Surrender the Wind (6 page)

He stabbed his fork into the chicken and closed his eyes, savoring the flavors. He took pleasure in her genial sparring. Catherine Callahan was a welcomed respite from the hard life he had lead over the long war years and keeping her engaged in conversation was paramount to him. Never before had he met such a vixen. A woman so provoking—and so tempting. Didn’t she dare to sharpen her debate skills upon him like a rapier on a grinding stone?

He had grown bored, even scornful of females that employed all kinds of machinations to entrap him. He was the oldest son of one of Virginia’s wealthiest families and an officer in the Confederate Army, reasons that women attached a romantic inclination. Catherine Callahan was immune to the nuances of Southern women. She had no idea of his family’s fortune, and he had the distinct impression she would not give a tinker’s damn. She remained unaffected, even disproving of his military status and for all intents and purposes, disparaging.

She cut a slice of bread and handed it to him, her fingers sliding next to his like melted butter. He inhaled. Without a doubt, Catherine Callahan was a paradox. Despite her simple dress, she seemed born of aristocracy. Her poise, her voice, the tilt of her chin—all telling gestures—a refinement not cultivated in the lower classes.

With certainty, she was a Northerner and in support of the Union. She was also a woman who lived alone. North or South, women of her class rarely lived alone. John frowned, experiencing difficulty in defining an entire picture of the enigmatic Miss Callahan. It all led back to the same question.
What was she hiding?

He sipped creamy milk while she picked at her meal. John did not like uncertainty, in fact, he detested it. He thrived on pure, concise calculation and order. Nothing about her seemed to be in order. Before all battles, he spent an inordinate amount of time in planning, training and reconnaissance. He weighed all pros and cons, exercising his instincts in crafting an image of his enemy’s thoughts and motives. As a commander, his repeated success in outwitting the enemy was by knowing the nature of his enemy. He did not know Catherine Callahan. He had never engaged in a battle like this. One could not plan or train or do reconnaissance for such a battle as this. He looked forward to the challenge.

When Miss Callahan had gone for her walks, John exercised every day. He had mended well and grew stronger almost enough to steal a horse and ride south. Not yet. He bided his time, hiding in the schoolmarm’s house and relishing their discussions. So he attacked his pie with a vengeance, treasuring, the sweet sugary, cinnamon and apples. To surround her was his first mode of strategy, the lovely and confident Miss Callahan would not be able to defy his charms. He chose a topic dear to his heart, and one that would make her comfortable. Wasn’t the best path to conquering, the path of least resistance?

“My mother and father are still living and very much in love with each other.” John began, circling her with complete guile. Miss Callahan put down her plate, rolled her shoulders and stretched. The suggestion of her soft rounded curves broadened, while the lace at her throat parted, and the hollow of her neck filled with shadows. John swallowed. “Family history has many rumors which prove to be more truth than fiction. My father kidnapped my mother, compromised her, and obtained his objective by forcing her into marriage. I imagine there were fireworks for some time, but in the end they worked it out. After all, my father declares, they have four healthy sons.”

John rather liked the unconscious blush that stole across her face as he wrapped his story around her like a warm blanket. He finished his pie. She had toyed with hers and eaten nothing else, fork and knife crossed on her plate. She rose, took his tray to the kitchen then returned. She sat on the bed and faced him, keeping a few inches away as if the barrier for North and South were drawn right there on the coverlet. He acquiesced to the ritual of her checking his wound and succumbed to the bone-melting flames she stoked. He harnessed the fire in his loins—how easy to roll her beneath him, to consume her in seconds.

“I assume you are the oldest?”

John heard the question only vaguely, his gaze drifting to her mouth. She’d taste of cinnamon and sugar.

Realizing she was waiting, he cleared his throat. Nodded. “Uhm, yes. Zachary, Ryan and Lucas are my younger brothers and, as we are all close together in age, have spent some spirited times. However, since this war, we have all gone our separate ways. Zachary, the youngest, didn’t agree with North or South and has headed west during the conflict. Ryan is a colonel and serves in our illustrious cavalry under Jeb Stuart while…” He grew quiet for a moment. “The unfortunate part is that Lucas is serving under your Mr. Lincoln as a Colonel in Washington.” When he saw her brow rise in surprise, he continued. “With regret, we left on very bad terms and haven’t spoken since the advent of the war.”

After seeing how it cut him deeply, Catherine looked down and began drawing imaginary circles on her skirt. “The war has been a terrible tragedy, ripping family’s apart—brothers against brothers, fathers against sons.”

“It is a tragedy,” John said, his voice soft and low.

She raised her head. “How did you become a general?”
Was it family connections or political assignations, as occurred in the North?
No. General Rourke would have earned his rank by sheer prowess and conviction.

“I graduated from West Point with honors. After that, I served as a Captain in the Texan-Mexican War, outflanked some Mexicans when we stormed a mountain pass at Cerro Gordo, saving General Winfield Scott’s head—fought on to Mexico City which impressed the higher ups, who promoted me to Lieutenant. When secession came, I enlisted in the Army of Northern Virginia as a Colonel. I impressed my superiors again and, when General Richardson was shot by a Yankee bullet, filled his shoes. I’ve served all the Stations of the Cross.”

Catherine’s eyes widened with his rapid ascent. John had saved General Winfield Scott’s life? Wouldn’t he be surprised to know General Winfield Scott was a close family friend? “So you were of the Union Army and when secession was decided, you resigned to join the enemy?” The idea was mind-boggling. How could he turn against his own country?

“By the time secession came,” John began, his tone heavy with regret. “The politicians had exasperated and heated themselves, and the people, into a fever that only bloodletting could ever cure. War stood the inevitable remedy. So, I was a seceder, and I dreaded the future.”

“Tell me about when you were a young boy. I’ll bet you were a rascal.”

John’s face split into a wide boyish grin. Raising his chin, he scratched his throat and, in doing so, the sheet slipped down revealing his well-muscled torso. It was hard to look away. In his state of undress, was he always this comfortable with the opposite sex?

“I had a pet crow once, even taught it to talk. All’s I could get it to say was, “What fun! What fun!” The crow went everywhere I went and had a particular fondness for the church belfry. When the priest got to sermonizing, spewing fire and damnation, pounding his fist on the pulpit and perspiring with greatness and the sin of mankind with little or no redemption, the crow would call out, “What fun! What fun!’ There would be a giggle and then another and another, until the whole congregation began laughing. The priest was so mad that one Sunday he took out his shotgun and shot several holes in the steeple.

“Did he get the crow?” Catherine was enthralled.

“No. But the crow did get even. Every morning he perched himself by the priest’s bedroom window and cawed him awake.”

Catherine giggled. “Please…” She begged, experiencing a sense of peace and satisfaction and taking pleasure in his company. “…another story.” To think she listened to the South’s most notorious general reciting his childhood exploits.

“Now, Miss Callahan, how you do give me pause.”

Her greed for personal knowledge about him was a diversion from Mallory. “I apologize, General, if I am indiscreet, though I am interested in your stories.”

John waved off her concern. “Please don’t rein your interest into the confines of proper behavior. Often, I have enjoyed repartee with other commanders on the field, but as of late, there has been little opportunity and over the years, less desire. It’s good to talk about events other than war.” Then he grinned at her. “Now where was I? Oh yes…as it happened…being schooled at home, my brothers and I went through many tutors.”

“You must have been a pack of devils.”

“Well, one must understand the combination of sunshiny days and young boys create an awful longing. Upon one occasion we convinced our tutor he was going bald and the only remedy was what Old Cyrus, an employee at Fairhaven who was a self-proclaimed expert on herbal medicines had stored up. We told him that for it to work, he had to plaster it all over his head, roll his remaining hair up in twigs, and sit in the morning sunshine.”

“He must have looked a fright,” Catherine said

“And then some. He was seated on the veranda pretty as a picture when young Polly, our servant girl happened by, screamed, and dropped in a dead faint.

“You’re incorrigible!”

“I think my mother had far worse feelings about us when hundreds of bees started swarming around the poor tutor’s head. He ran like lightning for the river. But what was most remarkable was the rancid smell that lingered for days…and mother’s insistence that I return the tutor his money. Afterward, she dismissed him, since he was of no use in the schoolroom and had lied about his credentials. Still, I think it was the smell.”

They both laughed and their eyes locked, time without end, glorying in the shared moment. Catherine broke away first. “What about your father. Did he have an opinion?”

“He’s still laughing. My mother always said I followed in my father’s footsteps—the ones he thought he’d covered up.” John’s eyes sparkled at the memory.

“No wonder you don’t have any manners. What else does your mother say?”

“She insisted that I have more appointments with the hickory stick.”

Catherine liked John’s family. Her chest constricted. It must have been wonderful growing up in a large family with all that boisterous love and joy surrounding them. Cocking her head to the side, she asked, “I would hazard to guess you are about thirty-six years old. Am I right? And yet you have never married?”

John looked out the window. The breeze lifted the curtains and twisted them. “I was married once, came home one afternoon and discovered my dear devoted wife in a compromised position with her lover. I was prepared to kill them both right then and there. She begged for mercy while I beat the hell out of the scoundrel. The only factor holding me back from complete murder was the break of a scandal. To save my family from embarrassment, I sent them packing and divorced her. Her lover was heavy handed with the lash and they were both killed during a slave uprising.”

Mirrored in his eyes were bitterness, rage, and humiliation. A man of John’s stature and discipline would allow no dishonor or deceit. She could well understand his scornful view toward women. He was a man of integrity, honesty and loyalty and expected the same from those he loved.

“Enough of me. I want to know about you.” John commanded, his form dominating the room.

The breathing space grew hot, and in an unconscious gesture, Catherine pulled her heavy mass of hair up off the back of her neck. “Not much more to tell than I’ve already told you. I’ve an older brother who died during the war, although in my heart, I still refuse to believe it. My mother died in a flu epidemic. My father’s heart was broken as they were deeply in love with one another. He died in an accident. Father Callahan, my uncle provided me the schoolmarm position and this home. So, I’m here. All quite mundane you see.”

“That’s all you have to tell?” He drummed his fingers on the bed sheets.

“I-I don’t want to bore you with trivialities.” She averted her eyes.

“Catherine?”

His quiet voice made her head jerk up. She gasped when he took her spectacles from her, then took a lock of her hair, running its silky length through his fingers. “I assure you Miss Callahan, there is nothing boring about you.” He caught her hand before she had any notion of taking flight, his flesh warm against hers…and a vague, sensuous light passed between them. “And I assure you, there is nothing trivial about you either.”

Her wariness stood no chance against his allure. With some sensual fascination, he drew and captured her awareness, until the room, the walls, the ceiling, the world itself, faded around them. His hand glided up and down her arm, her body felt heavy and warm, and her heartbeat raced at the mere impact of his gentle touch.

“I give you my word that you will be safe,” he said.

His nearness made her senses spin. His gaze roved over her in lazy regard, appraising her, and leaving her exposed. Reason warred with caution—such an attraction would be perilous. She drew an uneven breath.

“Do you question my word, Catherine?”

She shook her head. “You don’t understand.” Her own pulses leapt with excitement. She could feel the heat from his body—so close. It wasn’t him. Too revealing, too much vulnerability…her helplessness…her weakness over him. Her safety, security, her family fortune were at stake. “I can’t explain.” She tugged. Tears grew in her eyes.

“Catherine—”

“No.” She jerked her arm away and bolted off the bed. She stared at him, rubbed her arm where it burned from his touch. She turned in the doorway, then spoke again, her voice even and without a shred of doubt. “This cannot happen. We are two parts. North and South.”

The clomping of horses and the rumble of a wagon diverted her attention. “I’m not expecting anyone. Stay here.” She closed the door and swore she heard John use her words.

“But two parts make a whole.”

Catherine accepted a handmade quilt from the mother of one of her prospective students. Mrs. Jensen, a nice woman, gave an account of her many stillborns until the Lord blessed her with Thomas. She turned her wagon around and bid good-bye, inviting Catherine to share dinner with her family. Catherine ran her hands over the rainbow colored quilt, touched by Mrs. Jensen’s kindness. Her bed at home in the city was covered with silk damask imported from France, but the quilt made by a humble woman who had suffered so much, meant the world to her. How comforting to blend into her new life. Yet, she must not forget Francis Mallory…and the Reb.