Heather Graham - Bride of the Night

Tara did so. She turned and began moving quickly through the brush, doing her best to make sure that every branch she passed slapped back into his face.

He didn’t say a word, he simply caught the branches.

She let her words trail over her shoulder at him, along with her anger. “Due process of law. That means you get us into a puppet military court, and see that we’re hanged.”

“If you’re innocent, you have nothing to fear.”

“You’re looking for someone called Gator. I’m not Gator. Richard isn’t Gator. There’s no reason that you should suspect either of us as your man.”

“We’ll see, won’t we?” was all he replied.

“You should be worried, you know,” she said smoothly.

“Oh?”

“Lamia! You see me now, but I’ll turn to smoke, and you’ll find me behind your back, slipping around your side, seeking your jugular vein.”

“That’s always possible.”

“You should tremble. You shouldn’t push my temper,” she warned.

“I’m a mass of trembling flesh. Please keep moving.”

As she walked, she became aware of the shouts and instructions of the other Union men in the distance—one booming voice, and then others that rang back and forth as they scurried to obey the commander.

Tara quickened her pace. Finn Dunne hurried behind her.

When she at last neared the little copse where she had left Richard, she ran the last few steps.

She raced by the last tree. From there she could see that men had pulled longboats up on the beach, and that they were being sent out to gather firewood.

There seemed to be a lot of them.

Tara slid down to her knees at Richard’s side. His eyes were still closed; he had barely moved. But a quick check assured her that he was still breathing. His pulse even ticked a little stronger than before.

Finn Dunne was down beside her. He could move with an astonishing ease, especially for a man so tall. She tried to ignore him, but could not.

“Richard Anderson,” he said.

“Yes, his name is Richard Anderson.”

“And your name is …?”

“Tara. Tara Fox.”

“What?” His tone was so sharp that it stunned her.

She looked at him. His features were hard and tense; his eyes seemed to be burning as he stared at her. They were such unusual eyes.

“Tara Fox,” she repeated.

To her surprise, his eyes said he knew her name.

“Look, I don’t know what information you’ve been given, but you’re mistaken in me. I would never hurt Lincoln. Never. I would do anything to stop any evil being done to the man. Even a fool knows that we’ll need his strong leadership when it’s time to make peace and reconstruct the South. Stop looking at me like that. I am not a monster.”

“That’s debatable,” he murmured, getting to his feet.

As he did so, a loud shout rose in the air.

“Dunne! Agent Dunne! Are you here?”

Tara touched Richard’s face gently and rose, as well.

On the beach, she counted ten men. Several were still securing their boats.

The others had their guns at the ready.

“Here!” Finn Dunne called out. “I have the survivors from the Rebel ship. They’re unarmed. Hold your fire!”

Tara looked at him, feeling a sudden surge of anxiety. The Union men could have come upon them after the sea battle with guns blazing. This man had prevented that. She could only pray that the Pinkerton meant his words, that they wouldn’t be harmed.

In her heart, she honestly believed that most men were honorable. Union men would not murder a man in cold blood. And yet, despite the decency and courtesy displayed by commanders on both sides, horrible murders had occurred. While she understood that John Brown had wanted to make all men free with his campaign against slavery, he had in fact committed murder—and in the Kansas and Nebraska territories, men had committed murder in retaliation.

Wasn’t war just sanctified murder?

She just stood there, tense, terrified and praying. The philosophy of man wasn’t something she could solve, and certainly not at this moment.

Please, God, don’t let them hurt Richard .

A young soldier came through the trees. She thought that she recognized him—that bit of scruffy beard on his chin—but he was so covered in soot that she couldn’t be sure. He looked at Tara with surprise, his brows shooting up. Then he looked at the man on the ground and spoke to the Pinkerton agent.

“Sir!” the young man said, addressing Finn Dunne. “The men are busy setting up on the beach, sir. Captain Tremblay set off a flare, and he says we can expect a Union ship by tomorrow. There are always ships ready to move with all speed from the fort.” His eyes kept darting with surprise toward Tara. He gasped suddenly.

“Tara!”

“Billy Seabold?” she asked.

Billy nodded.

“You two know each other?” Finn asked sharply.

Billy nodded. “Well, a bit, anyway.” He scrambled to take off his military jacket, and offered it to Tara.

“I’m fine, thank you, really.”

“Please, Miss Fox, allow me the courtesy,” Billy said.

She thought to refuse would be rude, and so she accepted the jacket. Dunne was looking from one of them to the other, as if mentally shaking his head over the naivety of youth—in his mind, apparently, Billy was offering comfort to a venomous snake.

Finn cleared his throat.

“Oh … oh! If you’ll follow me to the beachfront, please?” Billy said.

Tara hunkered back down by Richard. Finn lowered himself as well, moving her aside with the breadth of his shoulders. “I will take him,” Finn said.

“He’s—he’s my friend. My brother, really,” she added softly. “I will tend to him.”

Finn’s voice lowered. “You want everyone wondering how you have the strength of ten men?” he queried.

She fell silent, lowering her eyes. He could, if he chose, kill her—he knew how. Why didn’t he? Was he actually decent in his way, loathe to murder without the facts established?

Finn took care as he lifted Richard’s form, keeping the man’s head rested in the crook of his arm. Tara rose with him and followed them to the beachhead.

Men were already busy setting up makeshift tarps for a shelter. Two others were collecting wood for a fire.

An elderly man, dead straight and dignified, was the one calling out the orders.

“Captain Tremblay, Agent Dunne is here, sir! With the, um, the Rebs,” Billy said.

Tremblay seemed equally surprised to see a woman. “Well, Agent Dunne. Are these the culprits you meant to apprehend?” Tremblay asked.

“It’s hard to know for certain, sir, until I’m able to question them thoroughly, and as you can see, this one is scarcely in shape for questioning.”

Tremblay looked at Richard, still in Dunne’s arms.

“He lives?” Tremblay asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“We’ll have the good doctor see to him, then,” Tremblay said. “MacKay! Doc MacKay! We’ve a man in need of your tender touch, sir!”

One of the men building the fire came over and nodded to Finn. “Bring him under the tarp, will you, please, Agent Dunne? Billy, I’ll need some light—will you see to it, lad?”

“Aye, sir,” the young soldier said.

Finn Dunne walked with the doctor and beneath the canvas tarp that had been lifted about fifty yards in from the shoreline. There were already blankets spread out beneath it, along with a captain’s portable desk; the men of the Union ship had known they were in trouble, and they had salvaged all that they could.

“Fresh water might be in order,” Doc MacKay said, preceding the others.

Tara found herself longing to follow, and yet, under the scrutiny of Captain Tremblay.