“How do I know you ain’t spies?”
Lucas stepped forward and clasped the saddle horn of the leader, a marvelous, casual gesture, suggesting he had nothing to fear from them.
“What’s your name?” the leader snapped.
“Captain Davis.” Lucas spun his yarn, his adopted name rolling off his tongue like quicksilver. His wily deception mollified their captor.
A man mounted on a black Morgan spat a stream of tobacco near Rachel’s feet. “I’m darned if that feller ain’t turning white,” said a man, pointing to Rachel. She looked down, the silver nitrate leaked from her hands, making zebra stripes.
All eyes were on her. “I’ve expected to come white at some time. My mother’s a white woman,” Rachel explained.
“Take ’em back to camp for the sergeant to decide,” the leader ordered.
Lucas hissed in her ear. “You’ve got us in a fine mess now.”
* * *
Rachel knew the minute they entered the Home Guard’s camp that the sergeant was in a bad mood. “Hang ’em,” he said.
“Now wait a minute here,” commanded Lucas.
He never ceased to amaze her, yet his steadfast assurance was to undergo the supreme test of his life.
The sergeant scratched at his lice. “You’re either a deserter or those two Yankee spies from Richmond everyone’s looking for.”
“Prove it,” drawled Lucas.
One of the enraged patrol riders threw nooses about their necks, begging to let them swing so as not to delay his dinner.
Rachel eyed the wavering guns and shifting mob.
“Had I my revolvers this would be a different story.” Lucas cited the Articles of War, how they lost their passes in the river, and everything else that came to mind. As the minutes passed, tempers cooled. The nooses were removed.
“Your execution is postponed until the captain comes back in the morning,” the sergeant said begrudgingly before he scuttled off for his dinner.
Inside a cabin, they were thrust in a makeshift cell. A small consolation was a warm fire. A bar slammed down into place, securing their prison for the night. A lone stool sat in the outer room.
Rachel tore off a scrap of her trousers, made use of the water bucket and washed her face. She yanked off her wig and combed her fingers through her hair. If she was going to hang, at least it would be with her looking in some semblance of order.
“Now what is there to worry about?” said Lucas as if the expectation of hanging was purely alarmist. He opened the gold lid on his watch. “Damn. Our dunk in the river destroyed the piece. It used to keep really good time.” He stuffed it back into his pocket.
She expected a more pensive Lucas, not an amiable soul who breathed lazy charm and congeniality. In the spirit of relaxed friendship that had sprung up between them over the past weeks and resigned to her fate, Rachel slid down to the floor, settled beside him, and made a show of examining her fingernails.
“Are you bored?”
“What could possibly make you think I’m bored? I practically drowned. I have twenty Confederate renegades who want to hang me. There’s no chance of escape. I’m with the most wanted man in the Confederacy outside of Abraham Lincoln. Why I’m having the time of my life.”
“How you cleave to an abiding sense of tragedy.” He clucked his tongue. “I thought you thrived on excitement.”
“I do when I’m in control. Right now, I’m not in control.” She practically wept with his cheerfulness. No doubt, he kept up his lighthearted banter to distract her from the inevitable.
“I bet you’d kick sand in the face of the devil,” he said, and then lowered his voice, and took her hands. “You must trust me.”
She tried to remove her hands. He held tight and, for one moment, she thought he’d say the words she yearned to hear…I love you.He gazed at her as if he were weighing the question in his mind. Rachel waited, but the seconds ticked by, and Lucas made no move to say anything. After a long, tortured silence, she said, “What do you dream of, Lucas?”
He stared at her intently, and then a lopsided grin appeared. “Food. Mashed potatoes, fried chicken, smoked ham, grits and gravy. Lots of gravy.”
“You’re impossible.” The spell was broken. She yanked her hands from his grasp, stood and turned away. She leaned her forehead against a cold, tiny windowpane, closing her eyes against scalding tears. She could brave almost anything, but this? What was she to expect? There were no promises in war.
