The Loyal Heart by Shelley Shepard Gray

would be welcome. Though the temperatures were hovering around the forties, the air was thick with a strong, clawing humidity. His shirt stuck to his back and his lungs felt parched.
    The humidity brought back memories of marching for hours in the Georgia heat, the red dust staining his uniform and black boots. Instinctively, he reached for his collar, his fingers fumbling with the starched seams, reaching for the button before remembering that he was no longer in a snug uniform. He was also no longer in a Yankee prison camp. He no longer had to fear running out of breath.
    Would he, too, be forever marked by his months in captivity? Inwardly scarred from the traumas that had befallen him, that had befallen all of them?
    Shaking off the doldrums, he crossed the road and headed toward the mercantile. He assumed he could post a letter from inside. Then perhaps he could find a place for some lunch and a drink.
    A striking young woman with golden hair and wearing a well-tailored shirtwaist greeted him as he approached.
    “Sir. How may I help you?”
    Her voice was lilting. Melodic and surprising to find in the city. Since he’d arrived, a haze of depression had seemed to encompass almost everyone he met. Though it was no different from the atmosphere throughout much of the South, he’d naively expected something different in Galveston.
    After all, it had survived the war better than most places. Its port was bustling, and it was the ranking port when it came to exporting cotton. The crowded warehouse district was full of it, and he’d heard that the business provided many men, both white and freedmen, with work.
    So different from the parched plains of northern Georgia when he’d marched and fought there that one awful summer. There, pain and suffering and deprivation were daily occurrences.
    In spite of the direction his thoughts were heading, he found himself smiling at her. “I need to post this letter, miss. Would you be able to assist me?”
    A dimple appeared in her cheek, giving that final touch of ingénue and beauty that he hadn’t even believed she lacked. “Of course.” After taking the letter from him, her blue eyes examined him curiously. “You don’t sound like you’re from here.”
    “That’s because I am not.”
    The dimple disappeared as a new suspicion appeared in her eyes. “You from the North, sir?” Her voice now sounded brittle, as if her composure could easily break.
    “No.”
    “Forgive me. It’s just that you sound different.”
    He knew his captivity on Johnson’s Island had altered his accent. Maybe it had altered many things about him. “I’m from all over,” he said simply.
    Then, because he knew his answer told her nothing, he smiled again. Though this time, his smile was forced, brought forth for him to get his way. As much as he was eager to be done with the girl’s company, he wondered if she might be the person he needed to discover just how Miranda Markham was doing among the people with whom she surely did business.
    “I see,” she said, her eyes lighting with interest, just as if he’d uttered something of value. “I’ve never met anyone who was from all over before.”
    Her gentle flattering inspired his vanity. He’d never been a man especially in need of female appreciation, but he couldn’t deny that it did his soul good to realize he was not without certain charms.
    Or perhaps it wasn’t his charms. She was likely very skilled in conversation.
    The thought amused him.
    Remembering his goal, he lowered his voice. “More of us are from nowhere than one might assume,” he murmured. He knew, of course, that this answer, too, told her nothing. Therefore she had nothing to remark upon. “How much?”
    “Two bits.” She smiled, revealing her one flaw, a set of crooked teeth. “Are you here for very long?”
    “A month. Maybe longer.”
    “Oh? Where are you staying? At the Tremont?”
    “No. At Mrs. Markham’s house, the Iron Rail.”
    She blinked. Then