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ANNIE LEANED CLOSER to make sure Isabella’s eyes had finally closed in sleep before tiptoeing out of the room. She was preparing to retire for the night herself when she noticed lantern light reflecting off the windows. Within moments the sound of voices and heavy footfalls punctured the peaceful stillness.
Visitors arriving at all times of the day and night were not unusual at Lacewood. Civilians traveling long distances, soldiers seeking food or rest, merchants selling their wares—could all find a place to rest within the gates of the estate. But some sixth sense seized Annie with immediate fear.
Before panic could even register, her heart bounded into her throat. Annie hurriedly puffed out the candle in her hand, but other than that she had no time to run or even move. A single brisk knock on the door was followed by thundering blows, making it clear the intent was to break it down rather than request admission.
Annie closed her eyes as the latch gave way. Even in the darkness, she detected the shadow of a menacing presence fall over her.
Opening her eyes, she took in the threatening glares and ragtag clothes of three men standing in the foyer. The sight of them struck a jolt of fear into her heart so intense it froze her in place.
These men were a different class entirely from the other Confederate soldiers whom she usually welcomed, and by whom she was always treated with gentlemanly courtesy. Annie knew in an instant that these men would not adhere to the rules of law or act within the boundaries of civilized behavior. Every nightmare she ever had was standing in front of her, and the fear following the realization blazed through her veins like a fast-moving fire.
“What do you want?” she asked, backing away, praying the noise had not awakened little Isabella. But no sooner did the thought cross her mind than the child came walking down the hallway, rubbing her eyes, tired and confused. Annie stepped over to shield her from their view, and searched around for a weapon.
“Something to eat and some horses,” one of the men, who seemed to be the leader, said.
“On whose authority?” Annie lifted her chin and forced her shoulders back, feigning a confidence she in no way felt.
All three men laughed, but the one who had spoken before casually lifted the brim of his hat with the barrel of his revolver. He didn’t answer in words, but made it clear the gun carried the authority.
“I can provide the first, but you will not find any horses here.”
“How about a Union soldier. You got any of them here?”
Annie felt an icy hand clutch her vitals and began to tremble as they made their purpose clear. Somehow they knew Ben had been brought here, but had not yet learned of his death. “Don’t you dare take another step into this house. Get out!”
“Calm down, lady. You act like you might be hiding something.”
“Or someone?” Another of the men spoke up, grinning hideously, as if her fear served as a tonic to him.
The nightmare Annie had always dreaded was translating into demonic reality. Her head, her teeth, and all her bones, leaped and clattered as the men strode further into the room. The leader of the group approached her and leaned in close. “How about we ask the little one behind you?”
The malice in the man’s eyes struck more terror in Annie than his physical presence. They were bloodshot. Unforgiving. Seemingly fortified with hatred and spite.
Annie held Isabella behind her with one hand, and grabbed a heavy silver candleholder with the other. It wasn’t much, but she would defend this child—and this house—with her life if necessary. She held it high in the air, keeping it steady only by a tremendous effort of will, daring any of them to come closer. “Get out!”
Whether it was because of the weapon, or the protective fury of a woman shielding a child, the men made a decision to push her no further.
“Maybe we’ll just search for the Yank ourselves.”
“No. You won’t.”
The words were said quietly, but with the compelling voice of command. In the span of a heartbeat, the very atmosphere of the room transformed. A charge of crackling energy snapped like a lightning bolt, creating a strange aura that implied bullets not yet fired.
Annie’s attention turned toward Major Wescott, who leaned nonchalantly against the doorjamb behind her with a pose of absolute indifference. His acting was superb, because she observed a nerve twitching on his cheek—presumably from rage, because neither his carriage nor his expression suggested fear of any kind.
First came shock. Then utter relief. Followed by a mixture of concern and apprehension for the three men who made the mistake of entering Lacewood.
“Step away from the lady.” The order was low, grave, and menacing, carrying the undertone of a threat.
The men seemed startled by the sudden appearance of the resolute officer, then alarmed when they noticed his lethal calm.
“Major...sir,” one said. “We heard you were over by Centerville.”
“What business is it of yours where I am?” The intensity of his voice matched the penetrating scrutiny of his stare. He stood with military erectness now, his commanding presence filling the room, while his eyes seemed to appraise each man with hawk-like intensity. “On whose authority did you break in here, and on what grounds have you come?”
Annie took a deep breath, both in relief and newfound fear. The raw confidence so often evident in Major Wescott’s demeanor was replaced by something entirely different now—savage ferocity. Blue eyes conjuring stormy seas seemed to grow more wrathful by the moment as they settled upon the broken door latch, swiftly recognizing the violence that caused the damage.
“Well, sir. We heard there was a Yankee here, and we came to—”
What happened next passed by in the blink of an eye. Annie saw movement, but it was nothing more than a blur. With a swiftness impossible to comprehend, the major pulled his revolver, rushed toward the speaker, and lifted him against the wall with one strong hand. His gun lingered low and close to his side, but his body was coiled, eager to deal vengeance to all three intruders at once if they pushed him.
A surprising calm and composure descended upon Annie at the sight of his manly strength and power. Everything was under control now—except perhaps the owner of Lacewood’s temper.
“Who sent you?”
“N-n-o-o one...”
Annie felt, rather than heard, the resounding thunder of Major Wescott’s fury as the back of the man’s head hit the wall hard.
“The truth!”
“Well, sir.” One of the other men stepped forward. “Corporal Jenkins...he said we might get a bounty if we brought a Yankee in. He said it wasn’t right for—”
Again the man’s head hit the wall, causing his friend to stop speaking.
Annie watched the major’s face turn red with the intensity of his rage, but other than the still-throbbing nerve, he now managed to keep his temper in check. He turned his head toward her and spoke in a voice both serious and grave. “Did they harm you?”
“We didn’t touch her, I swear!” one of the men said.
Annie turned and picked up Isabella, putting her cheek next to hers and squeezing her tightly. “No.” It was all she could do to keep from bursting into tears. She fought the panic and fear threatening to overtake her—emotions the man in front of her seemed entirely unacquainted with.
The soldier being held against the wall struggled to catch his breath but remained silent. His eyes went back and forth between the major and Annie, but they were no longer lit with hate or vengeance. Pure, stark terror was the only emotion burning there now.
Major Wescott loosened his grip slightly. “I have half a mind to shoot you all, and I have full grounds, authority, and ability to do it.”
“Please, sir. We didn’t mean any harm. We didn’t mean to scare nobody.”
“Apologize to the lady.” The words were spoken quietly, but the intruders had no trouble hearing them—even with their attention on the revolver still held in the major’s rock-steady hand.
“I’m sorry, ma’am.” They spoke in unison.
“Papa!” Little Isabella finally awakened enough to recognize her father and began struggling in Annie’s arms.
The officer’s face softened, but his focus remained on the three men. “If you are not off my property in three minutes, I will make sure none of you are ever seen or heard from again.”
The men turned and raced each other for the doorway, almost getting stuck in their haste to be the first one through.
“And if I ever see you again—or hear you are back in this community—I will make good on the threat.” Major Wescott stood guard in the doorway until the gallop of the retreating horses could no longer be heard.
Then he closed the door and turned back to Annie with a smile both grim and casual. “You are safe now.”
Annie merely bit her lip to keep herself from weeping uncontrollably and held Isabella out for him to take. During the exchange, Annie’s arm unintentionally became entangled between child and father. Seeming not to notice, he pulled her in close to him along with his little girl.
Not wishing to interrupt this poignant moment, Annie remained quiet, resting her face against Isabella’s back and wrapping her free arm around her. There was something warm and calming in this comforting embrace, making her wonder if it had been accidental after all. The protective strength of this giant man seeped into her, making her feel safe.
“Papa, I’m squished.” Isabella squirmed against the major’s bearlike hold, giving Annie room to release her arm and complete the transfer of the girl into her father’s arms that had begun some minutes earlier.
“How’s my little Bella?” The major pulled her in tight again, closing his eyes in the process.
“Papa, who were those mean men? They scared NeNe.”
Major Wescott’s eyes opened and met Annie’s. “NeNe?”
“She can’t quite say Annie yet.” Annie kissed the child on the cheek, and swiped her fingers through her soft hair. “Don’t be silly, I’m not scared. Now off to bed with you.”
“Yes, off to bed you go. It’s late.”
“Will you be here in the morning, Papa?” She wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her cheek against his. “Please? I miss you.”
The look in Major Wescott’s eyes when he met Annie’s gaze almost made her run into his arms again. It was full of devotion, pain, and steadfast determination to fulfill his duty.
“Papa will tuck you in, sweetie,” Annie said. “And wish you sweet dreams. Now be a big girl and show him how you say your prayers.”
Isabella pouted, and her big eyes welled with tears, but she seemed to understand the importance of being strong. When the major put her down, Isabella took his hand and led him into the parlor where she now slept.
Such silence, following after the things Annie just endured, left her shaky and distraught. Her chin trembled, but she would not allow Major Wescott to witness the fear and terror consuming her. She’d watched men die, and beheld pain and misery beyond what any human being should be forced to contend. But she did not want him to know how weak and insecure she felt about being able to cope with it.
Annie remained where she stood, arms crossed in front of her, eyes closed, while she tried to regain her composure. What if he hadn’t come home when he did?
A shiver unlike any she had ever experienced traveled the length of her spine, forcing her to turn her thoughts to the positive. But he had come—almost as if drawn here by some uncanny instinct or intuition.
And it wasn’t the first time. How many times had the woodshed been filled just when she thought they would certainly freeze? Or hams magically appeared in the smokehouse? She had never questioned the good fortune. She hadn’t had the time. Perhaps she shouldn’t question it now either.
No better friend. No worse enemy. That’s what Luke told her about Jonathon Wescott on her first day at Lacewood. She’d never thought about the truth or impact of those words until now.
When she heard a door close softly behind her, Annie steeled herself to be strong. A soft touch on her shoulder sent a jolt of sensation through her body.
“She’s not asleep, but soon will be.” The voice near her shoulder was staid and calm.
Annie nodded, but did not trust herself to turn around.
“Come now, Miss Logan. It’s over.” He must have sensed her trembling. “It doesn’t bear thinking about.”
Annie turned around slowly to face him, her heart drumming in her ears at his soothing tone of voice.
“You are very brave, Annie,” he said at last. His voice was barely a whisper as he took her hand in his and gently unfolded her fingers from the candlestick still locked in her fist.
The sound of her name on his lips, the expressive tone of his voice, and the sympathetic glow in his eyes, touched Annie in a way she did not expect.
In one forward movement she was in his arms, instantly enveloped in an embrace that sent a wave of emotions surging through her. She did not want to cry, but the tumult of feelings could not be stopped, and neither could the onslaught of tears. She poured out her grief in long, aching sobs.
Fear. Relief. Anger. Pain. The incident was a reminder that her brother was dead. Gone. A victim of this never-ending war in a land where lives were expendable and allegiances were blurred. Life seemed less meaningful now—or at least death more commonplace. Ben’s passing had ripped a hole in her heart, and yet she’d never wept. She hadn’t had the time. She simply locked the grief inside, waiting for the day she could take a deep breath and live again.
Major Wescott stroked her hair and comforted her, his arms enfolding her in a consoling embrace that seemed natural and spontaneous. She savored the reassurance of his powerful hold and wondered how a man could be so fierce and so gentle at the same time. How could he exude both strength and comfort?
Daily tasks so overwhelmed Annie that at times she would be forced to seek solace in the bright, innocent eyes of Isabella. Yet it did not seem to bother Major Wescott in the least that decisions he made on any given day could affect the nation for generations to come. He remained calm, intrepid, and unruffled through any ordeal.
When Annie’s heart rate and tears began to slow, she eased herself away. “Thank you, major. I’m better now.” Not knowing what to do with her hands, she smoothed out her threadbare dress, and then took a surprised step back. Her eyes went down to her bloodied gown, then to her wet, sticky hand, and then to his coat.
“What happened? You’re hurt.” She turned him toward the light cast by the glowing embers of the dying fire to examine the coat more closely. Even with eyes still cloudy and damp, she perceived a heavy bloodstain on the weathered threads of wool. Her own gown was wet with it.
Major Wescott studied the increasing scarlet splotch silently, giving her the impression he was suppressing further speech until he could achieve a semblance of calm for her sake. “Appearances would warrant that conclusion,” he said at last. “But it is only minor.”
Minor perhaps, but the reflexive wince when he drew a deep breath disclosed it was a painful one. A mask seemed to fall across his face then, revealing nothing but a grim determination to remain standing.
“Come sit.” Annie forgot her own troubles in an instant, and helped him to a chair. She unbuttoned his coat while his stunned, confused eyes watched her hands. After lifting his shirt, she discovered blood had soaked through an earlier bandage, no doubt due to the physical exertion he’d undertaken with the intruders.
Annie bit her lip to keep from weeping at the amount of blood he had lost—all while she’d been selfishly immersed in her own terrors and concerns. She wondered if his shoulders ever tired of the burden they carried.
“Annie, listen to me.”
His imploring words jarred her from her thoughts.
“Two regiments will be camped nearby within a day, and a dozen more within a week. Do you understand?”
She met his bold, watchful eyes that appeared more lucid now he was sitting.
“No.” She shook her head. “I only understand that you must rest. Heal.”
“There’s no time for that!” His voice sounded unusually harsh, and his hands were clenched in a desperate effort to restrain himself. After a few deep breaths, he spoke more gently.
“Annie, it is not safe here.” He leaned forward, his face mere inches from hers. “They are coming...in great numbers...and they are hell-bent on revenge.”
She ignored his urgent tone and concentrated on removing the old bandage. When her fingers made contact with his skin, the hard muscles of his stomach tensed at her touch. The copious amount of blood and the appearance of the wound convinced Annie it came from a saber or bayonet—not a bullet. She did not ask for details. She simply stood and moistened a cloth from a pitcher of water.
“Press this down on the wound. Hard.” She didn’t wait to see if he obeyed, already on her way to the back of the house to gather prepared strips of cotton and a clean shirt from his wardrobe. Before returning, she stirred the fire and swung the arm of the stewpot closer to the blaze.
The major’s eyes were closed when she re-entered the room, but it did not take long for her to feel his vigilant gaze follow her while she lit candles. When she was done, she knelt down in front of him. “The bleeding seems to be stopping...or slowed at least,” she said, examining the laceration without removing his hand holding down the protective covering. She looked up at his pale face as he regarded her silently and with somber curiosity. “I’m going to wrap it tight for now.”
He nodded that he understood, but still grimaced when she began to secure the first bandage around him. He was a formidable man in size and stature, requiring her to wrap both her arms around his midsection to properly wrap the injury. As gently as possible, she made sure the dressing was in place and then finished binding the wound. When it was completed to her satisfaction, she stood. “Put this on and come sit closer to the fire. I have stew warming.”
The ghostly pallor of his face worried her, but she attempted to sound unconcerned. When he got to his feet, she helped slip the clean shirt over his head, ignoring his perfectly corded arms and ridged abdomen from long hours in the saddle.
“I must talk to you,” he said after carefully, and painfully, sliding his arms into the sleeves.
“Yes, but sit. I’ll be right back.”
Annie placed a blanket over his shoulders before darting over to ladle some stew into a bowl. When she returned, his eyes were open, but they were focused absently into the fire. Her fingers ached to reach out and touch him, to soothe him as he had soothed her. But even in his current state of fatigue and distress, he was a distant and imposing figure. She did not wish to disturb his rest or intrude upon his thoughts.
“Here. Eat. For your strength.”
His gaze moved from the fire to her face as he repeated his words. “I must talk to you.”
“Very well. But eat.”
He hesitated before accepting the stew, as if unaccustomed to following orders. Or perhaps he simply hadn’t expected her to be so independent and self-sufficient. Nevertheless, he ate the meal hungrily, and then rose with stiff, painful movements to stare out the window. When at last he spoke, his voice was low and even.
“You will leave tomorrow...with Isabella.”
“For where?”
He turned suddenly, causing him to grimace with pain. “That has not yet been determined.”
“But why?”
“They are coming...to occupy New Hope.”
“But they have been here before. I have no fear of them.”
Lacewood was not visible from the road, yet it had been discovered by any number of troops. She’d nursed the injured from both the North and South, and welcomed officers from both sides with what food she could provide.
“Pack what you must...for yourself and Bella. I will try to make every accommodation for your comfort, but—”
“No. I won’t go.”
A muscle tightened along his jaw, and a wave of disbelief descended upon his face at her bold declaration. “This is Isabella’s home—and mine, for now. Send her away if you feel you must, but I will stay. Face them.” The words surprised Annie as much as the man to whom they were spoken.
Her brother had died here. Sacrificed all for the country he loved. He would not want her to run away to safety. He would want her to stay and ensure the protection of the home where he’d taken his last breath.
“You do not understand the seriousness of the situation.” Major Wescott’s tone was both pleading and commanding, as if he was unsure how to handle her refusal.
“I understand that I will not leave. My brother was permitted to die here with honor. The deed will not pass without being recognized.”
“They will not listen to such reasoning.”
“They will listen to me,” she said emphatically. “They must.”
He pressed his lips together. “I cannot in good conscience allow it. The force being sent is overwhelming. We don’t have the soldiers to stop it, and we don’t have the arms even if we had the men.”
“Much of the news is false or unfounded. Did you not tell me so in a letter?” Annie could see or sense the storm in the major’s eyes as a trace of disquiet crossed his face. He stared in her direction, but his mind was evidently elsewhere, pondering his response.
“Major Wescott, I do not possess the means to stop them from occupying this property—but I can keep them from destroying it.” She crossed her arms and lifted her chin defiantly. “I will stay.”
“It’s Jonathon.”
Annie’s heart bucked once at the tender tone of his voice, and then settled.
“My name,” he said when she remained silent. “It’s Jon.”
Something in his eyes cradled her, like arms. “Very well...J-Jon.” She turned and walked away, pretending the fire needed urgent stoking so he could not see how the intimacy affected her. “Then everything is settled.”
Glancing over her shoulder at the sudden silence, she found him gazing into a candle flame as if weighing his options or considering his next move. He seemed pensive, but not disturbed or angry, as if merely trying to solve a problem he’d apparently not foreseen.
Silent. Resolute. Determined. Every inch a soldier. She still had a lot to learn about this breed of man.
“Let me check your bandage.” Annie knew that as soon as he made his decision, he would depart and return to the dangerous place from which he had come. She lifted his shirt and touched the area gently, causing his muscles to twitch and his breath to catch. Only a small spot of blood seeped through dressing. She lowered his shirt again.
“Your decision is final?” He appraised her with a look both kind and understanding—but concerned. He seemed to know she had already said what she was going to say. There would be no more.
“Yes. My brother was held in high regard and sacrificed all for his fellow soldiers. They will not harm us.”
Jon remained silent, but there remained a tension in his attitude, an uncertainty. His gaze became fixed again on the candle flame, as if he saw nothing but the glowing flicker and the darkness beyond. His handsome face was reserved. His profile rugged and somber.
“Very well,” he said at last.
Annie let out her relieved breath slowly. She was running on determination and resolve, but both had reached their limit.
No more words were spoken. None were needed. But what passed between them then was more eloquent than anything that could be communicated with language. Annie felt his fingers on hers, a light touch that sent shockwaves. With a steady gaze, he took her hand to his lips, dignifying her with the stately courtesy that might have graced a royal court.
The torment on his face, whether from his injury or having to leave, intensified the pain gripping her heart.
Annie closed her eyes when he gave her a final nod, and wished she could do the same for her ears. She didn’t want to hear the door open and then close, a sign of finality and his absence.
But she knew his call to duty was stronger than his own personal longings...and more powerful than his desire—or his need—for rest.
He left as silently as a shadow, leaving nothing but a wavering candle flame when the door clicked shut.