Trail Angel by Derek Catron

spinning at the prospect of what his words suggested. There had been one Union soldier Southerners despised even more than the devil himself. Though she already knew the answer in her heart, she had to ask the question.
    â€œWhich general?”
    â€œWhy, Sherman, of course.”

C HAPTER T WELVE
    Josey stood just inside the Herndon House dining room wishing he were somewhere else. He would have preferred to remain in camp with Lord Byron, but he couldn’t leave the Colonel to ride back late from town alone.
    For the past hour, Josey had pretended to study the elaborate wood molding and pilaster-framed doorways of Omaha’s finest hotel. He kept to the fringes of what he heard described as the social gathering of the season. The swirling motion of people and their clamor reminded him of a battle.
    The hotel staff created a field by removing the imported furniture from the dining room. A mirror hanging over the large fireplace reflected the light of the gas lamps lining the far walls, making the room appear large enough for a battalion. Waiters in dark broadcloth suits moved about like messengers. Instead of officers’ orders, they delivered trays crowded with flutes of sparkling wine.
    The important men of Omaha wore uniforms of Sunday-best suits tailored to conceal expanding paunches. They maneuvered individually or in small groups, more like guerilla fighters than a unit. Sherman’s junior officers, tall, straight-backed men with clean uniforms and shiny boots, opposed them. They guarded their commander’s flank, quick to block any unwanted incursion or to rally to his support in an engagement.
    Josey tried to distract himself with different thoughts, yet too often his mind turned to Annabelle. He was a fool for not anticipating her reaction to the news of the general’s arrival. The brutal campaign through the South had been necessary to end the war, yet many Southerners would never forgive or forget Sherman’s march. Maintaining his distance from the fiery woman would be smart, but he couldn’t forget how she looked facing down those fools in the street or how she smelled standing close to him.
    Thinking of Annabelle brought back memories he preferred to bury. The bad days in Kansas. The little farm along the border. The woman with straw-colored hair who lived there.
    Josey had been hunting that afternoon, seeking something to add to the stew pots in camp. He heard her cries before he saw her. He saw the men first. They were bummers and dressed for the part, scavenging for supplies. Their disheveled uniforms made it difficult to determine which side they were on. One carried a squawking chicken upside down by its legs. Two others held armfuls of sacks. The fourth, a sergeant, held the woman, her arm twisted behind her. He released her with a shove, and she fell to the ground. Her light cotton dress tore at the shoulder, revealing smooth skin tight against sharp collarbones. The men stopped when they saw Josey.
    â€œWhat’s going on, Sergeant?”
    The sergeant was a burly man with a stomach that hung over his belt and a mustache so thick and long he must have tasted it at every meal. “Just following orders, sir.”
    â€œYour orders include mistreating women?”
    The sergeant scowled, his manner betraying his resentment for cavalry. “Orders were to get what we can to feed the battalion. These Southern bitches will hide everything.” He pointed to a box by the door of the house that held a collection of candlesticks and flatware. “We found that buried behind the barn.”
    â€œSoldiers can’t eat silver.”
    The sergeant stared at Josey, his breath coming in heavy puffs that stirred the hairs of his mustache. They both knew the silver wasn’t going back to camp. Bummers who stole household goods shipped them back home as plunder. The sergeant wore a gun belt with a pistol in a covered holster. He moved his hands to his waist and looked to