Nan Ryan (17 page)

Sheriff Brian A. Cooper had more respect for the Yankees than he had for Niles Loveless. At least they had fought for what they believed in, just as he himself had done.

The lanky sheriff finished his paperwork, stacked it all neatly, and shoved it into the middle drawer of his desk. He pushed back his chair, rose, and went for his hat.

He walked down to the livery stable for his chestnut gelding, mounted, and rode out of town.

South toward Helen Courtney’s coastal farm.

Chapter Eighteen

H
elen poured more of the hickory ashes she’d collected into the weathered clapboard hopper. She decided the hopper was full enough. She would make her lye soap today and it was none too soon. She had only a couple of bars left.

Each day for weeks Helen had added ashes to the hopper, then poured in clear water to make a depression until lye had begun to drip from the grooves in the platform down into the big stone jar she had placed underneath.

Satisfied the stone jar held an ample amount of the lye, Helen went to the woodpile, gathered up an armload of kindling, and returned to the hopper. She built up a small fire, waited until it was burning nicely, then went up to house to get the grease drippings she’d saved from cooking.

When she returned she saw Kurt coming in from the fields. Charlie trailed him. Dom followed Charlie. She immediately spotted the rusting plow bit in Kurt’s right hand and sighed.

“Hit a rock,” Kurt called to her, holding up the damaged bit. “Broke the point off the bit.”

Charlie left his father, came dashing eagerly toward Helen. “What are you doing?” he asked. “What’s the fire for? What’s in the bucket? Are you cooking dinner?”

She smiled down at the curious little boy. “No, I’m making lye soap.” To Kurt she called, “So you’ll have to ride into town to the blacksmith’s? Miss the whole day of plowing?”

“Can I help make lye soap?” asked Charlie, tugging at Helen’s sleeve to get her attention.

“No. I’m pretty sure I can fix it,” called Kurt. “I’ll file it back down to some semblance of a point. Shouldn’t take more than an hour. Charlie, don’t you be bothering Mrs. Courtney.”

“Good,” she shouted. Then, “He’s not bothering me.” To Charlie she said, “You may help, but you must be really careful. I don’t want you getting burned.”

Eagerly Charlie promised, “I will. I’ll be reeeally careful!” He looked down at Dom, who was giving him a quick ankle rub, and said to the cat, “I can’t play right now. We have to make soap!”

The Russian Blue made a rattling sound, closed his eyes, butted his head against Charlie’s knee, then turned and walked away.

“Dom’s mad, but he’ll get over it,” Charlie told Helen.

She nodded, agreeing, and they went to work. While Kurt sat on the steps of the toolshed and vigorously filed on the damaged plow bit, Helen and Charlie mixed together the grease drippings and the painstakingly collected lye drippings. They cooked the strange concoction over the fire. While it was boiling, Helen added a dash of salt so that when the bubbling liquid cooled, it would harden properly.

They took turns stirring and Helen watched with her heart in her throat when it was Charlie’s turn. She made a conscious effort to hold her tongue. She could still remember how aggravated she used to get when she helped her Grandma Burke at some small task and she shouted and cautioned and carried on the whole time they worked. She didn’t want to behave like her dear, overly protective grandma.

But first thing she knew, Helen was anxiously warning the little boy to “Stop stirring so fast, you’ll splash yourself” and “No, Charlie, no, don’t ever lean over the pot” and “Here, give me the spoon, you’re going to be scalded alive!”

Exasperated, Charlie shrugged narrow shoulders, handed her the long-handled wooden paddle, and told her earnestly, “I’m not a baby.”

Helen wanted to hug him. She didn’t. But she smiled and said, “I know you’re not. I’m sorry. I suppose I worry too much.”

Charlie cocked his blond head to one side. Thoughtfully he said, “Girls worry a lot, don’t they? My mommy worried too. Sometimes she cried.” With his eyes fixed on Helen’s face in a direct gaze that rivaled his father’s, he told her, “My mommy’s up in heaven now.” He pointed short fingers toward the sky.

“I know,” Helen replied softly. She laid a tentative hand on his small golden head. “She’ll never worry or cry again.”

“That’s what the captain told me,” Charlie said, and turned his attention back to the bubbling pot. “It needs stirring,” he announced. Helen agreed, handed him the spoon, and allowed him stir.

And she worried.

When it was almost done, Helen—much as she hated to—called on Kurt for help. She needed a tub filled with water. She could have drawn the water herself, but she was afraid if she left Charlie to watch the bubbling mixture, he might accidentally get burned. Yes, she did think of him as a baby—a precious, innocent, golden-haired baby—she couldn’t help herself.

Kurt immediately laid aside the plow bit and came. He drew the water for her, measured a few quarts out into the waiting wooden tub, and then insisted he be the one to add the lye-and-grease mixture into the water.

“Get back,” he warned both Helen and Charlie.

“Be careful,” cautioned Helen.

“Always,” Kurt said, and expertly ladled the boiling liquid into the cool water. He turned and said, “Now what?”

“Now we just spread a cloth over the tub and—”

“Somebody’s coming!” Charlie interrupted, whirling around at the sound of approaching hoofbeats. “Jolly! Jolly?”

Helen and Kurt both turned and squinted.

“It’s not Jolly,” said Kurt.

“No,” said Helen, first recognizing the chestnut gelding, then the red-haired man on its back. “It’s the Baldwin County sheriff. I wonder … what … he …”

Helen felt a curious uneasiness instantly swamp her. This was no social call. Not at this hour. Had it been, Em would have been with Coop. He was alone. The silver sheriff’s star, pinned to his shirtfront, glittered in the sunshine. His Colt .44 was in its leather holster on his hip. His wide-brimmed straw hat was pulled low over his eyes.

Something was wrong.

“Charlie,” Helen said anxiously to the little boy, “will you take the empty grease pail back inside the house for me?”

Charlie didn’t want to. He wanted to stay and get a close look at the armed sheriff, but his father said softly, “You heard Mrs. Courtney. Go inside.”

His bottom lip stuck out in a pout, Charlie snatched up the empty grease pail and went into the house. Helen glanced briefly at Kurt. He didn’t look at her. He made no move to turn and leave. She wondered if he knew the purpose of Sheriff Cooper’s visit. If so, his face gave nothing away.

“Coop,” she called, putting a friendly smile on her face, lifting her skirts, and hurrying to meet the approaching rider.

The sheriff swung down off his chestnut gelding, tossed the reins to the ground, swept off his hat, hung it on the saddle horn, and covered the space between Helen and himself in four long-legged strides. He put out his big right hand. Helen took it in both of her own, shook it warmly.

“I’m always glad to see you, you know that, but … what is it, Coop? Has something happened? What’s wrong?” Helen asked bluntly, still clinging to his big freckled hand.

“Nothing’s wrong. Not a thing. Just need to have word with your … ah … with …”

He looked from Helen to Kurt and stopped speaking. His lips fell open in surprise. Helen followed the direction of his gaze. He was staring at Kurt and Kurt’s green eyes were fixed on the tall, lanky sheriff.

“I don’t believe it!” exclaimed Coop. “I just don’t believe it!” He pointed a long forefinger at Kurt. “If it’s not the softhearted Union captain from the Battle of Chattanooga! Captain Northway, I’d know those eyes anywhere!”

Starting to grin now, Kurt came forward, his hand outstretched. “The wounded redheaded Rebel major! My God, you made it, Cooper! I’ve wondered so many times if you had.”

Nodding his head, Coop said, “Thanks to you I’m very much alive and kicking! Glad to see you survived the conflict too.”

“You’re looking a lot healthier than when last we met,” said Kurt.

“So are you!” declared Coop.

Both men laughed.

Astounded, Helen stood there speechless, watching the exchange. Finally Sheriff Cooper turned to Helen and said, “Helen it’s a small world we live in. This fellow here saved my life in the war.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” said a modest Kurt Northway.

“You must tell me all about it,” Helen said, looking from one man to the other. She was more than a little curious. Her old friend Coop knew Northway? It was incredible. “Come on up to the back porch. I’ll brew some fresh coffee and see about some food. It’s almost noontime. You’ll stay for dinner, won’t you, Coop?”

“Why, thanks, Helen,” Coop replied, “I am getting a little hungry.”

Chapter Nineteen

A
t the table on the back porch, the two men drank hot black coffee, ate sliced ham and potato salad, and reminisced over the fateful occasion that had brought them together. While both Helen and Charlie listened attentively, Sheriff Cooper recounted the events leading up to that cold November day in 1863 when his Confederate command came face-to-face with Captain Kurtis Northway’s Union troops.

“It was the ‘Battle Above the Clouds,’” said Coop, telling of the fierce fighting which took place atop Lookout Mountain up in Chattanooga, Tennessee.

He spoke of the thick fog and mist that had settled around the crest of the mountain, making it nearly impossible to tell friend from foe.

“You tell it,” Coop prodded Kurt. “Tell what happened that day, Captain Northway. How we chanced to meet.”

Kurt looked embarrassed. His face actually flushed a little beneath his dark tan. Helen couldn’t believe it. She had never seen him appear to be even the tiniest bit uncomfortable. It was almost endearing.

Looking into his coffee cup, Kurt said softly, “We had been ordered to take the Confederate rifle pits at the base of Missionary Ridge.” His eyes lifted from the cup, but he continued to idly run the tip of his forefinger around the cup’s rim. “We found ourselves up against some mighty heavy fire from the main Confederate defenses above.”

“That’s where I was,” put in Coop, pointing up.

“We had no further orders to do it, but somehow … for some reason, all of us … all at once, stormed up the slope. We managed to rout the Rebs and capture the crest.” He shrugged. “That’s about all there was to it.”

“Not quite,” said Coop, looking from Helen to Charlie. “Our flank collapsed totally and was forced to retreat. In the melee, I was left behind. The captain here found me. I’d been slightly wounded.”

Kurt shook his dark head. Now Coop was being the modest one. “Major Cooper was badly wounded, near death when I got to him. Propped up against a fallen tree trunk, he was attempting to make a tourniquet with his belt. He’d lost a lot of blood; I didn’t expect him to live another hour.”

“And I wouldn’t have,” Coop assured Helen and Charlie, “if he hadn’t taken me to a Union field hospital in the valley below.”

“So he actually saved your life.” Helen was thinking aloud, moved by the story.

“He did indeed,” said Coop, “and him badly wounded himself.” He shot a quick glance at Kurt. “I vaguely recall the back of your blue uniform blouse being soaked with blood. What was it? Artillery fire? Minié ball fragments?”

“A little nick from a Reb’s saber,” Kurt said, and quickly changed the subject.

Into Helen’s thoughts flashed the sight of Kurt, shirtless, the evil-looking scar slashing downward from the small of his back and into the waistband of his trousers. A little nick? It had to have been a near mortal wound to have left such a nasty scar.

Helen glanced at Kurt from under lowered lashes. She was seeing him in a new light. Near death himself from a blow dealt by a soldier’s slashing saber, Kurt had further risked his own life to save that of a Confederate major. There had to be
some
good in a man who would do such a noble thing.

Even a Yankee.

The conversation turned from the past to the future. Coop’s interest was genuine when asked what Kurt’s plans were. His tone level, Kurt said he and Charlie would be staying in Alabama until after the autumn harvest. Then what? prompted Coop. Kurt told him about the Maryland horse farm back home and how one day he would own his own place, raise his own thoroughbreds.

“Guess you’re getting anxious to get on back up there,” said Coop. “Sounds like a mighty good life.”

“It is,” said Kurt. “You’ll have to come up for a visit sometime.”

“I might just do that,” said Coop, smiling.

When the meal was finished, Charlie was the first to leave the table. Asking his father if he might be excused, he bolted down the porch steps calling Dom’s name, ready to make amends to the sensitive feline who might have his feelings hurt.

“I have to be going myself,” said Coop, pushing back his chair.

Helen and Kurt saw Coop out the back gate. They fell naturally into step on either side of the lanky sheriff, walked him toward his grazing chestnut gelding.

It was Helen who said, “Tell us the truth, now, Coop. Why did you ride all the way out here today?”

Coop made a face, kicked at a small stone with the toe of his boot, and exhaled.

He looked up, straight at Kurt. “Niles Loveless, one of our community’s more vocal citizens, has accused you of stealing a valuable diamond-and-gold pocket watch.”

Kurt said nothing.

“That’s utter nonsense! A mean, malicious lie!” Helen quickly spoke up. “The two have never even met!” She snapped her head around, looked at Kurt with flashing eyes. “Have you?”

“I’m afraid we have,” admitted Kurt. “When I was in town yesterday, Loveless came out of his office, introduced himself, and offered to buy Raider.”

“Anybody with him?” asked Coop. “Or was it just the two of you?”

“A Mrs. Yasmine Parnell was with Loveless,” said Kurt. “She happened to be coming out of his office just as I was ready to leave town. Loveless was bidding her good day, saw me, and came out to admire my stallion. That’s the one and only occasion I’ve ever seen Loveless. Talk to Mrs. Parnell. She’ll tell you that I had no chance to take Loveless’s watch. I didn’t even see the watch, didn’t know he had one.” Kurt shrugged. “Don’t get me wrong, Sheriff. You’re more than welcome to search—”