Harrigan's Bride. Cheryl Reavis

that she should take note of that.

       Happy is the bride the sun shines on today.

      And she suddenly thought she heard Guire’s voice.

      “What?” she whispered.

       I mean it, Abby. Don’t you ever aim this gun at anything if you don’t mean to kill it.

      “What?” she whispered again. “What did you say?”

      “Miss Abiah, stand up! We have to get out of here!”

      “No, I can’t, Gertie—”

      “You have to! Get up! Now!”

      Abiah tried to do what Gertie wanted. She pulled hard on the edge of the table in an effort to get to her feet. The man was no longer lying on the floor where she had seen him fall. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to understand. She didn’t know what was real anymore. And at this point, she had no idea which would be worse—to be out of her head again and to have imagined it all—perhaps even her marriage to Thomas—or to have killed a man.

      She looked up at Gertie. One eye was bruised and swollen nearly shut.

       Not a dream then.

      “Is he…dead?” Abiah asked, her voice trembling.

      “Carl says not,” Gertie said.

      “Carl?”

      “He’s the hired man. He came when the gun went off.”

      “I…really shot someone?”

      “Close enough.”

      “Where—where is he?”

      “I don’t know. Come on, Miss Abiah. We have to get out of here.”

      “No, we have to let somebody know what happened. Mr. Wilson, or his wife. Somebody needs to know about that man.”

      Gertie gave a sharp sigh and stopped pulling on her arm. “Miss Abiah,” she said in exasperation, “Zachariah Wilson is that man.”

      “What?” Abiah said, no longer trying to get up.

      “You shot our landlord, Miss Abiah. Not that anybody is going to believe that even if you tell them—not with the likes of me standing right here beside you.”

      “But—”

      “Miss Abiah, there ain’t no use talking about it. We have to get out of this house. We don’t wait until the rain stops. We don’t even wait until the sun comes up. We go. Understand?”

       Chapter Four

      “Mind what you do with your face, Cap.”

      Thomas gave the sergeant a look in spite of the admonishment. The effects of his groomsmen’s brandy had long since worn off, and the last thing he needed was to be instructed on his demeanor.

      “The boys are ready to drop where they stand, sir,” La Broie persisted. “You got to show them it ain’t as bad as they think it is.”

      “Oh, it’s nowhere near as bad as they think it is,” Thomas said. “It’s goddamn worse.”

      He had his own struggle to keep from dropping, and perhaps the only deterrent was the fact that he was standing in mud—and who knew what else—nearly to his knees. The roads had become completely impassible. He had long since given up trying to ride his exhausted mount; a horse mired in mud to its belly was completely useless. He walked like the rest of them, and every muscle in his body ached. He was shivering with the cold. He was hungry. And the rain. God, the rain.

      The beginning of their little jaunt to surround the Confederates and utterly vanquish them began auspiciously enough, but by the first evening, the weather turned foul and stayed that way. By now they had been standing in a downpour for what seemed like hours, waiting for somebody up the line to decide what this dog-wet and mud-caked excuse for an army was going to do, and all the while it was common knowledge that they were giving Lee and his crowd the biggest laugh of their military careers.

      There was a loud commotion up ahead, shouts and the neighing of distressed horses—another overturned baggage wagon. Thomas took a moment to indulge himself in a colorful assessment of General Burnside’s family tree.

      “He is that, sir,” La Broie said appreciatively. “Indeed he is.”

      “Let’s go, La Broie. And you can keep your remarks to yourself,” Thomas said, forcing himself to begin a pass along the line to hand out words of encouragement he didn’t begin to feel.

      “Sir—” La Broie said.

      “I know, La Broie! Mind my face.”

      Thomas had an admirably disciplined company, now—something he could only accredit to La Broie’s reputation as an Indian fighter and his consummate ability to put the fear of God into a man with hardly more than a look. Unlike some of the other, more demoralized companies, this one was all present and accounted for. And it was safe to say that La Broie was the reason the men still had their “gum blankets” as well, that all-purpose piece of equipment that could be worn to keep the rain off or slept upon as a barrier to the wet ground.

      Regardless of the fact that no one had been paid in recent memory, not a single man had dared give in to his craving for tobacco or whiskey by selling or bartering his blanket. So here they all stood, correctly outfitted for the weather, exactly by the book. Even so, it struck Thomas as he began his inspection that there was something entirely ludicrous about grown men standing out in the rain, apparently for no other reason than to make a great show of ignoring it.

      “Rathbone,” he said, stopping in front of one of the privates who had been so recently wounded at Fredericksburg and who had refused to be left behind. “How is the hand?”

      “It’s doing the best it can, sir,” Rathbone assured him.

      “So are we all, Private,” Thomas said, drawing a few polite chuckles among those within earshot. “Anything you need?”

      “Just my dear mother’s apple pie, sir.”

      Thomas smiled and moved on, the remark immediately drawing his thoughts to a winter afternoon at the Calder house. Abiah and the apple pie she’d made and baked and finally cut for him in Miss Emma’s kitchen. He tried to imagine Elizabeth in that same situation—wearing an apron, laughing and completely unmindful of the flour on her nose.

      Elizabeth. What was she doing now? he wondered. Did she still attend the judge’s salons? Probably so. She dearly loved the attention her presence always garnered, and there was no reason why she shouldn’t don yet another new satin frock and go. No one there would know she had broken her engagement to the judge’s grandson. No one there even knew there had been an engagement. At her insistence, he hadn’t mentioned it to anyone—except in his last impulsive letter to Guire Calder.

      Thomas still didn’t know what had happened to cause her abrupt change of heart, but as far as he was concerned, Elizabeth was safe from any further revelations on his part. Somehow it didn’t matter anymore, and the fact that he’d been a consummate fool where she was concerned was something he would just as soon keep to himself.