The Rebel Wife by Donna Dalton

were.
    His shirtfront was dark with sweat, his face flushed and tight. “I heard you cry out. Did you hurt yourself?”
    “No. I’m fine.” She slid her hands to her lap and folded them into a tight ball. “That stumble just caught me off-guard is all.”
    “Yes, well...according to the directions I obtained in Saint Mary’s City, there should be a farmhouse up ahead. We, um...” He cleared his throat. “We can stop and rest. Give us a chance to eat something.”
    And give me a chance to rein in this body of mine.
    “While we’re there,” he added. “We ought to see about getting you another dress. That one won’t do.”
    Good. He was thinking about her wardrobe. That arm curled around her waist didn’t mean a thing except to keep her from falling in the mud.
    “You’re right.” She fingered the torn, stained muslin. Might as well be flying a banner— Here’s your fugitive, Yankees . Come and get her. “This gown is little more than a rag. Unfortunately Jeb has the knapsack with my spare clothing.”
    “Jeb?”
    “We were traveling together.”
    He reached out to push aside a low hanging branch. “The man the Lieutenant mentioned.”
    “Yes. They shot him.” She could picture Jeb where he dropped in the woods. Hear the strain in his voice as he urged her to go on, clear as if he were here with her right now. She swallowed around the thickness welling in her throat. Had the Yankees treated his wound? Did he suffer? She squashed the darker thought that tried to surface. Jeb was alive. To think otherwise would be to invite ill luck.
    “I’m sure the soldiers are taking good care of him.” Porter squeezed her waist in a quick gesture likely meant to be reassuring.
    Heat rose soft and unexpected beneath her ribs, spreading outward. She drew in a much needed breath. Dealing with intimate closeness of Porter was turning out to be quite a difficult task, in more ways than one.
    “How’d you come to be traveling with him?” he prodded.
    She faced the road ahead, not wanting him to see the effect of his touch. Given his nosey nature, it might cause him to ask questions of a more personal breed. “Guess it must look mighty funny to you. Southern lady and a black man.”
    “It’s been my experience that people have all types of reasons for doing what they do. I try not to make judgments until I know the facts.”
    “Judge not, lest ye be judged, huh?”
    “Something like that.” He dug a fresh white handkerchief out of his saddlebag and offered it to her.
    She gave him a grateful smile and swiped the sweat from her forehead. The day had grown too stifling for anything to move. Even the birds were still. “How far to that farmhouse?”
    “Not much further. Another half mile or so.” He accepted the handkerchief back, mopped his own brow, then swapped it for the canteen. “Would you like some water? It’s a bit stale, but there might be a few swallows left.”
    “Yes, I would.” She took the canteen. He sure was acting the gentleman. Scarcely resembled the mule she’d argued with yesterday. “Thank you.”
    “So, tell me about this Jeb.”
    She uncapped the canteen and took a long, soothing swig, buying some time before she replied. “You sure are interested in my business.”
    “You’re an interesting lady.”
    “More like you’re just plain nosey.”
    “It’s my livelihood to be nosey, as you put it. Stories are my stock in trade. And you are interesting. Traveling under the cover of night, alluding Yankee patrols, sneaking into tents with strange men. You’d make a fine heroine in one of Wilkie Collins’ novels.”
    Books again. The man was full up with them. Not being familiar with Wilkie Collins or his tales, she wasn’t sure how to respond. When this was over, she’d ask Lance about Collins. She took another pull on the canteen.
    “So, back to Jeb,” he said. “You must trust him.”
    “He’s a good friend.” No harm in telling some of it, as long as she kept the