Chapter 33

MAY 21, 1862

RICHMOND, VIRGINIA

Cassie forced her mind to the task at hand. Distracted thoughts while traversing through a Rebel army camp would spell disaster.

Yet try as she might, she couldn’t erase the image or the words of the dying stranger from her brain.

So angry. So bitter. And what good had his choices done in the end? His thirst for revenge had not been sated, and the full potential of the length and depth of his life had been snuffed out.

Would her end be the same?

The plink of a banjo yanked her from the dark thought.

Keeping her head down, she shadowed Gabe’s sure step as they followed a sergeant through the camp, weaving between the rows of squatting canvas tents. A cluster of gray backs huddled around the banjo player, tapping their feet as the cheery tune drifted through the air. She peered from under the wide brim of her bonnet, searching for anything McClellan would find useful.

She had feared entering the camp would be difficult, but when Gabe showed the Confederates a forged document—a false plea from Lieutenant Colonel Tanner requesting Mr. Smith and his wife be allowed to photograph the camp, the Rebels had made no protest. With a long look at the papers, the guard had granted them entrance.

They passed another throng of soldiers shouting and laughing as they played a crude game of baseball using a long piece of fence rail to smack a yarn-wrapped walnut.

The sergeant stopped suddenly, his stern visage showing little emotion. “Would this spot serve, Mr. Smith?”

Gabe glanced around and scratched his hair in a relaxed manner. “Reckon it’ll do.”

The thick-waisted sergeant nodded curtly. “I’ll leave you to prepare, then.” His jaundiced eye swiveled to Cassie. “Stick close to your man, ma’am. Some soldiers won’t think twice of taking advantage of a pretty woman.”

Cassie nearly laughed. If the man only knew she could drop any one of these Johnny Rebs with a flick of her rifle . . .

Instead, she clutched Gabe’s arm and gasped. “Yes, sir.”

Gabe patted her hand as if trying to console his trembling wife. “I’ll keep a close eye on her, Sergeant.”

The man marched away and Gabe released her, fumbling to set up the cumbersome camera and tripod. His gaze connected with hers and he murmured under his breath, “Do what you must do quickly.”

With a sideways glance to make sure she was unobserved, she plucked up her skirt to free the hem from tangling around her feet and scurried from view.

Under the pretext of returning to the Whatsit for supplies, she scanned the camp’s artillery strength, keeping her ears pricked for troop placement or gossip.

Two soldiers were cleaning their guns as she passed.

“James says the Yankees are about finished with the bridges across the Chickahominy.”

The other soldier spit a thick brown stream onto the ground. “Let ’em come. We got masked batteries waiting for them.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Did you see that big brush heap over yonder?” He chuckled. “Yankees are gonna be blown to kingdom come when they pass it.”

Keeping her head low, she hurried to the Whatsit and let the voices drift past. If Union forces were preparing to cross the Chickahominy, she and Gabe had little time. Her illness had held them back significantly.

She collided with a firm chest, the pain stealing her breath for a moment. A dark laugh washed over her, causing prickles to traverse her spine. Punishing hands curled around her upper arms.

She looked up into the sneering face of a soldier.

“You’re a pretty little filly, ain’t ya?” His sour breath assaulted her skin, stealing her air. “You the newest entertainment?”

She clenched her jaw and tried to pull herself free. “Unhand me.”

His grip tightened, his fingers digging into her flesh. “Just one little kiss.”

He leaned in, and she placed a swift kick to his middle. He bellowed, but she couldn’t manage to break his ironclad grip. Squirming, she recoiled from his venomous glare, her mouth dry. “Let me go.”

“You deny me?” His eyes glinted like shards of glass. “I think not.”

He lurched forward, dragging her behind him, and stomped toward a tent. As his purpose became clear, she began to claw like a maniac. Her ears buzzed, her heart racing as she cried out. “Please! Help me!”

“Unhand my wife.”

Gabe’s voice boomed behind them, and Cassie nearly collapsed. The foul soldier whirled. “Your wife?”

Gabe’s face looked etched in stone. A fury unlike anything she’d witnessed in him darkened his face. But the brute tightened his hold on her bruised wrists.

“I don’t think Sergeant Shaffer would be pleased to know you assaulted the wife of the photographer he welcomed to camp.”

The odious man shifted. “Sergeant Shaffer?”

Gabe took a menacing step forward, his teeth gritted. “Release. My. Wife.”

The brute shoved her forward with a growl. She fell into Gabe’s arms and sucked in a deep breath, her legs quivering like jelly.

Wrapping his arm around her, Gabe glared, his voice low and unyielding. “I suggest you leave before I report your conduct to Sergeant Shaffer.”

The soldier’s neck turned red. Pressing his lips into a firm line, he stomped away.

“Thank you.”

“Are you all right?” Gabe’s eyes roved over her as if reassuring himself.

Her lungs seared as she fought to take deep, calming breaths. “Yes, I think so.”

He tenderly turned over her wrists, scowling at the reddened flesh. “Have you finished acquiring what you need?”

She nodded at the double meaning. “Yes.”

“Good.” His tone darkened. “Because I’m not letting you out of my sight again.”

As she followed him back across the enemy camp, she pressed a hand to her quaking stomach.

For all her resistance to men and their domineering ways, this time she had to confess she was thankful for the bold protection Gabe covered her in. Was she wrong about the controlling nature of men?

Or perhaps the difference between happiness and misery in marriage was the man a woman bound herself to.

Cassie was acting strangely.

At first, Gabe thought it was merely her urgency to leave the Confederate camp with haste before the Union invaded. But even after leaving and putting miles between the Rebels and themselves, he caught Cassie staring at him at odd moments. Each time, she looked away and worried her lip when he offered a relaxed smile in return.

Perhaps the effects of the malaria continued to plague her.

He cleared his throat and snapped the reins again, urging the mares to keep their pace. “Are you anxious to reach Union lines?”

Nodding, she picked at some imaginary speck on her blue skirt. “Yes. If we delay, our boys will walk right into that hidden artillery. The news must be delivered to McClellan with speed.”

He fell silent, letting the horses’ reins rest easily in his hands.

“Thank you.”

Her husky voice snagged his attention. “For what?”

The muscles in her slender neck shifted. “For saving me from that awful soldier. I didn’t—” She licked her lips. “I just—”

“I should have horsewhipped him.”

She dropped her gaze back to the twisted fingers in her lap. “If you hadn’t interceded when you did . . .” A shudder racked her body. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Yes?” he prompted.

She squirmed in the wagon seat. “Perhaps I haven’t been fair to you.”

He stilled. What was she saying? He kept silent, knowing she would speak her mind when she was good and ready.

She stared at the woods before them and sighed. “All my life, I’ve looked at men through the prism of my father. I suppose in observing his relationship with Mother, with me—” she grimaced—“I might have made wrong assumptions.” Her eyes sought his, and his heart hammered. “I fear I painted you with the same brush.”

He dragged his eyes away to watch the road before they ended up down a ravine. “And what do you think now?”

“You’re nothing like him.” Her voice was little more than a hoarse whisper.

He longed to stop the wagon and pull her into his arms. Instinct told him she still wasn’t ready. Instead, he slipped both reins into his left hand and sought her fingers with his right. Her touch was hesitant, but she didn’t pull away when he interlaced their fingers.

For now, it was enough.

MAY 24, 1862

Cassie erased all traces of herself, or Mrs. Smith, from her stride before returning to camp. Only a day since she and Gabe had come back, and word had drifted through the regiment. They would march toward Richmond on the morrow.

She hoisted another sackful of flour into the supply wagon. Hearing a group of boys guffawing, she sought the huddle and speared Jonah with a sharp rebuke. “What are you boys doing?”

A newspaper was stretched out between them on the ground. Jonah looked up and grinned. “Simmons brought a new batch of papers. We’re reading the opinion pieces.” Jonah snorted and the other boys joined him. “There’s some idiot in here spouting malarkey. Says all us Yankees are gonna be working in the fields with his slaves when the war is over.”

Cassie frowned. “If the captain catches you reading the papers instead of attending to your chores, you’ll pay dearly.”

The boys groaned. Jonah huffed. “That stuffy old captain is no fun.”

“War isn’t supposed to be fun. Go on now. Get to work. The paper will be here later.”

The boys mumbled their displeasure but scattered to their tasks. A breeze ruffled the edges of the open newsprint. Bending down, she retrieved the paper before the wind carried it away.

She’d just turned to stash it somewhere safe when an image caught her attention. It was a woodblock-and-ink reproduction of a photograph. This one depicted a woman running her fingers through a brook, her expression pensive.

Sharp breath seared her lungs. Her ears buzzed. It couldn’t be. . . .

She was staring at herself.

A cold stone settled deep in her stomach. Gripping the oily print with white fingers, she scanned the caption.

“Beautiful Heroines of Home” was printed in bold type just beneath the image, followed by a blade that sliced her to the core. “Original photograph: Gabriel Avery, appointed by Mathew Brady.”

He’d taken her photograph without her knowledge and plastered it across the newspapers. How many more was her face flaunted in? Dozens?

The gentle, timid flower of hope that had bloomed within her since Gabe had rescued her from the Rebel soldier’s clutches withered and died, leaving a hollow ache in its place.

He’d used her. Stolen her privacy and broken her trust to line his own pockets. How could he?

Something sharp twisted in her chest, causing breath-stealing spasms.

Gabe had betrayed her.

The anguish cut far deeper than she could have imagined.

Cassie stomped up to Gabe as he stood outside the Whatsit, dipping glass plates into a tub of water. Steam burned in her belly as she watched him calmly dry a dripping plate with a rag, then stack it to the side as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

When he heard her approach, his face lit with a smile . . . until she pinned him with a narrow glare.

“What is this?” She shoved the newspaper into his chest with a shuddered sob. Eyes wide, he stared at the paper in his hands. He swallowed and looked away, but not before she witnessed the guilt that ghosted his expression. Icy-hot blood lashed her insides.

“How could you?” Her lips trembled, but she steeled herself against the burning tears. She would not cry. She would not.

He winced and reached for her, but she yanked her arm away.

“Don’t touch me,” she hissed. Anger was far safer than tears. She wouldn’t give him that much power over her. Never again. Never for any man.

Gabe shot a glance to make sure no one was nearby. “It’s not what you think—”

“I think you took a photograph of me without my permission and sold it to a bunch of newspapers to line your pockets.”

Red streaked his neck.

“Am I wrong?”

“No! Yes!” Raking his fingers through his hair, he scraped them down his face and blew out a heavy breath. “I should have asked your permission. That’s true enough. And I’m sorry. But the money wasn’t for me. Remember the man I told you about in New York? Jacob? He’s like my grandfather. I needed the money to pay his hospital bills.” His mouth tilted into a frown. “He gave me the funds I needed to be here. I owe him, Cass.”

“How magnanimous of you.” A headache pounded in her skull. “Unfortunately, your gesture of goodwill might expose my identity.”

He shook his head. “No one will recognize you.”

“You can’t promise that. You used me.” A realization struck her. She sucked in a harsh breath. “Or perhaps you intended to expose me. After all, you’ve been against my work here since the moment you learned who I was.”

Gabe’s mouth went slack. “You can’t really believe I would do something like that on purpose.”

“What am I supposed to believe?” Her throat ached. “You’ve ranted often enough about independent women. Even begged me not to return.” She lifted her chin. “What better way to put me in my place than exposing me for the world to see?”

His expression darkened and he took a step forward, looming over her with a glare. “If you really think I would do such an underhanded thing, you don’t know me at all.”

A thousand rebuttals begged for release, but giving them voice would do no good. Heart twisting, she turned on her heel, calling over her shoulder, “Good-bye, Gabe.”

“Cass, please . . .” His whisper faded as she quickened her pace.

Nothing he could say would fix the damage he’d inflicted.