“I recognize you for the liar you are, Sir,” she said.
“Good evening, miss,” he said again, chuckling to himself as he led his muddy-footed subordinates out the front door.
Maria waited to make certain they had gone, then walked into the hallway, still holding the padlock key. She stood looking at the colonel’s pile of belongings. One leather case was quite large and didn’t appear to have a lock of any kind. It took a great deal of effort on her part not to see if she could open it. She liked to think she was an honorable person, regardless of her Pandora-like inclinations. She didn’t go around snooping in other people’s baggage—even if it did belong to a Yankee—but the temptation was great, nevertheless. She wasn’t interested in military secrets, only in knowing what sort of man this Woodard was, and there might be all manner of information about him in the case.
“Maria Rose!” her father yelled from upstairs. “My toddy!”
“I believe you have already had your toddy, Father!” she called back.
It took the better part of an hour to get him finally situated for the night—and even then she had to bribe him with a cigar in lieu of the spirits he wanted and listen to him expound on the trials and tribulations of having a “willful girl child” before he would agree to take himself off to bed.
She stayed downstairs and put out the lamps she had lit, after all. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—waste the precious oil on the belated colonel. To keep busy, she swept up the muddy footprints as best she could by candlelight, then made sure the doors were locked.
She didn’t dare go on up to bed. She sat dozing at the kitchen table instead. Everything was so quiet. Nothing but the ticking of the clock on the kitchen mantel and the creaks and cracks of the house settling. She had left one kitchen window open, and every now and then she could feel the faint stirring of a breeze. If she had been less tired, she might have wondered why the colonel was so late. As it was, she had reached a point beyond caring. She heard the clock strike ten, then dozed again.
She awoke to a whispered curse, and she abruptly lifted her head. The candle was nearly gone, but she could see the colonel clearly. He was standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding a railroad lantern.
“I need your help,” he said without prelude. “I had intended not to wake you, but since you’re awake—here, take this.” He awkwardly thrust the lantern into her hands. “If you’ll come outside and hold it so I can see.”
He didn’t wait for her to either acquiesce or refuse. He walked out the back door. She had little choice but to follow after him—out of curiosity if nothing else. His horse stood tied to the porch post.
“What is it?” she asked, growing more alarmed.
“My horse is lame.”
She held the lantern higher—because he took her arm and pushed it upward.
“How did you get into the house?” she asked as he bent down to examine the horse’s foreleg and lift its hoof. But there seemed to be more of a problem with his hands than with the horse.
“My new orderly, Perkins. He’s very resourceful. I don’t imagine there is a place in this town he can’t get into if he’s of a mind. If he weren’t in the army, he’d probably be in prison. Well, the leg feels all right—no injury that I can see. It think it’s a stone bruise. Can you undo the cinch?”
She gave him an incredulous look that was wasted in the dark.
“I am not a stable boy, Colonel Woodard,” she said evenly.
“I never said you were. I have injured my hands, and I don’t think I can do it myself. I was in the cavalry, Miss Markham. Regardless of my current duties, old lessons die hard. I must see to my mount no matter what. I don’t want him to stand all night with a saddle on his back. Perkins is off on other business. You are the only other person here at the moment, and you strike me as being reasonably competent. Can we not call a brief truce on behalf of this suffering animal?”
She thrust the lantern back at him so she could undo the cinch. She even pulled the saddle and blanket off while she was at it and dumped them on the back porch.
“Anything else?” she asked.
“He needs to be fed and watered,” he said without hesitation.
“Light the way,” she said, taking the horse by the bridle and coaxing it to limp the distance to the animal shed. She stopped at the trough long enough for it to drink, then urged it into the shed and put it into an empty stall. Her buggy horse, Nell, whinnied softly in the darkness.
“The bridle,” the colonel said behind her, before she could remove it.
She gave a quiet sigh and struggled to unbuckle the bridle, then handed it to him.
“Shine the lantern there,” she said, pointing to a barrel of corn in the corner.
She lifted the lid and reached inside—as much as she hated to when she couldn’t really see where she was putting her hands. It was a carry-over from her childhood, when she once lifted out a rat along with an ear of corn.
“Thank you,” he said as she dumped as much corn as she could grab in one swipe into the stall crib.
She made no effort to acknowledge his expression of gratitude. She pitched a small clump of hay into the crib instead and turned to go. Her only interest now was in taking her “reasonably competent” self back to the house. It wasn’t for his sake that she’d assumed livery duties. She had merely appreciated his remark about a truce and determined that none of God’s creatures should suffer needlessly—regardless of who the human owner might be.
The colonel followed along after her with the lantern.
“I need my trunk opened,” he said as they entered the kitchen. He awkwardly set the lantern on the table.
“It’s in the front hall—”
“The key is in my left shirt pocket.”
She stood looking at him, trying to read the expression on his face. He wasn’t ordering her to do anything—and yet he was. And she was certain that he at least suspected that she was afraid of him. He suspected, and for some reason he was determined to push her until he could make her show it.
But she refused to be pushed. She impulsively reached into his unbuttoned tunic to find the shirt pocket with the ring of keys. This close, he smelled of smoke and horse and tobacco. He needed a shave, and he was clearly exhausted.
“Which key is it?” she asked, avoiding his eyes.
“The one in your hand. It opens the big trunk. I need two rolls of muslin and the bottle of brandy—lower left-hand side.”
She took the lantern and went into the hall. She had wanted to poke through his belongings, and apparently she was going to get the opportunity.
Except that he came with her.
She unlocked the trunk with some difficulty and located the muslin and the brandy—all the while trying to glimpse his personal possessions. A daguerreotype, a book—anything that would validate her already low opinion of the man. She saw nothing but socks and vests—and drawers. He clearly didn’t mind her rummaging through his undergarments in the least. Fortunately, she had had enough brothers not to be alarmed by the sight of normally concealed male clothing.
When she stood up, he was already on his way back to the kitchen. She sighed again and followed, carrying the brandy and the muslin.
“A glass?” he asked. “I’m apt to break things if I look myself.”
She got him one from the shelf, amazed that he expected her to pour, too, and even more amazed that she complied. Her one-handed splash was generous; the spirits didn’t belong to her.
“That’s enough,” he said, holding up an injured