Triumph (56 page)

Since the blood on his hands when he’d reached for Abby.

Tia had pulled through, but watching her, day after day, the beauty of her pale features, the silky sweeping length of her “Godiva” hair, he realized just how much he wanted and needed and
loved
his wife. He could remember telling her that only a fool would love her. He was that fool. And although he admired her passion and conviction and her fighting spirit, he was afraid for her. Afraid that he wouldn’t be there to protect her against fanatics like Weir.

“Colonel Douglas!”

Hearing himself called, he stood and turned, frowning. He didn’t know the young infantry lieutenant striding toward his position on the little hill.

“Yes, I’m Douglas.”

“Hello, sir. Lieutenant Nathan Riley.”

“Lieutenant,” he acknowledged. “What can I do for you?”

“Sir, I’m hoping I can do something for you.”

“Oh?”

“My unit was a bit south of here the other day, down closer to the border. We took some wounded militia boys from North Florida prison. I was hoping to find a way to reach Colonel McKenzie, but then I heard you were kin to him, sir, that his sister is your wife.”

“What’s this about?”

“The McKenzie property is down by Tampa Bay. Jarrett McKenzie is a Union sympathizer, so I understand.”

“Yes, he is.”

“One of the Florida boys died just a few hours ago. I took this off him.”

Lieutenant Riley passed him a creased sheet of paper. He looked at Riley curiously, then unfolded the paper and studied it. It was a map, he realized, crudely drawn. He saw Tampa Bay, the river, Cimarron. A plantation just south of Cimarron, and another one just north of it. There was a notation of “Major Hawkins” with an arrow coming from the north, and another notation, “Colonel Weir,” with an arrow sweeping up from the south. The arrows met at Cimarron. There, a hangman’s noose had been crudely drawn, and next to it, a date in November, just four days away. “Coordinated assault, must be timed to coincide from both fronts,” was written in the corner.

He looked up. “Lieutenant, have we a working telegraph? I do need to get this information to Colonel Ian McKenzie, in Petersburg.”

“As I said, I thought of Colonel McKenzie right away, sir. But he left Petersburg for St. Augustine several days ago.”

“Then I need the information to reach him there. I know that lines are down, but Ian may be the only hope.”

“I’ll get it through somehow, sir.”

“And send a message that when he gets this, he should go straight to Cimarron. I’ll try to deal with Weir at the Ellington place before he can muster his men together for the attack.”

“Aye, sir!” Riley said, saluting.

“Thank you, Riley.”

“You’re going to stop it, sir, right?” Riley asked. “My home is Tennessee. Some people didn’t agree with Pa’s dedication to the Union Jack, so they burned him out. I’d hate like hell to see it again. Thought Southerners were supposed to be gentlemanly folk, the last of the cavaliers.”

“Many of them are, Riley. But some of them aren’t. Hell, yes, if I can stop this, I will. I’m going to get leave from Sheridan, and ask for a number of troops. You want to come along, Lieutenant?”

Riley grinned. “Hell, yes, sir! I can round you up one of the finest companies of scouts and skirmishers in the whole Union army, assuming you can get Sheridan to agree.”

He knew he could get Sheridan to agree. He was still carrying the leave papers that Lincoln himself had signed. Sheridan couldn’t hold him, and knowing the fierce little man as he did, he was certain the cause would appeal to him—despite the fact that many men had lost their homes in the devastation of the war. Jarrett was a man who had never failed the Union. And securing Florida always remained an intriguing challenge to the Union commanders.

If he couldn’t bring troops, he would go himself. But he believed that his own passion would be enough to convince Sheridan.

“Get those messages out for me by telegraph, Riley—and if the lines are down, get a runner. But make sure we get the information through to Ian. Meet me back at the general’s headquarters. We haven’t much time to travel a hell of a lot of miles.”

Riley saluted. “Yes, sir! I’ll be mighty proud to ride with you!”

On Friar, Taylor rode hard back toward headquarters, hoping that no recent development in the fighting would prevent him from an immediate audience with Sheridan.

He had to leave, now. As soon as Riley could muster his company together.

When the hell had militia been given the right to become judge and jury in the state? Was Weir going mad, seizing far too much power, thinking himself the law?

His heart pounded in his chest like a drumbeat.
Could he make it in time?
Where was Tia? Did she know about any of this?

She would never let men go against Cimarron without doing something.

How in hell was he going to endure the time it would take to get there?

Fall, 1864

The West Florida Coast, Near Tampa Bay

T
HE SKY WAS STRANGE
that night. Though dark, the lingering effects of a storm at dusk had left crimson streaks across the shadowy gray of the sky. A cloud passed over the moon, which seemed to glow with that strange red light. Reaching Ellington Manor, Taylor lifted a hand to signify a silent halt to the men behind him. They could hear the clamor of other men, disbursing supplies, but they were around the back of the property. One lone soldier, leaning against a once-majestic column; guarded the house in front.

Taylor made a sign to Riley, indicating that he would take the fellow on the porch and that they would then move around the rear at his signal. Riley nodded. Dismounting from Friar, Taylor slunk low and approached the house from the northwest side. The guard never looked up. Taylor leaped over the porch banister, came behind the guard, and set the muzzle of a Colt against his neck. “Quiet, soldier. You may find conditions in a Northern prison better than what you’ll have with the militia soon, and certainly better than the alternative you face if you so much as whimper now.” The soldier lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender.

“Is Weir in there alone?” Taylor asked the guard softly.

“No, sir.”

“Who is with him?”

“Miss McKenzie.”

Taylor nearly dropped his weapon. “What?”

“Miss McKenzie, sir, Miss Tia McKenzie. A local girl, an old friend.” The guard sounded terrified. Taylor realized that he had pressed the muzzle of his gun deeper into the man’s neck.

Miraculously, he managed to ease his grip on the gun and let the man talk. “What’s she doing here?”

“I don’t—”

Taylor pressed the gun more tightly to his flesh. “What’s she doing here?”

“She came to marry the colonel.”

“Marry him?”

“Except that he couldn’t marry her. We have no minister.”

“But she’s still in there?”

The man surely thought he was going to die. “Yes!” he gulped.

“Doing what?”

“Well, sir, I think she’s trying to seduce him.”

Taylor felt as if his flesh burned, as if his soul had exploded into a white light of fury. He forced himself to regain control. He gave the man a firm thump on the head. The Rebel fell without a whimper. Taylor hoped he hadn’t hit him too hard. He didn’t want to kill the fellow just for being the messenger of such tidings. He bent down, put a finger to the soldier’s throat, and felt his pulse. He was alive.

Taylor wanted to rush into the house, but he couldn’t, not yet, no matter how he longed to do so. This was his mission. He was responsible for these men, and he’d be damned if he’d be surprised by a few Rebels who slipped their cordon once he was in the house—and accosting Weir.

He rose, waving to indicate that Riley and the troops should come around. Again, as prearranged, they split up, coming around the back of the house. As they fanned out, they could hear conversation.

“I still say this ain’t right!” a private, tightening the girth on his saddle, complained. “I mean, there’s real Yankees in the state—why are we attacking a home?”

“Because there’s no Yankee like a Southern traitor!” another man answered, shoving his rifle into the holster on his saddle. “Colonel Weir says this may be the most important work we do this whole war, bringing down McKenzie. McKenzie has been like a knife sticking right in the back of the state, admitting that he thinks secession is wrong and saying that it’s immoral to own slaves. When we hang him, we send out a message to all other would-be traitors, to folks who think and feel like him but who have the sense to shut up—they’ll know better than to ever become traitors to the South.”

“Is he being a traitor to state his mind?” the first man asked.

“He’s a traitor to everything we’re fighting for!” the second thundered.

“Right! Like freedom of speech, eh, Louis?”

Taylor had heard enough. He didn’t have any more time—Tia was in the house with Weir. The men were in position at the sides of the house. Some had crept around the barn, making sure they knew where their enemy lay. He estimated there were about sixty-five men. More than his own company of thirty—all that Sheridan would allow him. But his troops were seasoned scouts who had been following the likes of Jeb Stuart throughout the war. They’d already surrounded their enemy in silence. Time to take them down, and quickly.

He lifted his arm, then dropped it. His men suddenly appeared in a semicircle around the unwary soldiers, repeating rifles raised. Taylor spoke quickly and quietly. “Stay where you are, gentlemen. Don’t make a move. Every man with me is armed with a Spencer repeating rifle, and every man is a crack shot. Now, I know you boys are good, and that you can load and fire those Enfields pretty darned fast—but you know that even at top speed, you’ll be dead before you get to fire. Lieutenant Riley here will take your weapons. Form a nice line and deposit those Enfields, swords, knives—whatever else you boys might have.” He saw that the man who’d called Jarrett McKenzie a traitor was sliding his hand toward the holster on his saddle. “You!” Taylor said sharply, raising a Colt to eye level. “I wouldn’t mind shooting you down in an instant!”

The man dropped his arm. The line began to form. “Riley, I’ll need some men in a few minutes. Two, to come for Weir. Then two more—yourself and one other.”

“My wife is in there,” he said flatly, trying to keep the fury and emotion out of his voice.

Yes, she was in there.
Seducing
Weir.

God help them both!

“Tia can’t keep herself out of danger. Time the North does it for her.”

“Yes, sir,” Riley said unhappily. As Taylor started for the house, the lieutenant called out, “A word, sir!”

Taylor paused impatiently. Time, time, time ... he had to stop time.

“
She
is the one being attacked, sir. They are after her home, her father.”

“I know that, Lieutenant Riley,” he said.

Taylor slipped through the back door of the house. He could hear movement upstairs. He followed the back stairs up, careful not to let a single board creak.

He heard them in the hallway.

Heard them enter one of the bedrooms. Thankfully, the only light in the room was moonlight—strange red-glowing moonlight. He saw her standing there, near the window. He clenched down his jaw, trying not to let out a sound. She had shed her bodice. The moonlight played upon the sleek lines of her back. Her hair, that wretched wealth of hair that had created a legend, fell about her in a lustrous sheen, like a raven’s wings.

“The bed is clean, the sheets are fresh, tended by my men,” Weir was saying.

Taylor ached to stop them right then: To pull a Colt, shoot Weir through the head. What if Weir shifted in the shadows at the last second? What if he heard Taylor, and drew his sword?

Against Tia ...

He had to wait, let Weir drop his weapon.

He stood in the shadow by the door, neither of them noting him.

“So you said,” she whispered.

“My love ...” Weir walked up behind her, drawing her against him. He shifted the fall of her hair, pressed his mouth to her shoulder. His fingers were on her skirt; it fell away. Then her pantalettes, and she was naked.

“Come, my love ...” he said.

“Look at the moon!” she entreated, walking way from him, toward the window.

His chance! Taylor’s hand itched to draw the Colt. No! he wouldn’t shoot a man in the back, even if the bastard had the bloody nerve to be touching his wife ...

“Tia, the moon, like the war, will come again.”

“It’s a beautiful moon, yet shaded in red—”

“There’s no time for talk.”

His scabbard and sword were, at last, cast aside. Taylor prepared to strike.

Weir’s cavalry jacket and shirt were shed.

“I need another drink, Raymond,” Tia said. “This is new to me.”

New to her? At least she was making some attempt to slow things down.

Weir wasn’t having any of it. “Madam,” he said curtly, running his fingers through his hair. “I remind you—you invited me to this room. Shall I leave?”

“No! You mustn’t leave!” Tia cried out.

He lifted her, bore her down on the bed.

“My love!” Weir said again. He kissed her fingertips.

“My—love,” she whispered in return.

“Oh, good God!” Taylor’s voice, shaking with rage, suddenly filled the room. He approached the bed, his body on fire, shaking, fighting desperately to control his murderous impulses. “That’s it—I’ve had it with this charade!” he lashed out.

“What in the name of the Almighty?” Raymond grated, twisting around to see who’d had the gall to interrupt him. “Taylor! You!” he spat out.

Taylor drew his sword, pressed it against Weir’s throat.

Somehow, Taylor kept himself from slitting the man’s jugular vein. “Stop. Stop right now.” It still sounded to Taylor as if his very voice shook. He kept the sword point resting just at Weir’s vein. He stared at Tia; she stared back, her eyes glistening like ebony orbs.

“Ah, good, I have your attention!” he told her. And at last, he had managed to speak softly, mockingly, controlling the shuddering that had seized him and nearly ruled him. “I’m sorry,” he continued, “but this charming little domestic adventure has gone quite far enough. Colonel Weir, if you will please rise carefully.”