Читать книгу Lydia - Elizabeth Lane - Страница 8

Miner’s Gulch, Colorado TerritoryMarch 19, 1868

Donovan Cole had never felt more helpless in his life.

Not that he’d ever been a man to shrink from a tough situation. He had faced charging Yankees at Bull Run and Antietam. He had nursed fever and dug graves in the wretched Union prison at Camp Douglas, Illinois. And only last summer, as sheriff of Kiowa County, Kansas, he had brought in the murdering Slater brothers with the help of just one scared young deputy.

But this was different, and the very thought of what he was about to do made his hands shake with fear. Never, even in his wildest dreams, had Donovan imagined himself delivering a baby.

Crossing the cluttered cabin, he lifted the faded quilt that separated his sister’s double bed from the living area. “You doing all right, Varina?” he asked, striving to hide his gnawing anxiety.

“Fair.” The anguished whisper rose from the bulging mound of bedclothes. “But it won’t be long now, I can tell. If Annie doesn’t get back soon with the midwife—”

Varina’s words ended in a gasp as another contraction seized her swollen body. Donovan reached for his sister’s hands and clasped them tight. Varina’s work-worn nails clawed into his palms as she twisted in agony. She would not cry out if she could help it, he knew. Her two younger children, Katy, six, and Samuel, a stoic four, sat huddled on the puncheon bench next to the cookstove. The sounds of their mother’s travail would frighten and upset them.

Donovan had sent eight-year-old Annie posthaste down the gulch for the midwife when Varina’s pains began in earnest. But that had been more than two hours ago, and in the interim it had begun to snow—the big, wet, feathery flakes of a spring blizzard. Annie could be anywhere, but he dared not leave Varina to go looking for her. He could only pray that the plucky child would be safe.

Donovan cursed silently as he stroked his sister’s hands. He cursed the snow and the unplanned early onset of Varina’s labor. He cursed Varina’s gold-chasing husband, Charlie Sutton, and the fool’s dream that had lured him to this miserable place. He cursed the mine cave-in, five weeks ago, that had left Varina widowed with three young children and another on the way.

Donovan had received the news about Charlie by letter. He had taken leave from his sheriff’s job, planning to fetch his sister and her children back to Kansas. Only on his arrival in Miner’s Gulch had he learned that Varina was in no condition to travel. And only then had he discovered her abject living conditions.

The first sight of the isolated, one-room hovel had wrenched Donovan’s stomach. Ten years ago, Varina had been a belle, with dancing hazel eyes and flame red hair. She’d been raised to a gracious plantation life, pampered by slaves and courted by some of the finest young bloods in Virginia. Seeing her brought to this was almost more than he could stand. If flighty Charlie Sutton had been here to answer for how he’d done by her, Donovan would have given him the whipping of his life.

The contraction had passed. Varina lay exhausted on the sweat-soaked pillows, her lashes pale against paler cheeks. Leaving her for a moment, Donovan crossed the cabin and stepped out onto the rickety front porch. He needed a little time alone to think about what came next.

Snow swirled around him, blurring the ghost white trunks of the aspens that stood around the cabin. Even when he strained his eyes, Donovan could see no more than a stone’s throw into the icy mountain twilight. What if young Annie had gotten lost out there? What if she’d fallen off a precipice or run afoul of a marauding cougar?

A wave of panic swept over him. “Annie!” he shouted, cupping his mouth with his hands. “Annie!”

The only answer was his own voice, echoing off the rocky cliffs. He was overreacting, Donovan admonished himself. Annie had grown up in Miner’s Gulch. She could find her way blindfolded. Most likely, she’d simply had trouble locating the midwife in town—yes, that could be it. Or maybe the wretched female was too busy to come right away, and Annie was having to wait for her.

Donovan had met the midwife briefly on her last visit to check Varina. He had not been impressed. She was a spinsterly creature with pince-nez spectacles, skinned-back hair, and a Yankee’s crackling, brittle speech—an odd presence in a town where nearly everyone had come from the South. When introduced to Donovan, she had not even raised her face to meet his eyes. She’d turned away so fast, in fact, that he’d scarcely gotten a decent look at her.

All the same, something about the woman had plucked a familiar chord in him. It was almost as if he’d seen her somewhere before. Try as he might, however, Donovan could not place her. He was imagining things, he’d concluded at last. Such an unsettling Yankee female would not have escaped his memory in the first place.

What had the children called her? Miss Sarah—that was it. Miss Sarah Parker. And when she wasn’t delivering babies, they said, she ran a school in the rooms she rented above the general store. Oh, he knew the type. A Bibletoting, hymn-singing do-gooder. She probably wore long woolen underwear that scratched—on purpose.

Donovan glared into the snow-speckled darkness, swearing under his breath. If Miss Sarah Parker did not get here soon, he would have to deliver Varina’s baby himself. He could manage a normal, easy birth, he supposed. But Lord, what if things didn’t go as they should? How would he know what to do?

Lamplight from the open doorway flooded the porch as little Katy’s voice shattered his thoughts. “Uncle Donovan, Mama needs you! She says to come right away!”

The baby! Donovan lunged back into the cabin, fighting paroxysms of cold fear. Why did it have to be now? What if he did something wrong? The infant could die. So could Varina.

“Sit with your brother and keep him quiet,” he ordered the wide-eyed Katy. “Tell me if you hear anyone coming.”

He stepped behind the quilt to see Varina writhing in the bed, her back arched in agony. “It’s…time,” she gasped. “I need Sarah—”

“Sarah’s not here yet. You’ll have to make do with me for now.” Donovan leaned over her, praying silently for strength. “Tell me what to do, Varina.”

“There’s a bundle in that reed chest…right on top. Get it….”

Fumbling in his haste, Donovan cleared the clutter from the top of the chest and raised the lid. The bundle was there, as she’d said. With shaking hands, he unrolled it on the foot of the bed. Inside were some threadbare cloths stiff from laundering, a string, a small, sharp kitchen knife, and a pint of cheap whiskey in a flat, brown bottle. He could imagine the purpose of the cloths. And the knife and string, he supposed, were for cutting and tying the birth cord. But what the devil was he supposed to do with the whiskey? Wash with it? Force it down his sister? Take a swig himself?

“Hurry—” Varina’s hands clawed the patchwork coverlet. How did she find the strength to keep from screaming? Donovan wondered as he jerked back the bedclothes and, with effort, spread the clean cloths under the lower part of her twisting body. He would have sent the two children outside to wait on the porch, but in this damnable snowstorm—”

Donovan—” Varina caught his arm, her fingers digging into his flesh. “It’s…coming!”

Sweat broke out like rain over Donovan’s body. It was almost over, he reassured himself. Minutes from now, Varina would be nestling her newborn child in her arms, and he would be looking on in pride and joy, wondering why he’d been so scared.

Heart racing, he seized her hands. “Hold on tight!” he rasped. “Hold on and push for all you’re worth!”

Varina’s fingers taloned on his knuckles. Donovan could feel the strain in her, feel the excruciating effort as she struggled to give birth. Her face was a contorted mask in the yellow lamplight. The cords along her neck stood out like ropes.

“That’s it!” Donovan urged as if he were prodding a faltering horse. “Come on, you can do it!”

“No—” Varina fell back on the pillow with an exhausted sob. “I can’t,” she whimpered softly, her head rolling from side to side. “Something’s…wrong.”

“What—?”

“I don’t know—my other babies were easy—” She gasped as the next pain ripped through her tired body. Again she arched and struggled, battling vainly to push her child into the world.

Sick with fear, Donovan stroked her hands. Women died this way, he reminded himself. If he didn’t do the right thing, and do it quickly, he would lose both Varina and her child.

But what was the right thing? He’d had no experience in birthing, not even with the animals on the plantation. An old slave named Abner had taken care of such matters. What he wouldn’t give now for Abner’s capable, dark hands, or for the quiet presence of Abner’s wife, Vashti, who’d attended the slave women. Donovan felt as helpless as a child. And he was the only hope Varina had.

Damnation, where was that midwife?

Donovan bent over his sister and brushed the wet hair back from her care-lined forehead. He remembered how close they’d been in their growing-up years—he and Varina and their younger brother, Virgil. Virgil had died in Donovan’s arms at Antietam. By all that was holy, he could not lose Varina, too!

“Tell me what to do,” he pleaded, his throat so raw he could barely speak.

“Check for the head….” Her voice was a whisper, frighteningly weak. “If you don’t find it…if the baby’s lying wrong…you’ll have to turn it.”

“All right. Lie still.” Donovan’s stomach clenched into a cold ball as he imagined what he was about to do—the awful pain his fumbling hands would inflict on Varina, the risk to her fragile, unborn infant. Steeling himself, he reached for the hem of her flannel nightdress.

His quaking fingers could not even grasp the cloth.

“Donovan—?” She was waiting, her fists balled against the pain. But Donovan was paralyzed by his own dread. He could not move.

Racked with self-disgust, he wrenched himself away from the bedside. “I’ll be right back,” he growled. “Rest a minute if you can—and try not to push.” Donovan shoved past the quilt and strode across the cabin. He groped for the door, then stumbled out onto the porch. His ribs heaved as he gulped the fresh, cold air.

He had to go back in there and help Varina. If he didn’t, she and her child would die. But he was so afraid of hurting her, afraid of doing some terrible harm to the baby-Snowflakes danced around him, diamond white against the darkness. They swirled down in infinite spirals from the murky sky as Donovan raised his eyes to heaven.

“Lord,” he murmured, “I’ve tried not to trouble you much over the years. But right now I need your help. I have two lives to save, and I can’t do the job alone.” He paused self-consciously, cleared his throat and forced himself to continue. “You understand, it’s not for myself I’m asking. I don’t deserve any favors, least of all from you. But Varina, she’s a good woman who’s never done a lick of harm in her life. And she’s got three fatherless little ones to raise—four, counting the baby—”

Donovan broke off in frustration. God could count, he reminded himself. As for the rest, he’d be better off inside, helping Varina, than standing out here stalling like a coward.

He cast one final, desperate glance into the snow-specked heavens. “Please,” he muttered. “Just—”

The sound of hoofbeats riveted his thoughts. He could hear them pounding up the gulch trail, moving rapidly closer. As Donovan’s eyes probed the snowy darkness, a big dun mule burst out of the aspens and into the clearing.

Two dark shapes, one of them very small, clung to the mule’s back. As the animal wheeled to a stop, Annie sprang to the ground and dashed toward the cabin. “Uncle Donovan, I brought Miss Sarah! Is Ma all right?”

“She’s fine,” Donovan lied. “Go on in and take care of Katy and Samuel. I’ll see to the mule.”

He loped off the porch and across the yard, to where Miss Sarah Parker was climbing down from the saddle, a canvas satchel clutched beneath her dark wool cloak. Relief jellied Donovan’s knees. At that instant, he could have swept the spinsterly Miss Sarah into his arms, plucked off her pince-nez glasses, and kissed her full on her prim mouth.

“It’s about time!” was all he could say.

“Sorry.” She tossed him the reins. “I just finished delivering Minnie Hawkins down on Panner Creek. I couldn’t get here any sooner. How is Varina?”

“Bad. The baby’s not coming the way it should. I hope to heaven you haven’t gotten here too late.”

Miss Sarah swung resolutely toward the porch, her boots crunching the new-fallen snow. Her plain, dark skirt swished against her legs as she turned with one foot on the rickety bottom step.

“Put Nebuchadnezzar in the shed and give him some oats,” she ordered crisply. “Then wash up and come inside. I expect I’ll be needing your help.”

She strode into the cabin. As he led the mule toward the shed, Donovan heard her instructing Annie to take the younger children to the cabin of old Ike Ordway, their nearest neighbor down the gulch. By the time he’d stabled the stubborn beast, they were on their way, trooping past him in the sad little coats Varina had pieced from old blanket scraps.

Donovan dipped water from the porch bucket and used a sliver of lye soap to lather his hands. He worked the suds carefully around his fingers, shivering as the wind penetrated his worn flannel shirt. Everything was going to be all right, he tried to reassure himself. The midwife was here. She would know what to do.

All the same, he’d have felt better if the woman had been older—say, a stalwart matron of forty who looked as if she’d borne a half-dozen children of her own.

Washing done, he entered the cabin to find Sarah Parker standing by the stove with her back to the door, rolling up the sleeves of her gray shirtwaist. Strangely, the first thought that flashed through his mind was how attractive she appeared from behind. The lamplight melted on the coil of her glossy brown hair where it lay low on the nape of her neck. And even her drab clothes could not hide the elegant set of her shoulders or the grace of a slender torso that curved from hand-span waist to sensually rounded haunches.

Donovan stared at her, galvanized once more by that feeling he could not even name—as if the sight of her had forged a dark link to some secret memory buried in the depths of his mind. What was it…?

A frenzied moan from Varina burst the unfinished thought like a bubble. Sarah Parker turned and frowned at Donovan, as if she’d known all along that he was there.

“I just finished checking her. It looks like a breech birth.”

Donovan nodded his understanding, mouth grimly set to hide his fear. “Then I guess you’ll have to turn the baby. Can you do it?”

“I…hope so.” Her gray eyes were pools of anxiety behind the pince-nez spectacles. Her fingers quivered as they fumbled with the cuff of her left sleeve. Midwife or not, she wasn’t offering him much reassurance.

“Have you done anything like this before?” Donovan probed.

“I’ve never had to.” She had turned her back on him again. “This is only my seventeenth baby. But I know how. I’ve read about it.”

“Read about it! Good Lord, woman—”

“Would you rather do it yourself, Mr. Cole?” Her Yankee voice crackled like splintering ice.

Donovan surrendered with a ragged sigh. “All right. What can I do to help?”

“Come on.” With an abrupt swish of petticoats, she strode behind the quilt, where Varina sprawled damp, tearful and exhausted on the rumpled sheets. Donovan’s heart contracted at the sight of her. His questions about Sarah Parker evaporated as he knelt to take his sister’s hand.

Sarah had taken a tin of greasy salve out of her satchel and was rubbing the stuff on her hands. “How long ago was the last pain, Varina?”

“Three…maybe four minutes.” Varina’s tired voice was so faint that Donovan could barely hear.

“We’ll wait for the next one to pass. Then I’ll try and turn the baby.” Sarah hesitated, then continued. “It will hurt. I’ll be as gentle as I can, but—”

“I know,” Varina whispered. “It’s all right. Do what you have to. And Sarah—”

“Yes?”

“If it’s a question of saving me or the child…I want this baby to live.”

“Hush!” As Sarah leaned over to squeeze Varina’s hand, Donovan caught the glint of tears in her eyes. “Don’t talk that way, Varina Sutton! You’re going to be just fine, and so is your baby!”

Varina did not answer. Donovan watched the contraction take his sister. He watched it seize her swollen body in its cruel talons, squeezing and twisting until he wanted to scream for her.

“Get ready.” Sarah shot him a hard glance through her round glass spectacles. “As soon as the pain eases, you hold her. Keep her as still as you can.”

Donovan nodded, his throat too constricted to speak. He clasped Varina’s hands, noticing how weak her grip was. She was nearing the end of her strength.

Varina’s fingers began to relax as the pain diminished. Donovan could feel Sarah’s presence in the tiny enclosure. He could sense the exquisite tension in her as she waited, drawing into herself like a cat preparing to spring.

“Now!” she exclaimed, shifting her position to the foot of the bed.

Donovan clasped his sister in his arms and held her with all his strength. Varina’s nightdress, draped between her raised knees, blessedly screened Sarah from his view. But he could imagine what she was doing. He could feel every move she made in the agonized spasms that racked Varina’s body. And once more, silently this time, he prayed.

Seconds oozed past like drops of blood. Varina’s raw, anguished breathing rose to a gasp as she bit back the pain.

“It’s all right, Varina.” Sarah spoke with effort from the foot of the bed. “It—it won’t be much longer now. I’m going to count to three, and when I do, you’re to scream for all you’re worth! Do you understand?”

“The…children,” Varina murmured weakly.

“They’ve gone to Mr. Ordway’s. They won’t hear you.” Sarah’s shadow danced on the wall as she raised the lantern and set it on the washstand, then repositioned herself over the bed. “When I count three, now. One…two…three!”

Varina screamed. She screamed with the pent-up agony of hours. She screamed for Charlie, crushed in the mine. She screamed for Virgil, shattered by mortar fire at Antietam. She screamed for her own lost girlhood, and for the grace of a life that had vanished with the war’s first shot.

Donovan squeezed tears from his eyes as her anguish knifed through him. If Varina survived this, he vowed, he would do anything to see her happy. He would work his fingers to the bone, risk anything to provide her with the comforts that footloose Charlie Sutton had never managed. Varina and her children were his only living kin. He would see that they never wanted for anything. He would-”It’s done!” Sarah gasped. “Varina—the baby’s turned!`Now—quickly, when the next pain comes—push! Push with all your might!”

Varina’s next contraction came on the heels of Sarah’s words. Shifting his position, Donovan cradled his sister’s shoulders with one arm. Her frenzied fingers gripped his free hand as she bore down.

“Push…push…”

Donovan could hear the midwife urging as Varina gasped and strained. The two women were working together now, battling for the baby’s life. Donovan could not see Sarah, but he could sense her agitation. He could hear the ragged little sobs of her breathing as she echoed Varina’s effort. “Push…oh, yes, yes!”

Varina went limp in his arms as the new life slid out into the world. Donovan heard the sound of a sharp slap; then, miraculously, a thin, mewling cry.

“Oh!” Sarah’s voice was husky with awe. “Oh, Varina, it’s a boy! You have a beautiful little son!”

Varina stirred, moaning softly.

“Did you hear?” Donovan’s own eyes were damp. His arm tightened around his sister’s shoulders. “You’ve got a boy! Listen to him squall!”

Varina lay still for a moment, then rallied. “Let me see him,” she whispered. “Give him to me, Sarah—”

“As soon as I cut the cord and wrap him up.” Sarah fumbled with the knife and string behind the veil of Varina’s nightdress. A moment later she straightened into full view, a tiny, squirming bundle in her arms.

“Here’s your new son, Varina!” she exclaimed, her face glowing.

As she bent over the bed, Donovan noticed that the pince-nez glasses had dropped off her nose and were dangling from a cord pinned to her shirtwaist. Her eyes were a luminous silver gray, framed by thick, lustrous lashes. Tendrils of light brown hair had escaped their tight bun. They framed her sweat-jeweled face in damp, curling wisps. Her mouth, curved in a tender smile, was as softly inviting as a ripe peach.

Again, that sense of recognition stabbed Donovan’s memory, this time with a force that made him reel. What the devil was going on here? He could have sworn on a stack of Bibles that he’d never seen Sarah Parker outside Miner’s Gulch. And yet-”Give me my boy!” Varina gathered the pucker-faced infant into her trembling arms. “I’ve got a name for him already. Charles Donovan Sutton—for his father and his uncle.”

“That’s fine, Varina.” Distracted once more, Donovan gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. He didn’t relish the thought of his own name being coupled with mutton-headed Charlie’s, but if that was what his sister wanted-”We won’t be needing you anymore, Mr. Cole.” Sarah’s crisp voice broke into his thoughts. She’d replaced her spectacles, Donovan noted, and tucked the loose tendrils of hair behind her ears. “If you’ll be so kind as to leave us, I’ll wash Varina and get her settled.”

“I’ll be on the porch if you need me.” He edged around the blanket, leaving Sarah to her bustling, Yankee efficiency. Four long strides carried him across the too-warm cabin and out onto the snow-dusted porch. Latching the door behind him, Donovan sagged against the frame, limp kneed with relief. One hand raked his dark chestnut hair and eased down to massage the tension-knotted muscles at the back of his neck.

It was over. The baby was here, and Varina was all right. For this, he owed his thanks to the coldly capable Miss Sarah Parker, whoever she was. If she had not arrived in time-He shuddered away the thought as he stared out into the falling snow. There was no use fretting over what might have happened, he reminded himself. Sarah had come. She had readily done what he himself had been afraid to do. She’d read a book—that’s what she’d told him. A book! Good Lord, the woman had steel-wire nerves, and ice in her veins!

Sarah.

Enveloped by whirling snowflakes, he stepped off the porch and wandered into the dooryard. Her face shimmered before his eyes—the tender face he’d glimpsed as she bent over Varina with the child in her arms. Something about that face haunted him. What was it?

He was imagining things, that was all. He had never set eyes on Miss Sarah Parker until three days ago, when she’d come to check on Varina.

Damnation, what was it, then?

Unbidden, his mind had begun to drift. Through the blur of snow, he glimpsed the blazing lights of a grand ballroom and heard the faint, lilting strains of a quadrille. He saw gray uniforms with golden epaulets, the flash and swirl of a mauve skirt, a lace-mitted hand on his brother Virgil’s sleeve…

And that face. That beautiful, laughing, sensual face-a ghost’s face now, Donovan reminded himself. A face he had almost succeeded in forgetting.

Behind him, he heard Sarah Parker come out onto the porch and close the door behind her. “I’m leaving now,” she said softly. “Varina’s resting with the baby. There’s some broth warming on the stove—” She broke off hesitantly as Donovan turned and started back toward her; then she plunged ahead, a note of agitation straining her voice.

“I’ll send the children back when I pass the Ordway cabin. They’ll be all right. It’s not far, and Annie knows the way. Don’t let them trouble their mother too much. Varina needs her…rest.”

He had stopped a scant pace from where she stood. She blinked up at him through the snow-blurred lenses of her spectacles, her parted lips petal soft in the silvery light.

“I have to go,” she said, turning away. “The storm’s getting worse.”

“Wait.” Donovan caught her elbow, spinning her back toward him. He had meant only to thank her and go inside, but now he stood rooted to the spot, unable to tear his eyes from her face.

The resemblance was coincidental, that was all, Donovan told himself. With so many people in the world, some of them were bound to look alike. All the same, seeing those features on a straitlaced Yankee spinster was like being gut-kicked by a ghost. His senses reeled as he struggled with the bittersweet memories, the unanswered questions.

Leave it be, reason cautioned him. Let her go before you make a fool of yourself. But it was easier said than done. Donovan stared into Sarah’s face, battling long-buried urges that were too powerful to resist.

She cleared her throat nervously. “You won’t have to worry about taking care of the baby. Annie knows enough to—”

Her words ended in a gasp as Donovan lifted the spectacles from her nose and let them drop to her breast.

Sarah twisted wildly away, averting her face as if she were disfigured. What was wrong with the woman? Donovan wondered. Why was she so afraid of having a man look at her? Didn’t Sarah Parker know how pretty she was? Didn’t she realize what a beauty she would be without those oldmaid lenses and that skinned-back hair?

Somebody ought to tell her, he thought. Hell, somebody ought to show her.

Driven by some demon he could neither understand nor control, he gripped her arm harder, forcing her back toward him. “Let me look at you, Sarah,” he rasped. “Let me see you as you were meant to be seen!”

“Let me go!” She was struggling now, in obvious panic. A gentleman would do as she demanded, Donovan reminded himself. But he’d left off being a gentleman somewhere between Camp Douglas and Kiowa County. Besides, the situation had already gone beyond propriety. Whatever it took, he vowed, he would see it through.

Catching her jaw with his hand, he wrenched her face upward. “Blast it, I’m not going to hurt you,” he muttered. “Just hold still and trust me!”

Her only reply was a sharp kick in the shins. Clenching his teeth, Donovan held on to her. His fingers found the coiled knot of her hair and began to fumble with the pins. His pulse leapt as the silken cascade tumbled loose over his hand.

“Donovan! No!”

With a sharp cry, she wrenched herself away from him. Her own momentum flung her against the kindling pile. She stumbled over her skirt, then caught her balance and whirled back to face him, half-crouched, like a catamount at bay.

Donovan, she had called him. Back in the cabin, Sarah Parker had addressed him as Mr. Cole.

Bewildered, Donovan backed away a step. “Now listen,” he began, “I didn’t mean to—”

He broke off at the full sight of her face—the tousled curls framing high, elegant cheekbones, the stormy eyes, the wide, sensual mouth. And suddenly the face had a name—a name that blazed like hellfire across Donovan’s mind.

Lydia.

He stared at her, too dumbfounded to speak. This was impossible, he told himself. Lydia Taggart was dead. Her own Negro servants had shown him her grave when he’d come back to give her Virgil’s ring. They’d told him how a mortar shell had struck the house during Grant’s assault on Richmond, exploding in her bedroom. He had placed the thin, gold circlet on her headstone and walked away.

Lydia.

A sense of betrayal stole over him, replacing disbelief and darkening his emotions. Whatever was going on here, he swore, he would get to the bottom of it if it took all night.

Fist clenched, he took a step toward her. “Lady,” he growled, “you’ve got some tall explaining to do!”

But even as he spoke, she darted up with a little cry and sprinted for the shed. Donovan heard the mule snort as she flung herself onto its back. Numb with shock, he watched her come flying outside, wheel her mount and disappear like a phantom into the snowy blackness of night.

For a long moment he stared after her, snowflakes clustering on his unshaven cheeks. Then, with the sound of hoofbeats ringing down the gulch, he forced himself to stir. Like a sleepwalker, he turned and walked slowly back toward the cabin. His footsteps, crunching snow, echoed the rhythm of his thoughts.

Lydia. Lydia Taggart. Alive. And a Yankee.