limited amount of rations—no weapons or ammunition, and no military intelligence. But the last boxcar yielded a rare treat—crates of oranges, lemons, candy, and fresh shad. Fish was scarce due to the Union blockade of the seacoast. His rangers carried the provisions back to camp for a fish fry. Like children they cavorted around the fire as grease in the pans spattered, eagerly awaiting the change in cuisine.
After dispersing his troops, the colonel had spent the day scouting new rendezvous locations in the Berryville area. It wouldn’t be prudent to keep to familiar haunts. He had learned of a small abandoned barn outside of Berryville, and therefore was surprised to spot a horse tethered to the water trough. Might be a deserter, but from which side? Alexander carried no firearm. His mother’s instructions on the Quakerway of life had taken root, giving him no desire to take another life. An intelligent man knew other ways to gain the upper hand. Using handholds in the side of the barn, he climbed up the wall to the hayloft window and perched silently over the door, prepared for anyone exiting the barn.
Almost anyone, that is. When the door swung open, he leapt down on the deserter, landing with a mouthful of flaming red hair and a sharp knee to his gut.
“ Ouff ! Get off me, you oaf! Are you some sort of wild beast?”
Hearing a feminine voice, Alexander scrambled to extract himself from a person both female and beautiful. Beautiful, that is, if one found red-faced, scowling women with leaves in their hair and dusty clothes beautiful. At the moment, he did. It was Emily Harrison—the governess who almost burned down the kitchen at Bennington Plantation. The same woman who demanded he cover his chest yet couldn’t keep her eyes off of his bare skin. He laughed at the absurdity of meeting her in the remote countryside.
“Y ou! ” She spat out the word as though it were a distasteful mouthful of castor oil.
“Alexander Wesley Hunt, madam, of Hunt Farms, Front Royal.” He bowed deeply before stretching out his hand. “We met last summer at Bennington Plantation. I believe Matilde had just ousted you from her kitchen.”
She jumped back, glowering as though his hand were a serpent. “I remember you, Mr. Hunt. Perhaps you will explain why you leaped down on me?” Her voice seethed with venom.
“I humbly beg your pardon.” Alexander swept off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. Fortuitously, he wore riding clothes with his uniform packed safely away in the saddlebag. “I thought you might be a deserter looking for a place to hide. Please forgive my indiscretion, madam. Both Union and Confederate scalawags travel this valley on their way home.”
While Emily dusted herself off and pulled leaves from her hair, Alexander assessed her appearance. Instead of a riding habit, she wore asummer ensemble more suited to a walk in the garden. His eyes flicked over her briefly before coming back to her face. “Madam, where is your carriage and driver? May I assist you in some way? Are you lost, or did the carriage throw a wheel and you sent your driver for help?”
“Stop calling me ‘madam,’ ” she demanded with a stomp of her foot. “You know very well I’m unmarried. And I do not have a driver, sir.”
“Then how did you get here?” He peered around the barnyard with confusion.
“I rode my horse, you simpleton.”
“In that?” He pointed to her cotton dress and smock. “Without leather boots or a riding habit?” Then the full impact of her words struck him like a whack to his head. “Great Scot. I believe this is the first time in my life anyone called me a simpleton.”
E mily couldn’t tell if Mr. Hunt’s shocked expression was due to the insulting word she had just used or her inappropriate attire. “Well, that rather surprises me. And it’s none of your business what I wear when I ride, Mr. Alexander Wesley Hunt of Front Royal. If you’ve finished pouncing on me, I’ll be on
After dispersing his troops, the colonel had spent the day scouting new rendezvous locations in the Berryville area. It wouldn’t be prudent to keep to familiar haunts. He had learned of a small abandoned barn outside of Berryville, and therefore was surprised to spot a horse tethered to the water trough. Might be a deserter, but from which side? Alexander carried no firearm. His mother’s instructions on the Quakerway of life had taken root, giving him no desire to take another life. An intelligent man knew other ways to gain the upper hand. Using handholds in the side of the barn, he climbed up the wall to the hayloft window and perched silently over the door, prepared for anyone exiting the barn.
Almost anyone, that is. When the door swung open, he leapt down on the deserter, landing with a mouthful of flaming red hair and a sharp knee to his gut.
“ Ouff ! Get off me, you oaf! Are you some sort of wild beast?”
Hearing a feminine voice, Alexander scrambled to extract himself from a person both female and beautiful. Beautiful, that is, if one found red-faced, scowling women with leaves in their hair and dusty clothes beautiful. At the moment, he did. It was Emily Harrison—the governess who almost burned down the kitchen at Bennington Plantation. The same woman who demanded he cover his chest yet couldn’t keep her eyes off of his bare skin. He laughed at the absurdity of meeting her in the remote countryside.
“Y ou! ” She spat out the word as though it were a distasteful mouthful of castor oil.
“Alexander Wesley Hunt, madam, of Hunt Farms, Front Royal.” He bowed deeply before stretching out his hand. “We met last summer at Bennington Plantation. I believe Matilde had just ousted you from her kitchen.”
She jumped back, glowering as though his hand were a serpent. “I remember you, Mr. Hunt. Perhaps you will explain why you leaped down on me?” Her voice seethed with venom.
“I humbly beg your pardon.” Alexander swept off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. Fortuitously, he wore riding clothes with his uniform packed safely away in the saddlebag. “I thought you might be a deserter looking for a place to hide. Please forgive my indiscretion, madam. Both Union and Confederate scalawags travel this valley on their way home.”
While Emily dusted herself off and pulled leaves from her hair, Alexander assessed her appearance. Instead of a riding habit, she wore asummer ensemble more suited to a walk in the garden. His eyes flicked over her briefly before coming back to her face. “Madam, where is your carriage and driver? May I assist you in some way? Are you lost, or did the carriage throw a wheel and you sent your driver for help?”
“Stop calling me ‘madam,’ ” she demanded with a stomp of her foot. “You know very well I’m unmarried. And I do not have a driver, sir.”
“Then how did you get here?” He peered around the barnyard with confusion.
“I rode my horse, you simpleton.”
“In that?” He pointed to her cotton dress and smock. “Without leather boots or a riding habit?” Then the full impact of her words struck him like a whack to his head. “Great Scot. I believe this is the first time in my life anyone called me a simpleton.”
E mily couldn’t tell if Mr. Hunt’s shocked expression was due to the insulting word she had just used or her inappropriate attire. “Well, that rather surprises me. And it’s none of your business what I wear when I ride, Mr. Alexander Wesley Hunt of Front Royal. If you’ve finished pouncing on me, I’ll be on
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