tall, slender and well-dressed in civilian clothes, but had a military bearing. Her pulse quickened, and her mouth went dry. She knew she'd met him somewhere; maybe he'd been in one of the military units she'd worked with. How could she have forgotten a man so good-looking? Eyes so blue they put the sky to shame, gazed at her from under jutting thick brown brows. A strong beak of a nose protruded over a chin that brooked no nonsense. But he had a wide appealing smile that Lucy answered almost inadvertently; she hadn't meant to smile back. Lucy and the stranger looked at each other for a long moment, then he replaced his hat, and continued striding on down the street, leaving Lucy with a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach. Why does he look so familiar? Where have I seen him before? She watched him as he neared the water, only then seeing the naked masts of a ship riding her anchor half a mile into the Gulf. "There's a ship out there, Sally. Do you suppose she's the one going to Vera Cruz?" Sally followed her gaze out the window. "The major'll find out soon enough." Lucy nodded. Rudd was the perfect escort; General Shelby had chosen well. She hoped it was their ship and that they would leave soon. She had a job to do for the General and the Confederacy and the sooner she started it, the better. * * * Adam Reynolds continued on down the street to his rendezvous with Britt Clendenning. He was curious about the girl he'd just bowed to. She was more beautiful than any woman he'd ever seen, and, as a naval officer, he'd seen a lot of women in a lot of ports. That russet hair streaming down her back was like a sun-streaked creek. He could still feel the impact of her emerald green eyes looking out from under arched brows. Her smile was to dream about. It had pierced right through him as though they had met before -- eons before. He sighed. He would like to have stopped and spoken to her, but he was still on active duty and had no time to dally. Britt had just come from San Antonio, riding shotgun with the stagecoach. He'd been checking on the possibility that there might still be Rebels to impede the march of Union troops into Texas. After Lee surrendered, the other Confederate armies, one after the other, had given up, too. But there was a strong rumor that Joe Shelby, in San Antonio commanding a unit called the Iron Brigade, might cause trouble. Adam hoped not. Four years of war had decimated an entire generation. And even Shelby must know, that if an entire Confederate army, fresh and strong four years ago, couldn't wreck the Union, a thousand men, worn out from those same four years, certainly couldn't. He shook his head at the thought; you just couldn't figure other people's minds. And he couldn't get those emerald eyes out of his mind. If only he had more time! * * * An hour later, while Lucy was luxuriating in a tin bathtub, Rudd knocked on the door. "I made reservations for us on the ship out there," he called to her from the hall. "It's a freighter that sails tomorrow. But if we wait for a passenger ship, we may be stuck here for who knows how long. Do you mind?" "No. Not at all. It might be fun at that." "I saw a very nice riverboat restaurant near the pier. Would you like to go there for supper?" "Yes, I would. It may be our last chance to eat good Texas food." "Shall I come by in half an hour?" "That sounds about right." She listened to Rudd's uneven bootsteps move across the hall. The Yankee bullet he'd stopped at Shiloh, still gave him trouble. And he would always limp. "Yo' bettah get outa there," Sally said determinedly, "Th'major don' lak bein' kep' waitin'." Lucy started to object, the water in the tub was still warm; she hated to get out. But Sally stared right through her and held out a towel. Reluctantly, she stepped out of the tub and shook her wet hair. It felt so good to be clean again. She stretched as Sally wrapped the towel around her and rubbed her dry with the coarse terry cloth, then looked her over. Lucy didn't really mind. Sally'd been looking her over since she, Lucy, was a small child, and she'd always been pretty critical. Lucy braced herself for the expected lecture on the sprinkling of freckles that trailed across her nose. Sally put down the towel and frowned. "Yo' gotta get rid of them freckles 'fore yo' gonna look lak a lady again." Lucy shrugged, "They'll fade eventually." "Eventually ain't gonna be soon enough." She took a different cream from the worn alligator-skin holdall and spread a thin film of it over Lucy's nose. "You fuss too much, Sally!" Lucy turned and grimaced at the array of under things on the bed. Pantalets, chemise, corset and one taffeta petticoat. Sally helped her put them on, then slipped the Thomson crinoline over her head, pulled the drawstring tight, and tied it at her waist. Last, the dark blue peau de soie gown came down over Lucy's head, then fell in soft folds over the crinoline. Sally started buttoning the back. "You'd better never leave me, Sally. I couldn't get along without you." Lucy was only half-teasing. Sally could go when ever and where ever she wanted. And they both knew she would, if and when her husband, Sam Buckingham, came home from the Union army. "Southron ladies gonna have t'fin' other ways of gettin' dressed. Yo' sit here now, and lemme do your hair." "Oh, Sally, you're fussing again. Why not just tie it back?" "Okay. Here's a ribbon. You tie it back." Sally handed Lucy a wide blue ribbon, a triumphant smirk turning her lips up. Lucy gave the ribbon back, smiling. "You win. Again." She sat in front of the mirrored dresser. "If yo're gonnna be done in a half hour, we bettah move along." Sally parted Lucy's red-brown hair in the center and drew it up and back from her face. Tiny tendrils escaped in a random fashion from her low chignon. George Wilmot, to whom she should have been married these two years past, had said her hair was the exact color of a fox's coat, and called her his Vixen. She remembered him with affection and sadness. A stray piece of Yankee shrapnel had pierced his throat as he fought in one of the trenches around Vicksburg, and he had coughed away his life before help could come. So useless a death. Three days later, the garrison surrendered. And so, eventually, had everyone else--except Joe Shelby. Sally stepped back and looked her over. "Too bad you got no matchin' jewelry. That lapis lazuli set would've looked nice." "Let's not mourn the jewelry," Lucy said sharply, "we were lucky to find a buyer with money enough to pay a reasonable price." "Carpetbagger." Sally sniffed. "But, yeya, I guess the taxes had t'be paid." Sally stood back and patted Lucy's shoulder with satisfaction. "Thaya now. You look lak a lady again." Lucy grimaced. "It's hard to go back to being all fragile and helpless when you've been wearing pants and riding between enemy lines for years." "But you gotta do it. No ifs, ands, buts or maybes." "So I will." Lucy struck a pose, then made a deep curtsy. "See...I'm a lady again." Sally clucked as Lucy checked her image in the cheval glass. She did look like a lady except, if you looked closely, you'd see that her pink-and-white complexion, never mind the freckles, was still lightly tanned, and her mouth, always her bete noir because it was too wide, was tightly closed, as though it hadn't ever turned up in the corners. Yet she was grateful that her wide-skirted blue gown still fit well. No one would guess that under the smooth silk, there were shapely muscles which had come from riding astride a horse. She heard Rudd's uneven step come closer. He knocked and called out, "The restaurant isn't far, Miss Lucy. Should I look for a buggy, or do you want to walk?" Lucy looked down at her black patent leather dress shoes and took a couple of tentative steps across the room. It had been a while since she'd worn high heels and she stumbled, then righted herself. Sally chuckled. "Yo' get t'that-they cou't, yo' gonna have t'walk backwards on those heels." "I'll worry about that later." Lucy raised her voice slightly. "Okay, Rudd. I'm game to walk." Sally draped a scarf over Lucy's head, and held out her blue velvet cape. "Yo'all have a good time tonight," she admonished. "Don' give de major any problems." Lucy raised her eyebrows. "What problems?" "Yo' knows what I means." Which was Sally's way of reminding her not to speak her mind without thinking first. Lucy's mother used to say what was on her lung was on her tongue. Mama hadn't meant to be complimentary. Lucy made a face at Sally and opened the door. Rudd smiled down at her from his six-foot height. All things considered, she thought, he is really a good- looking man. Tall and too slim, probably because he hadn't had enough to eat for four years, he greeted her with a pleasant smile. He was in his early fifties, with thin grayish hair, features that were regular but lined, and a close-cut grey beard. He had managed to dig up some pre-war clothing, but his medium gray Prince Albert coat was tight across his shoulders, the dark gray trousers a trifle short. He carried himself well, though, like a soldier. Which he has been, most of his life, she thought. West Point, Class of Thirty-Five. A captain in the Mexican War, he'd been in Mexico City before. Afterwards, he spent years on detached duty as military attache in the American diplomatic service. But then he'd resigned and "gone South," spending four years in the Iron Brigade. Shelby picked him as her escort because he was knowledgeable as well as charming. He knew what was expected at Court and could bring her up to par on royal etiquette. Royal etiquette wasn't something Lucy had spent any time thinking about prior to meeting Shelby. It was Shelby's idea to send her on ahead of the Iron Brigade's overland march to Mexico City. She was to meet with the Emperor and present Shelby's proposition: his Iron Brigade would fight for Maximilian in exchange for land on which to settle Confederate emigres. Unspoken was the secret mission -- form the nucleus of a new South, which would rise again and this time conquer. But Lucy knew nothing about how to behave in a royal court. She expected Rudd to advise her about what was proper behavior. She had a notion there was much she needed to learn. Sally handed Lucy's cape to Rudd and he draped it over her shoulders, smiling widely. Her spirits soared. It was nice to be all dressed up again after four years, especially going out with someone as nice and good-looking as Rudd. Dusk was close at hand, Lucy noticed as they stepped out of the hotel. A light rain had dampened the streets, and gray clouds scattered across the sky. Fortunately, boardwalks lined the dirt roadway, but were not an unalloyed blessing as the thin heels of Lucy's shoes were threatened by gaping cracks and knotholes in the wood. She held her skirts off the path and managed to avoid disaster. Each of three strolling men, doffed their hats when they passed, but none was the young man she'd seen from the window. She realized she was disappointed. By the time she and Rudd neared the docks, darkness hid the water except for a phosphorescent glow where the thin quarter moon gleamed. Stars sparkled in the clearing to outline the ship at anchor in the bay. Her name was lit by a lantern. Bellweather. Her masts and rigging were dark against the evening sky. Tomorrow, Lucy fantasized, the ship will spread its sails and carry me to a place unlike any I've ever known. What will Mexico City be like? For that matter, how will I be able to influence a royal court in Mexico City? Lucy put her hand on Rudd's arm and stopped him at the water's edge. She wanted to say something and didn't know how to start. She stood silhouetted against the moon, indecisive. She paused, listening to the waves crash against the shore; to the gulls calling raucously; to the creaking and groaning of the boardwalk. Shouts came from the distance; and somewhere, far away, a gun shot roiled through the air. "Has the sight of the Bellweather taken your appetite?" Rudd asked after several minutes. "Time flies, you know." Lucy nodded soberly. "Yes, it does." A thin wet spray dampened her face and tasted of salt. "Then let's go eat. We're entitled to celebrate. It will be our last meal in this country for years to come." The thought saddened her, but it was true. "In a minute, please, there's something I want to say -- need to say." She started to speak, but the words didn't come readily. She chided herself. Her tongue worked easily enough when she didn't think ahead. Now she wanted to tell Rudd how much she had grown to appreciate him, and she couldn't seem to make a sound. She had to say it, though, even if she sounded foolish. She hadn't wanted the task Shelby set her. The idea of approaching the Emperor Maximilian sent shudders all through her. But Rudd's presence, and the knowledge he had promised to give her, had greatly improved her confidence, and she wanted to tell him so. "I just want to say," she began finally, "that you've made my mind easy about what lies ahead. I'm...I'm saying it awkwardly, but I mean it." Rudd put an arm around her shoulders and drew her close. "There's never anything awkward about saying something that comes from the heart." He patted her shoulder, then cleared his throat and moved back. "Enough now. Let's go eat." As they got closer, drifting sounds of music came from the restaurant. More clouds moved overhead. Lucy looked apprehensively at the sky. "If we hurry, we may make the riverboat ahead of the rain." Rudd grabbed her hand, and began to run with her. He made his stiff right leg work by skipping every other step. Lucy laughed when the wind lifted her scarf and disarranged her hair. "Come on, Rudd. We're gaining on it!" They just made it. Rain poured against the windows that enclosed the restaurant as they clambered to the upper deck. A gaudily-dressed attendant opened the door. "Buenas noches, Senora. Senor". "He must think I'm very rich to afford such a gorgeous young girl for a wife," Rudd whispered as they were ushered to a table. Lucy giggled. She couldn't help it. Rudd was doing his best to make her forget the past and to feel young and carefree again. The four years since her eighteenth birthday party a week after Fort Sumter was shelled, couldn't ever be forgotten, but they might grow less painful someday. Meanwhile, she'd try to put those years out of her mind, just for tonight. She looked around her. About fifteen tables were crowded into the dining room, which was rocking gently. Musicians sat on a slightly-raised stage at one end of the room. A small counter separated the cashier from the main part of the floor. Near it, an open door led to the kitchen, from which some very appetizing odors wafted. The atmosphere was better than Lucy had expected, though the place was noisy what with the musicians tuning their instruments and people talking loudly to be heard over it. A waiter took Rudd's order for wine, as Lucy looked around to see what people were wearing. The ladies looked festive enough in their brightly colored wide skirts. Many of the dresses, she suspected, had been "turned" and re-sewn, but they made a brave showing. Most of the men, like Rudd, wore ill-fitting clothes that were obviously pre-war. There were no Yankee blue uniforms. Lucy took a sudden sharp breath. Across from her, next to the far wall, was the gangling man who had been one of the group of horsemen who had escorted the stage from San Antonio. If she remembered correctly, he'd been presented as Britt Clendenning. But he wasn't the one who held her gaze. It was his companion, the man who'd doffed his hat and bowed as she looked out the window of her hotel. The man she thought she recognized from some outfit she'd worked with during the war. He wore a dark brown suit which helped mark the contrast between his light complexion and his short, thick brown hair. Those unforgettable cobalt eyes looked out from under dark, overhanging brows. Her gaze traced his jaw -- strong, sharply angled -- and she noticed the elusive dimples that came and went with the nice smile that curved his lips at something his companion had said. From the way he held himself, she was pretty sure he had been a soldier. She smiled inwardly at her imagination. She had been so taken by his appearance that she had even made up a story about him while she watched. He had been a Confederate officer of course, defeated, but not beaten. Erect and proud, but not arrogant. She watched him surreptitiously, trying to determine why he held her attention. She realized now that she hadn't known him before; he was familiar only because he bore himself like all the other young soldiers she had known. She was so completely enthralled with her own thoughts, she didn't notice when two men entered quietly. The orchestra, which had just started to play, abruptly stopped in mid-note. Everyone looked up as the new arrivals drew guns and swept them in arcs to cover the crowd. "Keep your hands on the tables," the darkly sunburned man shouted harshly. His gun made little circles, as though his hand weren't steady. He was broad-shouldered and chunky and had on a gray slouch hat pulled down close to his eyes, a butternut jacket and gray trousers that had a red stripe down the outside. Ex-soldiers. Why are they doing this? "First one tries anythin' is dead," the other robber said. He was shorter and stockier than the first, but he, too, wore butternut gray. The room got very quiet, Lucy noted, except for rustling fabric as other women's legs, like hers, moved uncomfortably under table tops. The shorter robber moved behind the counter, pushed the cashier aside, and opened the cash drawer. He pulled a sack from his belt and began to stuff the money inside. From the corner of her eye, Lucy watched Rudd. He shook his head almost imperceptibly, but he had moved to slide his coat open, exposing the big revolver at his side. "Now!" The shorter robber was moving from behind the counter. "It's time to get out your valuables. Don't make any moves till I tell you to." The sunburned bandit still covered the crowd with his sweeping revolver, while the shorter one began to circulate, taking watches, wallets, gold and silver coins, and whatever jewelry he could find. His calloused hands stuffed the valuables he collected into pockets of the tattered uniform jacket. When those pockets bulged, he pulled on a tablecloth. The loud crash of china caused a collective gasp. He ignored it and then, making a sack of the cloth, began to fill it. Lucy admired everyone's calm as they gave up their possessions. The robber moved to the table of the young man she'd been admiring. There was no immediate problem. He yielded a gold watch, several gold and silver coins, and a pair of fancy cuff links. He took a wallet from his coat pocket without protest. But instead of giving it to the robber, he emptied its paper money, then returned it to his jacket. The robber waved the revolver under his nose. "I'll take the billfold," he ordered. As the man shook his head, a shock of straight brown hair covered his brow. He pushed it back. "What's left are personal papers." The revolver steadied. "Give it up or I'll take it from your dead body!" The man shrugged and reached back inside his jacket pocket. But instead of coming out with the wallet, his hand held a small double-barrel derringer. He fired an instant before the robber did. The thief doubled over; blood pulsed thickly from his chest. The other holdup man, though caught by surprise, reacted swiftly. But so did the intended victim and his tall, skinny friend. The robber's bullet went between them, gouging a hole in the wall. But both their bullets penetrated -- peppering his chest. As startling as the swift action was, Lucy saw the fleeting expression in the shooter's eyes. It was not defiance. Nor was it arrogance or a lust to kill. As his eyes narrowed and his mouth flattened, it was as if he flung a challenge to the two holdup men. So swiftly did the thought race through Lucy's mind, the second robber was still falling. He hit the floor heavily; then, belatedly, another shot broke the stunned silence. The bullet went wide. Beside Lucy, Rudd Kirby cried out and grabbed his left arm. A woman screamed and what had been a low babble of alarm rose to a crescendo. Chairs scraped. Tables tipped over. More china crashed, the sharp shards scattering. Rudd's face twisted with wracking pain, and Lucy forgot all the commotion around her as she concentrated on him. She gripped his uninjured arm and held it tightly to keep him from falling on the floor. Blood from his wound flowed freely. A bright red stain covered the sleeve of his torn coat and dripped steadily onto the floor. More ladies screamed. Men alternately tried to calm them and get to Rudd. People milled around, bewildered. The diner Lucy had been admiring, the one who had killed both robbers, elbowed his way to their table. He stared at Rudd's face with concern in his deepset eyes. "Did it hit bone?" he asked. Rudd nodded. "Clean through," he ground out. "It's busted. Shattered, I'd bet." His face was gray, the pupils of his eyes distended. The shooter faced the distraught diners. "Is there a doctor here?" There was no response. "We need a doctor at once!" "I'll get one," a man volunteered. "We need one anyways for these other two. They may not be dead." He rushed out the door. The crowd, still milling around, still speaking loudly through their fears, gathered close to Rudd, looking with curious eyes at his slumped figure. The shooter nodded to Lucy and said, "I'm Adam Reynolds. I've tended wounded before. We'd better stop the bleeding." Then he totally ignored Lucy as he pulled out a knife, snapped it open and cut away Rudd's coat sleeve. "Get a clean cloth," he ordered the waiter, who scrambled away. Adam worked the severed coat sleeve free. Then his fingers smoothly probed at the wound. Rudd's body straightened involuntarily. Lucy could see his struggle to keep from crying out; the effort twisted his face. His teeth locked on his lower lip. The arm was a bloody mess. An aproned waiter brought a large glass of whiskey and Adam held Rudd's head while he drank. Lucy could keep quiet no longer. "I hope whatever's in your wallet is worth all this," she said sharply. Reynolds nodded to show he heard her, but didn't answer. The tourniquet, when he twisted it tightly, stopped the bleeding. He dipped one of the napkins in the glass of whiskey and squeezed a few drops onto the wound. Rudd yelped, then slumped down, unconscious. Adam finished wrapping the arm with strips of cloth torn from the tablecloth. In spite of her anger, Lucy, who'd nursed during the siege of Vicksburg, had to admire his sure hand. But the pain mirrored on Rudd's face was almost more than she could bear. "If you're quite through now, will you back away and let him breathe?" Lucy demanded. For the first time, Adam turned his attention to her. His deep-set sapphire eyes were steady and his expression relaxed. He seemed unaffected by her outburst. "I understand your feelings," he said in a low voice, "but I can't accept the blame for what happened. I had clear shots at both men, or I'd never have fired. And my friend and I were against a wall. We were their only likely targets." Lucy saw another of the diners, a big man with an outsized paunch, stand contritely behind Adam. He caught her eye, but couldn't keep his gaze up. "I'm sorry," he said hoarsely. "Somebody bumped my arm. I didn't intend to shoot, less'n I needed to." Lucy opened her mouth but just as quickly closed it. It wouldn't help to chastise him. Besides, several things had just occurred to her. First, Adam Reynolds was an unlikely ex-Confederate. He didn't have a southern accent; in fact, he had no accent at all. He could have been a Northerner who fought with the South, she conceded. But she couldn't dwell on that now. Far more important, it was highly doubtful if Rudd Kirby could travel to Mexico for some time. The trip might be off, and that meant that General Shelby wouldn't have his information when he arrived. She couldn't even get word to him. Anger swelled through her. Through no fault of her own, she would fail her mission. And the Confederacy would die yet another death. She turned and glared at Adam. Rudd's pain, and the failure of all their plans, could be laid right at his door. And because of him, she would not be able to help the Confederacy. How she could come to dislike someone this much in such a short time was amazing! Only minutes ago her gaze had been transfixed by the smile, which had curved his lips and showed his dimples; now she was angry with herself for even thinking about him. Rudd came to and drank several shots of whiskey, while some of the patrons stood about and others argued over reclaiming their possessions, which had been put in a pile on a table. They were still loud with the exuberance of those who had come close to death and survived, but were beginning to calm down some. Britt Clendenning brought Adam his watch and money, then looked at Lucy sympathetically. He started to speak just as a heavy, bespectacled, blue-uniformed doctor arrived. Two young blue-clad soldiers halted at the door. Yankees. The buzz of conversation stopped abruptly. The doctor strode up to their table in a businesslike manner. He bowed to Lucy and introduced himself, "Captain Charles Bevins, 34th Indiana. I heard someone was shot by a Confederate artilleryman." "There's a red stripe down his trousers," Adam said. "But who knows where he got the pants? I'm glad to see you." The men in the room stared sullenly. Lucy realized most were on parole from the disbanded Confederate armies and didn't relish the blue uniforms. Captain Bevins focused his attention on Rudd and examined the bandage on his arm. "Not bad." He looked up at Adam. "Your work?" Adam nodded. "Seemed the right thing to do. We didn't know how long it would take a doctor to get here." "It will do till I get him to the field hospital where I can do a more thorough inspection. I brought an ambulance. There's not much hope for that arm, though." Lucy's breath caught in her throat. Lose his arm? Dear God! and after the war ended! It wasn't fair. Tears gathered in her eyes, but she wouldn't let them fall. She wouldn't give Adam Reynolds the satisfaction of thinking she was just another weepy female, and feeling sorry for her. Lucy watched as the doctor turned his attention to the fallen bandits and pronounced them dead. Then he motioned to two young soldiers. They came over and helped Rudd out to the ambulance. As Lucy followed them down the steps into the drizzling rain, a strong hand gripped her arm. When she looked up, she saw Adam Reynolds framed in the block of yellow light pouring from the restaurant door. "I'll come along," he said. "You may need help." She twisted her arm free. "No! No, thank you! You've done quite enough already!" She brushed past him. "Nevertheless, I'm coming. As you can see, the streets may not be safe these days." "The streets are probably safer than that restaurant. Especially if you're not along to start something!" He gave a dry chuckle that would have pleased Lucy in another time and place. "Nevertheless, I'll come along." "Suit yourself." She swished down the stairs, holding her skirts up in a clenched fist. She got to the wagon in time to see the two soldiers lift Rudd in. His face was deathly pale. When he was finally settled, with one of the Yankees beside him, she got up on the other side. The driver clucked at the horses. Adam and the doctor unhitched their mounts; Bevins rode ahead and was soon out of sight. Adam walked his horse next to the ambulance. As they pulled away in the darkness, Lucy couldn't help remembering that the whole episode in the restaurant had taken only a few minutes. And it would be forgotten as soon as the two bodies were gone. But if Rudd couldn't go to Mexico in the next several days, their entire futures, and that of Shelby's Iron Brigade, as well as a rebirth of the Confederacy, would be changed because of those few minutes.