break. Stretch my legs. Get the blood flowing again.” Get away from all these pestering questions. And all that muscle and heat and that rich voice rumbling through her with every word. “That canteen needs refilling, too.”
He grunted again, apparently having decided he’d eaten his own hoof enough for one day. Another gift from above. She settled her skirt. Nothing would be gained by telling him everything. What little he knew should be enough to get her to Lance.
She’d deal with the rest.
He guided Socks off the roadway and onto a narrow, rutted lane. The path opened up onto a large clearing occupied by a two-story, white clapboard farmhouse, several outbuildings, and a barn. Half-a-dozen chickens pecked at the sun-dried grass dotting the yard. Papa had often spoken of buying a parcel of land to farm. Had even mentioned building a big, white farmhouse. Her chest tightened. He’d never have the chance to realize his dream.
The squeal of hinges rang out, and a slender woman toting a rifle stepped through the doorway and onto the front porch. Narrowed eyes glared at them from a time-worn face. “That’s far enough,” she called out, leveling the gun barrel in their direction.
Jack reined Socks to a stop. “We mean you no harm, ma’am.” He tipped his hat. “Name’s Jackson Porter and this is my wife. We saw your place from the road and thought you might be able to help us.”
“Help you with what?”
“Water, for one thing.”
The woman jerked a nod at the side of the house. “Well’s over there. What else?”
“Last night’s storm spooked my wife’s horse. He dumped her and took off with her belongings. We haven’t seen hide nor hair of the beast since.”
“No horses here. Yankees conscripted ’em all. Even took my plow mules.”
He patted Socks’ neck. “We can make do with this one. It’s not much further to the garrison at Point Lookout.”
The farmwoman frowned and stepped to the edge of the porch. A yellow tabby brushed past her skirt and darted down the stairs. “You don’t look like a soldier. What business you got at Camp Hoffman?”
“I’m a journalist for The New York Herald. I’ve been assigned to write a piece on the treatment of Confederate prisoners being held there.”
“The prisoners. Hmmph. Ought to be writing about how poorly the Yankees treat innocent folk outside the prison. Trampling their gardens. Raiding their livestock and larders.”
He gave an understanding nod. “I’m sorry to hear about your troubles, ma’am, but as you can see, my wife’s dress is ruined. We were wondering if you might have a spare one we might purchase.”
Wary brown eyes focused on her. Louisa smoothed down a wrinkle, hoping the stains looked more like dirt from where the rifle-toting woman stood.
The farmwoman lowered her weapon. “Get yourself a cool drink from the well. I’ll see what I can find for your missus.”
As the woman disappeared through the doorway, Louisa slid from his grasp and slipped to the ground. She hurried toward the well, her skin tingling from his intimate hold. Yes, she definitely needed some water—a whole pail full to pour over her rebellious body.
Footfalls and the clop of hooves thudded behind her. Ignoring the newspaperman’s approach, she grabbed the wooden pail and lowered it until a faint splash echoed up the well shaft. She began hoisting, a difficult task now that the bucket was heavy with water.
“Let me help you.” Porter leaned over, spooning his chest along her back.
Flames licked at her spine. She twisted sideways to break the contact and lost her grip on the handle. The lever spun wildly and nipped her fingers. She yelped and cradled her throbbing hand to her stomach.
He reached for her. “Let me see what you’ve done.”
Was he daft? Having him touch her was the last thing she needed. Her body was already smoldering. She shook her head. “There’s no need. It’s fine.”
“Perhaps it is, but just to be sure...”
He grunted again, apparently having decided he’d eaten his own hoof enough for one day. Another gift from above. She settled her skirt. Nothing would be gained by telling him everything. What little he knew should be enough to get her to Lance.
She’d deal with the rest.
He guided Socks off the roadway and onto a narrow, rutted lane. The path opened up onto a large clearing occupied by a two-story, white clapboard farmhouse, several outbuildings, and a barn. Half-a-dozen chickens pecked at the sun-dried grass dotting the yard. Papa had often spoken of buying a parcel of land to farm. Had even mentioned building a big, white farmhouse. Her chest tightened. He’d never have the chance to realize his dream.
The squeal of hinges rang out, and a slender woman toting a rifle stepped through the doorway and onto the front porch. Narrowed eyes glared at them from a time-worn face. “That’s far enough,” she called out, leveling the gun barrel in their direction.
Jack reined Socks to a stop. “We mean you no harm, ma’am.” He tipped his hat. “Name’s Jackson Porter and this is my wife. We saw your place from the road and thought you might be able to help us.”
“Help you with what?”
“Water, for one thing.”
The woman jerked a nod at the side of the house. “Well’s over there. What else?”
“Last night’s storm spooked my wife’s horse. He dumped her and took off with her belongings. We haven’t seen hide nor hair of the beast since.”
“No horses here. Yankees conscripted ’em all. Even took my plow mules.”
He patted Socks’ neck. “We can make do with this one. It’s not much further to the garrison at Point Lookout.”
The farmwoman frowned and stepped to the edge of the porch. A yellow tabby brushed past her skirt and darted down the stairs. “You don’t look like a soldier. What business you got at Camp Hoffman?”
“I’m a journalist for The New York Herald. I’ve been assigned to write a piece on the treatment of Confederate prisoners being held there.”
“The prisoners. Hmmph. Ought to be writing about how poorly the Yankees treat innocent folk outside the prison. Trampling their gardens. Raiding their livestock and larders.”
He gave an understanding nod. “I’m sorry to hear about your troubles, ma’am, but as you can see, my wife’s dress is ruined. We were wondering if you might have a spare one we might purchase.”
Wary brown eyes focused on her. Louisa smoothed down a wrinkle, hoping the stains looked more like dirt from where the rifle-toting woman stood.
The farmwoman lowered her weapon. “Get yourself a cool drink from the well. I’ll see what I can find for your missus.”
As the woman disappeared through the doorway, Louisa slid from his grasp and slipped to the ground. She hurried toward the well, her skin tingling from his intimate hold. Yes, she definitely needed some water—a whole pail full to pour over her rebellious body.
Footfalls and the clop of hooves thudded behind her. Ignoring the newspaperman’s approach, she grabbed the wooden pail and lowered it until a faint splash echoed up the well shaft. She began hoisting, a difficult task now that the bucket was heavy with water.
“Let me help you.” Porter leaned over, spooning his chest along her back.
Flames licked at her spine. She twisted sideways to break the contact and lost her grip on the handle. The lever spun wildly and nipped her fingers. She yelped and cradled her throbbing hand to her stomach.
He reached for her. “Let me see what you’ve done.”
Was he daft? Having him touch her was the last thing she needed. Her body was already smoldering. She shook her head. “There’s no need. It’s fine.”
“Perhaps it is, but just to be sure...”
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