VENGEANCE
by Darcy

...Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine. I will repay, saith the Lord. Romans 12:19

Near Leesburg, Virginia 1862

When gunfire erupted from the woods on either side of the road, he wasn't surprised. Enraged, perhaps. Infuriated. But not surprised, for he had often thought when riding down this byway that it would be the perfect place for an ambush, if only they could entice the Yankees to venture into their territory. Up to today, the Yankees hadn't shown themselves willing, and Douglas Mosby had allowed himself to relax his guard. That had been a grievous mistake, and now he was savagely furious, as much at himself for becoming too complacent as at the Yankees who fired on his men.

In a voice like the sound of the trumpet at the reckoning, he roared, "Dismount! Dismount!" and gestured with his arm. The road was slightly sunken, the higher banks at the edges provided some cover. His troopers leapt from their horses, carbines in hand. Mosby threw himself on his belly and took aim, firing into the trees. Beside him, Spencer Neville grunted and fell heavily, and for the first time, Mosby felt a twinge of fear.

"Spence!" he cried, looking wild-eyed at his friend. "How bad?"

"Not bad. Just through the arm. It's a clean wound, don't worry." Spencer grasped his arm with his hand, pressing to stanch the flow of blood.

"Yankee bastards..." cursed Mosby, crawling toward him. He reached inside his jacket for a kerchief, tied it around Spencer's upper arm. "Loosen this in a few minutes; I'm likely to be busy."

He threw his friend a jaunty grin and rolled away, lay on his belly again to fire into the woods. But the attack was already slackening, the Yankees were slinking away like the cowardly dogs they were. With no purpose behind it except to kill and run, their deadly ambush had worked. From within the leaf-obscured shadows, Mosby saw several Yankees mounting their horses. He aimed, fired, missed, cursed. Their shots were sporadic now, meant only to keep Mosby's men pinned to the ground. He waited, kept his eyes on the figures in the trees, shooting when he had a clear target. When the last of them wheeled their horses and rode eastward through the woods, he jumped to his feet.

Bellowing, "Casualties?" he looked about him at the men still crouched in the road. Three men beside Spencer replied, saying they were slightly wounded. One man lay motionless, another trooper was bent over him.

"Carter Bellamy's dead," the cavalryman announced, straightening. "Shot through the heart." He gestured to another soldier in gray who lay sprawled nearby. "So's Horton."

"Goddamn those Yankee devils..." muttered Mosby, as Spencer stared in stunned dismay. Carter had been a boyhood friend to both him and Mosby. Memories of the three of them riding and hunting over half of Henrico County rose up to haunt him, and striding over to Carter's body, he dropped to one knee and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Mosby beckoned to the man who had made the report, gave clear orders. "Mr. Summerfield, detail three men to escort the wounded back to camp." He pointed to the bodies in the road. "Take Bellamy and Horton with you, and make a report to Colonel Munford." He raised his voice. "The rest of you mount up. We're going after those Yankee sons of bitches."

Spencer Neville got to his feet. "I'm coming with you, Captain," he said, loosening the tourniquet that bound his upper arm. "This is hardly bleeding now, barely a scratch."

Mosby gave him a cursory look, saw that Spencer was not much hurt. He suspected that even though the wound seemed minor, he should still send Spencer back with the others, but he wanted his friend and lieutenant with him. And so he nodded and growled, "Let's go then, Neville. Find your animal and mount up."

The horses had scattered during the firing, it took them precious minutes to round them up. Mosby seethed with impatience while his men chased their mounts down, and finally took off into the woods, leaving the others to find their way. Broken branches told him in which direction their attackers had gone, but this was his own country, and Mosby knew that the trees thinned out a few hundred yards ahead. The Yankees would break into open terrain then and remain out of cover until they reached the river crossing into Maryland. He intended to catch them before they made it across the Potomac.

It didn't work out quite the way he hoped. He rode hard, but the Yankees had split up and scattered. He followed the tracks of six of them, but they were moving fast and made it over the river before he could catch them. He was silent and grim-faced, drove his men brutally to keep up. Spencer, riding beside him, knew from experience that Douglas was in one of his black rages. Spence grimaced. It would go hard for the Yankees if his captain caught them.

When they reached White's Ford, Spencer was surprised to see there were no pickets posted; the ford was unguarded on both sides of the river. Mosby ordered his troops over the Potomac and led the way up the steep bank into Maryland. He motioned for a halt, then rode ahead and studied the tracks in the mud before they could be obliterated by his troops. When he picked up the trail of the same half dozen horses, he called for his men to follow and they rode off into Yankee country.

It was close to noon and five miles from the river when they came upon a farmhouse set well back from the road. Mosby's instincts were screaming. The tracks of several horses were visible in the dusty lane and he was sure the Yankees had turned in there, but he led his men past as if he hadn't noticed. A half-mile down the road he veered into a woodlot, and from its cover worked in closer. Pulling his field glasses from their case, trained them on the house.

His patience was rewarded in a matter of minutes. One of the Federal soldiers appeared on the porch of the house. He lit a pipe, then started down the steps and crossed the dooryard toward the barn. He took his time, obviously in no hurry. 'He moves as if he owns the place,' Mosby thought, stroking his beard. He narrowed his eyes in loathing as he watched the man disappear through the open barn doors. Concealed in the cover of the trees, he waited, but no more Yankees appeared to follow the first.

"Think he's the only one there?" Mosby asked, half turning to Spencer while he kept the glasses trained on the house and barn.

"Hell, I don't know," Spencer admitted. "Haven't you been following their tracks?"

Mosby flicked his eyes coolly at his lieutenant, a sardonic half-smile curving his lips. "What tracks? I'm lucky I found the ones at the ford and here in that lane. I'm hardly an expert at tracking, Spence. That's what I had Horton for, and thanks to this lot of murdering bushwhackers, he’s dead. He and Carter..." He shrugged carelessly. "Well, no matter if there's only one or all. I intend to finish this today."

Spencer stared at him, frowning. Douglas, though obviously keeping a tight rein on his temper, was clearly enraged over the success the Yankees had against him, and Spencer had a fleeting memory of other times, other rages. Once again Douglas seemed determined to be revenged on those who had dared to attack his column and kill his friend. It was unwise of him to take this so personally; Spencer thought---war was not personal---and as an officer, Mosby should know that better than anyone. Yet he seemed not to care, seemed hell bent on taking vengeance on the men who had killed their friend. It was emotion, not clear thinking. Spencer spoke up, his voice calm, counseling against any rash action, but the Captain cut him off with a dismissive wave of his hand before beckoning to a gray clad trooper with a jaunty clutch of feathers in his hat. He gave curt orders.

"Barbour, take a dozen men and circle around the rear of that barn. Leave the horses and go on foot--and muffle those goddamned spurs. I don't want them to hear you coming a mile away. Stay out of sight and wait for my signal to move, but if you hear gunfire, come a-running." He turned back to the remaining five men and ordered brusquely, "The rest of you, come with me."

Barbour and his men moved off through the trees. Mosby backed his horse out of the woodlot and took the road back toward the white-painted farmhouse. At the lane, he turned in. Half-way to the house, a woman and a young boy came out on the porch to watch their approach.

"I bid you a good afternoon, gentlemen." The woman’s voice was pleasant and carefully neutral. She raised her hand and shaded her eyes from the sun to look at them more closely. The boy beside her was silent, but Mosby took note of his almost comically resentful expression. He looked nothing like his mother, whom Mosby thought an exceptionally lovely woman.

He gave them a disarming smile and swept his hat from his head, bowed from the back of his horse. "My compliments to you, ma'am. I am Captain Douglas Mosby, Fourteenth Virginia Cavalry. I wonder if I might request water for my men and horses?"

She looked at him for a moment, her eyes wary and troubled. Tension seemed to flow from her abnormally erect body. Still, she had little choice in the matter and she knew it. Shrugging delicately, she replied with a touch of defiance in her tone, if not her words: "Certainly you may, sir...though I ask that your men refill our trough after they're through." She placed a protective hand on the boy's shoulder. "My son and I are alone here; it would be a help if you didn't make us any extra work to do."

'An amazingly lovely woman,' Mosby thought, still smiling, 'and much too young to be the mother of the boy, or to witness the commencement of her widowhood.' Aloud, he said, "I will order my men to replace what they use, Mrs....?" He glanced at her questioningly.

"Mrs. Wellman, sir. This is my stepson, Clay."

Mosby smiled, and it occurred to her that despite his pleasant countenance, he appeared evil. He said, exquisitely polite, "Mrs. Wellman, if I might further impose..." and gestured to Spencer, "Would you look at my lieutenant's arm, please? I'm afraid we met with a minor mishap on the road today...a pistol misfired and the bullet winged him. It's barely a scratch, but I'd be much obliged if you'd bandage it for him."

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, but she dared not refuse.

"Of course, Captain Mosby. Sir, if you will come with me?" She indicated the open door behind her. Spencer, after a quick frown of warning at Douglas, dismounted and followed her into the house. The boy started after them but Mosby moved swiftly to block his path.

"Now then, son. Why don't you come along with us?" he said smoothly, placing an arm about his shoulders and compelling obedience to what was not, after all, a request. He nodded to his men to follow, and started toward the barn. His eyes rapidly scanned the fields behind it; Barbour and his men were nowhere in sight.

"How old are you, boy?" asked Mosby, his tone still deceptively pleasant.

"Not much younger than you, I reckon," replied the boy impudently, staring with undisguised hostility at the Confederate officer. "I'm fourteen come next summer."

Mosby grinned. "By my reckoning, that means you've just turned thirteen." They were approaching the barn now, and though he couldn't see them, Mosby thought surely his men were in position by now. With lightning quick speed, he drew his pistol and pointed it at the boy's throat.

"Now then, young sir, let's get down to business, shall we? The Yankee soldier who went into your barn just a while back---who is he?"

Though visibly shaken, the boy attempted to bluff. "What Yankee? There ain't no Yankee in our barn."

His voice silkily menacing, Mosby said, "Oh, but there is." He nudged the pistol into the hollow of the boy's throat. "I see that even at thirteen, you're already an accomplished liar. I reckon that's how Yankee murderers begin their training...by learning to lie at such a tender age. Are you planning to join up with those bushwhackers any time soon, boy?"

Terrified, the boy cut his eyes at the barn. "I ain't lyin'," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "I don't know nothing about no Yankee."

"Tsk, tsk," Mosby drawled. "How your sins do mount up. Tell me, little sinner...where's your father? Where's Mr. Wellman today?"

"He's...away. He's a soldier, a Confederate soldier."

Mosby tightened his grip on the boy's collar. "You're lying again...it's becoming a bad habit, boy…" he shook him slightly, "…and it's beginning to try my patience." He leaned closer and growled menacingly, "I know your father is here. I saw him go into that barn not ten minutes ago. We'll just go and look for him, see if we can turn him up. What do you say about that?"

He dragged the resisting boy with him through the barn door and paused to let his eyes adjust to the dim interior. A quick scan showed him the Yankee was not in sight, but Mosby hadn't expected him to be. He motioned to his men, indicating that he wanted them to commence a search, and spoke loudly into the cool dimness.

"I know you're in here, Mr. Wellman. If you come out now and give yourself up, and I won't shoot your boy."

Silence.

Mosby cocked the pistol; the sound seemed to reverberate in the tense stillness.

"Say your prayers, son," he said, shoving the boy against a stanchion and raising his arm. He pointed the pistol squarely at young Clay Wellman's head.

"Stop, goddamn you!" From above them came the sound of scraping and rustling. Bits of chaff filtered down from the loft, golden in the slanting sunlight, and the Yankee Mosby had seen before appeared at the top of ladder.

"Don't kill him," he said. "I'm coming down."

Spencer Neville watched her face as Mrs. Wellman washed his wound and bound it in clean strips of linen. She tied a final knot and said tightly, "You may put your tunic back on now, Lieutenant." Her hands shook as she carried the basin to the stone sink and emptied the pink-stained water. Suddenly she turned and faced him. "Why are you here?"

Spencer stared at her face, her eyes. They were dark brown and limpid, a doe's eyes. 'Beautiful...' he thought and bent his head, concentrated on slipping brass buttons into their holes. Anything to avoid looking into those frightened eyes.

He shrugged. "We're on patrol. Surely you've seen our troops before now, ma'am."

She shook her head. "Never this far from the river." Movement from outside caught her eye; she hurried to the window and pulled back the curtain in time to see the black-haired officer drag her boy into the barn. She started for the door, crying, "What are they doing to Clay?"

Neville caught her elbow. "They won't hurt your boy, Mrs. Wellman. I'm afraid I must insist that you stay with me."

Frantic, she pulled away and darted for the door. He lurched after her, cursing under his breath.

They marched Wellman out and tied him to the pasture gate. Barbour's men poured around the side of the barn and trained their carbines on the prisoner.

"Search the place," ordered their captain, pointing to Barbour’s men. "See if the rest of them are here."

From the house behind him, Mosby heard the woman frantically scream her husband's name. With a detached look in his eyes, he glanced over his shoulder. Spencer was holding Wellman's wife fast in his arms while she struggled wildly against him. Over her head, Spence stared at him. Their eyes locked and Mosby understood his friend’s wordless appeal. He turned away, deliberately ignoring the pleading look in Spencer’s eyes. He strode to his captive and began to question him.

"Where have you been today, Mr. Wellman?" he asked pleasantly. "Took a little ride into Virginia, did you?"

Not an easily intimidated man, Wellman sneered, "Where I've been is none of your concern."

Mosby's lips stretched in a smile. "I admire your brave defiance of me, sir...but it will do you no good. Answer my questions, if you please. Now, what about the others who were with you? Where are they?"

Wellman shrugged negligently and Mosby's tone suddenly changed, became harsh and accusing.

"Do you admit to being a murdering bushwhacker, Mr. Wellman? Do you admit to killing several of my men this morning on the road to Leesburg?"

"I admit to nothing," Wellman declared furiously. "I am an honorable soldier of the Union army, sworn to fight against you and all in rebellion against the Federal government in Washington."

Mosby circled him, pacing like a wolf circles its prey. "I see," he said, shrugging and nodding his head, as if he finally understood. "You consider ambushing men and then running away like a chicken-stealing dog to be honorable behavior, then." Suddenly he pushed his pistol into Wellman's ear and leaned close to his face. "Well, I don't think you're honorable, sir," he snarled through gritted teeth. "I think you're a coward…a damned disgrace to decency. I think you deserve to die like a coward, right here and now."

It began to dawn on Wellman that the Confederate captain intended to kill him.

"Now hold on here, sir!" he sputtered indignantly. "You have no authority over me. You're no judge, you're nothing but a traitor!" He made a feeble attempt at bravado. "I demand that you take me prisoner and abide by the rules of civilized warfare."

Mosby stepped back, gazed on him with mocking eyes. "Like you did today?"

Wellman regarded him helplessly, the memory of the morning's bloodbath in his mind. "You go straight to hell, you bastard." Contemptuously, he spat directly at his captor.

Phlegm splattered on Mosby’s cheek, trickled into his beard. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his hand and wiped it away. "Now, that was an incredibly stupid thing to do, Mr. Wellman," he said. "Such boorish behavior only serves to confirm my already low opinion of you."

He moved away from the gate and stood to the side. With the suddenness of a thunderclap, his voice rang out loudly over the field. "I have considered the evidence and find you guilty of murder," Mosby declared, looking dispassionately at his prisoner. "Therefore, I sentence you to die for your crime."

On the porch, Spencer heard Mosby clearly, knew that Mrs. Wellman heard him too. ‘No, Douglas, not like this’ he muttered. Wellman's wife began to scream, twisting and writhing in Spencer's arms. He clasped her tighter, murmuring, "Easy, ma'am, easy." Across the dooryard, young Clay struggled against the men who held him and when he could not get free, sagged helplessly between them, his eyes on his father.

Wellman's eyes flashed defiant fire at Mosby. "What kind of man are you, to kill me in front of my wife and son?" he snarled.

Mosby looked at him as dispassionately if he were nothing more than a rabbit he would shoot for his supper, and shrugged. "What kind of a man am I? Most likely one no better than you are…do you take comfort in that, Wellman?" His tone hardened. "Surely you know your Bible, sir…do you recall the passage, an eye for an eye?" Wellman didn't reply and Douglas's voice dropped lower. "You killed four of my men in a cowardly ambush this morning, sir, and now I shall kill you. Despite what the Lord says, vengeance is mine this day."

He turned to his men, commanded them to form into line. Wellman strained savagely at his bonds. "You won't get away with this, you son of a bitch!" he screamed.

Quietly sardonic, Mosby said, "Won't I?" He raised his arm and looked at his men, lined up in double ranks of four. "Fire!" he ordered. Their carbines cracked, a hail of bullets flew to the target, and the Yankee’s body sagged on the gate.

 

On the porch, his wife fainted in Spencer Neville's arms.

They left Wellman tied to the gate, his blood dripping into the dust from gaping wounds. Mosby mounted his men and trotted off down the farm lane without a backward glance at the wailing widow or her dazed son. The subdued troop made their way back to the Potomac and crossed over as uneventfully as they had come.

Spencer, riding silently beside Mosby, looked over at his friend. His face was white under his tan, drawn and mournful.

"Douglas?" He leaned in the saddle. "Are you regretting what we did?" he asked lowly.

Mosby shrugged. "It had to be done. I regret only that war compels us to retaliate in this brutal manner. We're becoming barbaric; God knows what we'll be forced to do before this is all over."

Spencer ducked his head and chided gently, "Nobody forced you, Douglas. You didn't have to kill him. You could have let it go. Or you could have arrested him."

"No Spencer. I couldn't have," said Mosby, staring ahead at the road.

"But..."

Mosby spoke violently, his eyes blazing at his friend. "Do you think I've sunken so low that I took pleasure from killing a man, even a cur like Wellman, in front of his family?" he asked savagely. "Well, I didn't...but it had to be done. Examples must be made; these bushwhacking partisans have to learn we will not be intimidated by them. I abhor their guerilla warfare! I will not condone it, I will not forgive it."

"Yet your own cousin..." began Spencer, thinking of John Singleton Mosby and his 43rd Battalion of Partisan Rangers. They operated in Northern Virginia in much the same manner as the Yankees who'd attacked them that morning had.

Mosby cut him off, saying sharply, "Don't talk to me about John! I am not responsible for what he does."

Spencer was silent awhile, then said softly, "You may think that's why this happened, Douglas. You may think you did it as an example to others, but it was for Carter and Horton, all the men who were killed this morning. I know you...and you did this to revenge them."

Mosby turned his head, looked vacantly out over harvested fields. After a moment he said, "Perhaps there was a need for vengeance in it, yes."

Spencer shook his head sadly. "Then it was wrong, and this...debacle...will surely come back to haunt us."

Mosby was quiet for a long moment. At last he said quietly, "It already has, my friend."

As if he could no longer stand to discuss it, he spurred his horse and cantered ahead. Spencer, watching his back and thinking of the years to come with the memory of this day always between them, shook his head sadly. "And I'm afraid it always will," he murmured softly, to no one in particular.

Near Fredericksburg, Virginia December 1862

Time passed, the war dragged on. The armies fought a battle that seemed more like useless slaughter in Fredericksburg town, and even after seeing horror upon bloody horror, Spencer couldn't forget the woman in Maryland, or what they had done to her husband. In the late evening of a freezing December day, he sat inside his tent at the rough table that served as a desk, his pen poised over the company roll book. He had just scrawled 'killed in action' next to a soldier's name, and writing the words had taken him back to the day in October when he'd seen violent death up close enough times to sicken him.

In his memory he saw her eyes, frightened, clairvoyant, as if she had known in advance what Mosby and his men were going to do. He felt the softness of her body in his arms, her surprising strength as she fought him, the terror of her screams when Mosby pronounced sentence on her husband. She had jerked and stiffened as the rifles fired, then sagged against him heavily. With disgust and sorrow in his eyes he had held her and whispered into the soft brown hair that he was sorry, so sorry. He never knew if she heard him or understood, for she had been sobbing, hysterical.

It infuriated him that Mosby ordered them to ride off and leave the Yankee tied to the gate, his bullet-torn body dripping blood into the dust. In his dreams he saw Wellman's wife and the boy cutting him down, felt their agony as they carried his lifeless corpse into the house. It was an unnecessary cruelty, but Douglas had been adamant and when he was in so black a mood, a wise man gave him wide berth. Spencer knew that, and yet he hated himself for not having had the courage or decency to protest or disobey those orders. He cursed himself…he should have stayed behind, protected the widow from so horrible a sight. And after two months, he still thought constantly about her and the boy, hoped they had managed to recover, if only a little, from the horror of that day.

He doubted it, for he had not.

At a discreet cough, the flap of the tent opened and Mosby came in, dressed in a caped greatcoat against the cold. He went immediately to the stove and warmed his hands.

"I am the bearer of good news, Spence," he began, and although his tone was jovial, he cast a penetrating look at his lieutenant. It had not escaped his notice that his old friend had been morose and even despondent since their autumn foray into Maryland. But now he had news that he hoped would cheer Spencer. "I've just been up to see the colonel," Mosby said, jerking his chin in the general direction of headquarters. "He intends to issue furloughs for half the men, and leaves for some of the regimental officers. It seems there is not enough forage left in this country to sustain our army at its present strength…hence his generosity."

Spencer tipped his chair back on two legs, and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "How comforting to know the general looks after our welfare so diligently," he said, his tone bitter. "I reckon you'll go home to Henrico County."

"Unfortunately, I am not one of the chosen few." Mosby drew his coat aside and turned his back to the stove, grateful for the heat that warmed his flanks. "Seems the colonel wants to keep such a valuable officer as myself close to hand." He grinned at his own sarcasm. "However, you have been lucky, Lieutenant." He reached inside his greatcoat and drew a piece of paper from his breast pocket. "Guard it well, my friend. It'll keep the provost marshal off your neck."

Silently, Spencer took the pass and read:

'Granted to Spencer R. Neville, Lieutenant 14th Virginia Cavalry Regiment, a leave to commence 12 December instant, ending 27 December, 1862. Report upon arrival Capt. D. S. Mosby.

Signed, Col. J. A. Cochran, Commanding.'

"I expect you'll go to Richmond," Mosby said, carefully watching Spencer's expression.

Spencer replied with a negligent, "Maybe. Nothing there for me, really."

"No? Come now...what about that sweet little thing from Miss Hortense’s Parlor on Broad Street? The dusky French one with the black hair? I may not recall her name, but I certainly remember everything else about her." Mosby's grin widened, remembering a wild night last January when he and his friend had shared the lady's favors. "By God, she's worth going to town for."

But Spencer was thinking of dark brown eyes and hair the color of chocolate. He let the front legs of his chair fall forward, and stood to tuck the precious paper in his wallet. "You mean Adele?" At Mosby's nod, he shrugged. "Adele is…quite something, but more than a whore, I'd like a good meal. So yes, I'll likely end up in Richmond. It's the only place I know to get decent food and drink anymore, other than Washington or New York." He moved to the tent's entrance and pulled back the flap. "God knows this country is scavenged out," he said, looking at ravaged fields and naked trees. "Couldn't find a meal worth eating or a bottle of good liquor here if you offered a king's ransom for it."

Something in his words rang hollow, but Mosby couldn't put his finger on it. "Eat, drink, and make merry to your heart's content, my friend," he told Spencer, "and give Miss Adele a kiss for me. In spite of your reticence to admit to your vices, I know better." He let the tails of his coat drop and reached for the speckled coffeepot. "You'll be leaving in the morning, then?" he asked as he poured a cup of the parched corn and chicory mixture that passed as coffee in the Army of Northern Virginia.

Spencer nodded, already mapping his route in his mind. "At first light," he said quietly.

Grimacing, Mosby drank the bitter brew and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Then I'll take my leave of you, my friend." He set the tin cup on the stove, clapped his hat back on his head. "Good night, Spence…and Godspeed tomorrow." He offered his hand.

Spencer took it. "Good night, Doug. And thank you."

He spent a restless night, and dawn found him already on his horse, trotting upriver to the crossings beyond the Yankee army. It was a long way to the Maryland border; two days of steady, dangerous travel around the sprawling Army of the Potomac, but Spencer didn't care. He didn't know what kind of reception he'd get when he reached the widow Wellman's farm...didn't even know if she'd still be there, but he was bound to go and see for himself. Bound to face her and beg forgiveness for his part in the murder of her husband. Maybe then, he could win some peace for his guilt-ridden soul.

The house looked the same, a tidy and prosperous small farm, typical of piedmont Maryland. There was smoke coming from the chimneys and the glow of lamplight in the downstairs windows. As he spurred his horse into an easy canter up the lane, a dog as big as a pony appeared on the porch and commenced to bark. Spencer drew rein near the hitching rail but stayed mounted until the Widow Wellman appeared in the window. He touched his hat and thought he saw recognition pass over her face, but it was a full two minutes before she opened the front door. She stepped outside, bent to take hold of the dog's collar. "Hush, Major," she said, then raised her eyes to Spencer. She remembered him, he could tell from her expression, and her next words proved it.

"Lieutenant Neville. Please leave my property immediately."

He removed his hat. "Please ma'am, if I could just talk with you."

"We have nothing to say to each other, sir," she replied coldly. "Come, Major." She tugged at the dog's collar, kept her hand on him until they were inside. The door closed firmly behind her, he heard her throw the bolt, and seconds later, saw her moving from window to window, drawing the curtains. Spencer sat gazing at the blind panes, feeling as if she had twisted a knife in his heart.

He raised his eyes to the sky. Darkness was falling and the scent of snow was in the air. It had grown colder, a damp, penetrating cold, since he'd crossed the Potomac. Spencer wheeled his horse and rode to the barn, past the gate where Wellman had been executed. He averted his eyes from the bullet-scarred wood, didn't need reminders of that day.

The barn doors were closed against the cold, but when he dismounted and tried them, they opened readily. Grasping his gelding's bridle, Spencer led him inside and tied him to a stanchion, then turned to shut the doors. She was there, had come up behind him.

"What do you think you're doing?"

He nodded over her shoulder through the open door. "Ma'am, it's cold out there, I believe it's going to snow. I need a place to..."

"I don't care!" Her eyes flashed, she said scathingly, "My God, have you no shame at all, sir?"

He froze, stared at her until his eyes dropped then said quietly, "Yes, I do. I'm both ashamed and sorry, Mrs. Wellman. I came here to tell you...if you'd let me speak…"

"No!" She took a step inside the barn, her hands clenched into fists at her side. "I don't want to hear another word. Do you think I don't know what you're going to say? But it makes no difference, Mr. Neville. Nothing will persuade me to forgive you." Her voice dropped, her words chilled him worse than the cold night air. "I'll never forgive any of you for what you did that day."

Her eyes met his. He was torn by the hatred he saw in them, but he didn't flinch from it. He faced her rage, let his eyes speak for him in the hope that she'd realize he wasn't an evil man. But if she saw the anything of good in him, she gave no sign of it. Her face was white, two spots of color blazed high on her cheeks. And of a sudden, her shoulders slumped wearily under her shawl as if the fight had gone out of her. Without another word she turned and went back to the house. Let that damned dog out too, Spencer saw from the doorway. It made a beeline for the barn, growling malevolently, its hackles raised and teeth bared. Spencer shut him out, lighted a lantern, and then went about unsaddling his horse. He rubbed the gelding down, covered him with a blanket, and turned him into an empty stall. There was grain in a bin and hay in the loft; he thought ruefully that at least his horse would be fed well this night. He forked some into the rack, left the gelding nose deep in the fragrant grass, then climbed the ladder again and made himself a bed. He lay sleepless and hungry until the early hours, watching the snowfall through a gap in the planked siding, until he finally fell into a restless sleep.

An uncomfortable fullness in his bladder woke him. He was cold, shivering under his thin blanket, and snow had sifted through the cracks and lay white on the floor. Spencer climbed down the ladder intent on going outside to relieve himself. He pushed, but it felt as if something blocked the heavy oak doors. His first thought was of the dog…had it lain out there, guarding all through the night? But a dog would be barking by now, he reasoned, unless it had frozen to death. He pushed harder. The door yielded slightly; he put his shoulders into it, and got it open enough to look outside.

He blinked in astonishment. There was snow everywhere, snow at least two feet deep on the ground, even deeper where it had drifted in the wind and piled against the barn. And it was still coming down, great fat flakes of it driven before the wind. The dawn was quiet with the unnatural stillness that comes during a heavy snowfall, when animals stay hidden in thickets and birds take refuge in deep pines, leaving the morning bereft of their song.

He could wait no longer and pissed in an old rusted bucket he found in a corner, then shrugged into his greatcoat and pulled his hat low over his eyes. Another push widened the gap in the door enough for him to squeeze through. He found a shovel and took it with him, and for the next hour, he cleared snow from in front of the barn and off the path that led to the house. There was no sign of the dog, but there was smoke coming from the farmhouse chimneys and light warmed the windows again. Borne on a gust of stinging wind, the aroma of baking bread came to his nose, and Spencer's stomach clenched rebelliously at its emptiness. He ignored it, kept on with his clearing until he had the paths open to the house and the chicken coop. He was just about to hunt himself an egg or two for breakfast when he heard her speak, her voice unnaturally loud and echoing in the still morning.

"Mr. Neville."

He turned. She was standing on the back porch, the same pale blue shawl over her shoulders, the dog beside her.

"Ma'am." He nodded, shoved his reddened and freezing hands guiltily into his pockets, and stepped away from the coop.

"If you'll bring the eggs in, I'll cook them for you," she said, and went inside. Spencer stared at the closed door for a long moment before he ducked into the henhouse to search for his breakfast.

On the wooden back porch, he stamped his feet to knock the snow from his boots, knocked politely first, and then went inside. It was blessedly warm in the kitchen and filled with good smells…coffee, the yeasty aroma of fresh baked bread, bacon. He handed her his hat filled with eggs and stood uncomfortably near the door. The dog growled once, low and menacing. She cast a glance over her shoulder and said, "Down Major!" and then, "Mr. Neville, I’d be obliged if you’d hang your coat on that peg there and let it drip on the mat, instead of on my floor."

Silently, he stripped off the greatcoat and hung it where she'd indicated.

"Sit down, Mr. Neville."

With a wary eye on the dog, he pulled out a chair and sat at the end of the long wooden table near the stove. Its heat was a comfort, before long he felt warm again, and dared a look her way. She was at the range, a huge black cast iron thing, stirring eggs in a skillet. Major came closer and Spencer stiffened, but the animal only smelled him, and then licked his hand. He grinned, slid his fingers into the thick fur and scratched, watching her while she cooked the eggs and spooned a generous portion onto a plate. She sliced bread, brought it and a crock of butter to the table, then poured a cup of coffee. The dog lay down at his feet, and Spencer asked, "Where was he in October?"

"Much good he would have done," she sniffed. "We got him...after. Thought he might be protection, but you can see for yourself he's more for company than anything." She brought the plate to the table and set it down, then turned away.

"Aren't you going to have some?" Spencer asked.

She shook her head, busied herself at the stove.

The juices ran in his mouth and a starving Spencer forked eggs, closing his eyes in pure pleasure at the taste of them. His stomach rejoiced as he filled it with more hot, good-tasting food than he'd had in an entire week. He ate steadily until it was gone, and then replete, leaned back in the chair and sipped coffee rich with cream and sweetened with real sugar. Heaven. He caught her eyes and said quietly, "Thank you, ma'am. That was an excellent breakfast."

She wanted to say 'you're welcome.' She wanted to tell him she'd never seen a man appreciate a meal more...it was obvious that only good manners had kept him from shoveling the eggs in as fast as he had shoveled her paths. But she couldn't bring herself to be pleasant to a man who was her enemy, a man who had stood by and let his friends murder her husband.

The silence between them lengthened, interrupted only by the fire crackling in the stove and the wind whistling outside. Spencer finally asked, "Where's your boy?"

She turned from the stone sink, her face reflecting a sudden wariness.

"It's only a question, Mrs. Wellman. I won't hurt him, or you," he assured her.

Those haunting eyes again, just like a wounded animal's. They locked on his, half-frightened, more than a little suspicious. He couldn't bear the pain in them, pain he had helped to cause. He stood, took a hesitant step toward her, stopped when she shrank away. His cheeks burned in shame, he dropped his gaze and turned his head.

"Thank you again, ma'am, for the meal. I'd like to leave you in peace, but unless that snow lets up, I can't oblige you. But I'll stay out of sight. I know my presence distresses you."

He shrugged into his damp coat, reached to take his hat from the peg and froze when she said, gently accusing, "Why did your men kill my husband, Mr. Neville? I never understood the reason behind such an act of brutality."

Spencer couldn't meet her eyes. "He was part of a troop that ambushed our column that day. We lost several men killed, more wounded. Our captain tracked him here."

"That is war, is it not? Attacks of this nature, skirmishes between soldiers?"

He was silent.

She said, righteously confident, "What your men did to my husband was not war, Mr. Neville."

And though his soul quailed at the accusation in her eyes, he made himself look at her. "No, Mrs. Wellman. It was not."

"Yet you condoned your captain's actions."

"I did not." His voice was hoarse, strained. "But I am a soldier, ma'am. I obeyed orders, as I am bound to."

Her eyes glittered with unshed tears and her voice was weak, choked. "You are a soldier, yes," she agreed. "But aren't you a man, too…bound to decency and honor above all else?"

He dropped his gaze, ashamed, aching for her grief. "Not a very good man, it seems," he admitted, "but you must know this, Mrs. Wellman. I will be sorry for what we did until the day I die." He risked another glance at her face. "Is there anything you need? I want to help you all I can while I'm here."

For a long time she didn't reply, and he had begun to think of taking his chances at trying to make it out, crossing the swift flowing and icy Potomac despite the blinding storm to leave her in peace, when she said softly, "Do you know how to milk a cow?"

Spencer remembered boyhood summers spent on the Mosby plantation when he and Spence had run wild in the woods and fields, hunting and fishing. They'd been profligate time-wasters, but somewhere along the way, he'd learned how to milk a cow. "Yes ma'am," he replied.

She went through to another room and came back wearing a man's short woolen coat belted tight about her waist. For the first time he noticed two clean pails near the stove. She swept them up and, draping her shawl over her head, started out of the door. On the porch she turned to look at him.

"Well? Are you coming, Mr. Neville?"

He settled his hat on his head. "Yes, ma'am."

In the days that followed he made himself useful indeed, and even as it grew colder and colder, Mrs. Wellman seemed to thaw toward him. Spencer blessed the vicious storm that had kept him all but trapped at the farm, for it was the storm, and the companionship it forced between them, that made them begin to talk. Ada, for that was her name, had not said the words, 'I forgive you,' and Spencer reckoned she never would, but he began to think that perhaps now that she was coming to know him, she understood that he had not wanted to see her husband killed. 'At the very least,' he thought, 'she doesn't appear to hate me.'

On the fifth night of his enforced stay, as the temperature plummeted and the water froze in the cistern, he sat in her parlor drinking an after dinner brandy. He could not still his tongue, always hoping for some sign of forgiveness, and once again, he told her how sorry he was. And when she looked at him directly and said, "I believe you are," he felt as if an immense weight had been lifted from his heart.

The evening turned into a companionable one, and they talked long into the night. Ada explained that her stepson was in Baltimore, living with relatives of his father. She wasn't his mother, she told Spencer. The first Mrs. Wellman had died of typhoid when the boy was just four. She had married Mr. Wellman a year later and come to live on this farm with him and his young son.

"I didn't love my husband," she confessed shyly. "It was a matter of convenience for both of us. I was a spinster without prospects and he was a widower in need. But I respected him...I suppose you could say I was fond of him. In any case, it worked out well enough between us. And then the war came, and Mr. Wellman went off to soldier, leaving me with young Clay."

"He's a good boy," Ada said softly, staring into the fire. "If I got anything out of my marriage, it's Clay. I admit I'm lonely here without him. But he needs schooling, and when his uncle offered him a home while he attends the academy in Baltimore, I sent him off. He didn't want to go, but it's best for him." She looked up. "Young men should have some education, don't you think, Mr. Neville? More than just reading and ciphering. They should know something of the world and the ways of men."

He absently nodded agreement, for his mind was on the way the fire made her hair look as if it were shot through with amber. Her eyes seemed to soak up the warmth from the flames, and the light kissed her face with gold. And he wondered if it were possible that he was coming to love her after only five short days.

"You are an educated man, aren't you? It's plain from the way you speak..." She let the sentence trail off.

Yes, he had some education, for all the good it had done him so far. He told her of his years at the University of Virginia, and his time reading law with old Judge Mellon that had been interrupted by the war.

"So you are a lawyer?"

He shook his head. "Not yet. I have to pass the bar exam."

She smiled. "But you will."

"If I live through this war, I might. It's not an easy thing to accomplish, and I'm no great hand at studying, ma'am."

Her smile was shy, admiring. "I shouldn't worry if I were you, Mr. Neville. You're a smart man, that's plain."

She looked into the fire again and they fell silent. Spencer ached to touch her, if only her hand. She was so close to him he could smell the lavender scented soap on her skin, a clean light scent, as sweet as she was. While they were having dinner, she had told him to stay in the house and stop sleeping in the barn. Said it was so cold she felt inhospitable, leaving him out there to freeze when there were three empty rooms upstairs. He'd accepted on the condition that he could bathe first. Two days on the road and another five spent in a barn had left him in a rank state. He'd done the best he could with a pail of cold water and a sliver of lye soap, but it wasn't good enough to be sleeping on her fine linen.

The clock on the mantle began striking nine and she stood suddenly, saying, "It's getting late. That water should be good and hot by now, Mr. Neville. If you'll bring in the tub, I'll fill it for you."

He had seen her copper hip bath turned upside down on the back porch. A blast of cold air assaulted them as he brought it into the kitchen and set it in the center of the rag rug. He helped her fill it with steaming water from two big kettles, and then, wrapping the handle of a smaller, third kettle in a towel, she said, "You can temper your bath with cold water to your liking. I've put soap and towels on the table there." She pointed and he nodded...he'd seen them, wondered idly if it was the same soap she used, scented with lavender. Spencer looked at her face, so pretty in the lamplight, at her mouth, soft and pink.

"I'll be going up now," Ada said, her face flushed, her eyes downcast. "I'll leave a lamp burning in your room so you can find your way."

"Thank you, Mrs. Wellman."

The silence hung heavy between them in the tension charged air. Spencer stood stiffly, afraid that if he moved, he would pull her into his arms, and as if she knew what he was thinking, she blushed scarlet.

"Good night, Mr. Neville," she said, and took up her candle.

"Good night, ma'am."

He listened to her footsteps go up the stairs before he began taking off his clothes.

It took him a long time to bathe and shave and then empty the dirty water, bucketful by bucketful, but he was determined that she shouldn't find his mess when she came down in the morning. Clad in his only clean pants and muslin shirt, he rinsed the hip bath and wrestled it back out onto the porch. The cold air stung his skin, warm from the bath, and by the time he started up, his bare feet silent on the stairs, he was shivering. The moon shone in the window and illuminated his way and when he reached the landing, he saw a sliver of light coming from a partly opened door, just as she'd said there'd be.

With his hand on the doorknob, he stopped and almost groaned aloud. He'd made a mistake, for Ada was in the room, naked to the waist, bathing at the washstand. Spencer stood as if paralyzed, entranced by her beauty. Hungrily, his eyes followed the curve of her back, took in the enticing slope of her breast just visible over her shoulder. She lifted her arm and washed under it, trailed the cloth down between her breasts. He watched, knowing he should turn away and go to his own room, knowing that if she found him there, all the headway he'd made with her would be lost. But he couldn't move, his feet would not move, not while so sweet a vision remained temptingly before him.

More hot water poured from the kettle into the bowl, then she reached behind and unhooked her skirt, untied the waist tape of her petticoat, and let it all drop to the floor. And while Spencer watched, suddenly warm again, she let her pantalets fall too.

'Christ, help me...' His mind cried out silently as hot blood pumped to his groin. Ada lifted one leg to a chair, leant to wash between her thighs. The ache grew unbearable; hot eyed, all but panting, he took in her every move. It was like a show, a private show better than anything he'd seen at Miss Hortense's and it suddenly became clear that she knew he was there, that she performed these ablutions knowing that he watched her and hungered.

'Sweet Jesus...'

Spencer's eyes devoured the curve of her hips, those heart-shaped buttocks so full and round, made to fit perfectly against a man's groin. His head was full of her, her scent, her grace, the knowledge that this pretended innocence was meant to entice him.

His voice was hoarse, almost a whisper. "Ada..."

She stilled, lowered her leg to the floor and waited, her head down and turned to the side, for she couldn't look at him. It seemed to Spencer that a blush colored her entire body, and as he stepped over the threshold, moving inexorably toward her, Ada waited for the first touch of his hand. When it came, she was surprised at the lightness of it, for he only drew a fingertip along her shoulder and down, delicately tracing her spine.

"You are the loveliest thing I have ever seen," Spencer whispered, his breath caressing her skin like a touch. He bent closer, his face almost in her hair. His hand pressed, guided, turned her to face him. And then his voice came low, entreating, "Ada...kiss me. Please..."

She looked up. His eyes delved into hers, hot, passionate, yet soft at the same time. Spencer captured her mouth, held her head cupped in his big hand. Her mouth was sweet with the taste of the sherry she'd had after dinner, sweet and hot and more exciting than any mouth he'd ever kissed. He groaned, slid a hand to her hips and pressed her closer, needing to feel her, needing her against him. Her arms curled around his shoulders, her fingers slid into the tawny chestnut hair that brushed his shoulders. She rubbed her cheek against his, pulled at his lower lip with her forefinger before pressing her mouth to his. He could stand it no longer, he swept her up and carried her to the bed, lay her down as if she were some fragile thing that must be cherished and adored.

The cool night air brushed over her naked body and hardened her already peaked nipples. She lay panting as he tore off the clothes he had just put on, her eyes taking in each part of him as it was revealed; those broad shoulders that filled his coat so well, the thick arms that lifted and swung a shovelful of snow as if it weighed no more than feathers, solid thighs strapped with saddle muscles. His manhood bobbed hard and long before him, engorged with dark blood, virile and exciting. He lay down and brought her closer, held her with arms that trembled, and kissed her face and throat, murmuring endearments, telling her of his need. She responded to his kisses, his voice, the big warm hand that stroked over her belly and cupped her sex. Trembling, she reached for him.

Spencer lay back and rejoiced when she climbed over him; his body throbbed at the feel of her heat pressed so close to him. He ached to be inside, to lift her and guide himself into the warmth, but he lay passive and let her take the lead. The tips of her breasts brushed his chest as she bent to kiss him again, his hands cupped them, massaged their fullness.

"Take your hair down for me, Ada..." he whispered, and she reached up to take the pins from her chignon. Her hair tumbled down past her shoulders to her waist, a rippling river of warm brown silk. His hands left her breasts and plunged into it, the thick skeins sifted and tumbled though his fingers. He pulled her face to his and kissed her, his tongue driving inside to taste her mouth again.

Her shyness evaporating in passion, Ada pushed him back on the pillow, leant so that he could reach her breasts with his mouth, and rocked her body against his to spur him on. With his mouth hot on her breast and his hands gripping her hips, she rose and guided him inside her. He groaned aloud as her body closed over his, and shivering, he pressed home.

Leisurely rocking, the sensation of being enveloped in heat. Ada arched her back, pulled him deeper, braced her hands on his chest and let him take her at a slow pace. Each thrust brought a gasp of pleasure from her throat, a low groan from his. He watched her face, her eyes locked on his.

"Say my name," he whispered. "Say it..." and when she answered with a breathless 'Spencer...' he rolled her under him and drove into her. His lips crushed hers, his tongue lapped inside her mouth. Beneath him, she writhed and arched, her legs lifting to wrap around his hips.

He supported his weight on one arm and drover deeper, harder. He was dying, drowning in pleasure, entranced by the look of rapture on her face. She stiffened and cried out, called his name again. He felt her body clenching him and knew she had taken her pleasure. Her head went back and her throat arched; he dove for the tender skin, kissed and bit at the place where her neck flowed into her shoulder, rejoiced when he heard her cry his name again.

His coming took him like the storm raging outside. Wild, mindless, he jerked with the power of it, grunting like an animal, pumping his seed into her welcoming body. Every arrhythmic thrust brought him jolts of ecstasy until he could stand no more and collapsed over her. He lay there, breathing hard, his fingers convulsing, entwining with hers.

Her name was the only thing in his mind. He said it over and over, "Ada...Ada..."

He lay with her spooned into his body all though the night, relishing the warmth, the feel of her naked skin. There were times he slept, but he spent most of the night listening to her soft rhythmic breath, smelling her hair, kissing her shoulder. And when the windows lightened and he could see, he watched her.

'So beautiful...' He examined each of her features and committed them to memory. She was soft and pink, curving, quite small. His hand lay easy on her breast, her buttocks were tucked into his groin and in those early hours, he found himself hardening again, wanting her so much it ached, so much he couldn't be denied.

He kissed her shoulder, pulled her to her back and woke her with more kisses. She opened to him, let him slide inside her on the remnants of the previous night's love, rocked with him to completion. And she held him when he cried out and pulsed his seed into her, her hands in his hair, her legs tight around his flanks.

They lay together for a long time afterward, watching through lace curtains as more snow fell. There was silence between them, but it was an easy silence, punctuated with kisses and murmured endearments. His hands never left her and she let them wander at will over her body, caressing, adoring, until he grew rigid against her hip once more.

And then she pushed him back and lay between his thighs, took him into her mouth. Helpless, caught in the throes of desire so strong that he thought he might die of pleasure, Spencer lay on his back, the coverlet bunched in his gripping hands, and watched her suck him. Her lips, pink and soft, pulled at him, nursing him to completion as he writhed and moaned. And when he had filled her mouth, she rested her head on his thigh, still and quiet. His hand cupped her head tenderly, then tugged at her hair.

"Come up here to me, Ada."

She crawled up his body and nestled into his arms. When he kissed her, he tasted his own seed on her lips, in her mouth. "I love you," he breathed against her face. And undignified though it might seem to be asking then, he asked anyway. "Will you marry me?"

Her lips curved into a gentle smile. "When?"

"Now. Tomorrow. Next week, next year. As long as you say you will, I'm content," Spencer said.

She was quiet for a long time and he believed she would reject his suit. But at last she replied softly, "You should know...the reason I married my husband is because nobody else would have me. I was taken in sin with a man when I was just seventeen."

"I don't give a damn. What does that matter?"

She shrugged. "It mattered to the others. I never had a suitor after that, until Mr. Wellman was widowed. He was older, didn't seem to care." Her hands were gentle in his hair. "You are young...I'm older than you by at least five years, I think."

"For God's sake, you make me sound like a boy," he protested gently. "I'm old enough to know what I want in a woman."

"I never gave my husband any children. It could be that I am barren," she confessed. "You'll want children of your own someday."

Spencer kissed her throat, nuzzled his way to her ear and whispered, "I don't care about any of that. I care about you, the way you are now. The woman you are now, so beautiful, so gentle. So forgiving." His arms tightened. "Ada...please. Say yes."

Again, she was silent. She thought of how she loved the man in her arms. Was it fated that he, of all men, should be the one for her? Ada thought of her stepson, how this would seem to be the worst of betrayals to Clay, and she squeezed her eyes closed against the pain she knew must come when she told him she planned to marry the Rebel soldier. But Clay would grow up and leave her someday, have a wife and children of his own.

She said, "Yes, Spencer. I will marry you."

His arms closed over her, held her tight as his hands stroked her skin.

"Say it," he pled, his lips on her forehead. "Tell me just once."

She raised her head, her tumbled hair trailed across his chest as she leaned up to kiss him. "I love you, Spencer," she whispered. "And I shall tell you every day."

Christmas Eve, 1862

The snowstorm had delayed him, but young Clayton Wellman was finally on his way home. True to its capricious nature, the Maryland weather had changed over night. Snow and cold had become rain and spring-like temperatures, and the snow had melted and run off into the creeks and rivers, flooding the rail beds and turning the roads into quagmires of mud. But just before Christmas things settled down again, enough so that his uncle thought it safe to put Clay on the train home.

Uncle Richard was going to telegraph ahead, but Clay asked him not to. He wanted to surprise Ada with his arrival, knowing that she would not expect him. She was precious to him, the woman who had been his mother for most of his short life, a tender caretaker who had gone to such lengths to comfort him when he was orphaned for the second time. She'd told him then she would always be his mother, always love him like her own son. It had meant the world to him...she meant the world to him. He barely remembered his own mother, dead so long ago. Ada was the only mother he'd ever known.

When he stepped off the train in Poolesville, old Mr. Sanderson who owned the next farm over from theirs was in town. He was on his way home with a wagon full of supplies, and offered the boy a ride home. Clay set his grip down carefully into the wagon, for it held his gift for Ada, and then climbed nimbly onto the seat with Mr. Sanderson. The ride made short work of the four miles distance from Poolesville, and in half an hour's time, he was getting down at the entrance to their lane.

He stretched up and offered his hand. "Thank you for the ride, sir. And a happy Christmas to you and your family."

"The same to you and your mother, son." Sanderson shook, marveling how just a few months in Baltimore had already put a polish on the Wellman boy. "Get up there, Moses." He flapped the reins and his horses started off. Clay lifted his hand in a last farewell and then, swinging his grip by the handle, dashed up the lane with the swift and effortless lope of the very young.

His mother wasn't in the house, only Major was there to greet him with a muffled bark. But it was near to milking time, so Clay dropped his valise in the parlor and went out to the barn. He didn't call out, and a grin split his face as he thought how pleased and surprised she'd be to see him. Stealthily nudging the big heavy door open, he slipped inside to find that Ada wasn't there either. But there was an unfamiliar horse in the loose box, contentedly chewing hay. On its flank was a familiar brand: CSA.

Clay's eyes scanned the barn, found the scarred saddle resting on a hay bale. There was a haversack there as well, and the same letters marked it, burned into the leather. CSA. Confederate States of America. A rebel soldier's horse, a rebel soldier's haversack.

And his mother was there all alone.

He darted out of the barn, tore up the path to the house. Inside all was silent and he opened his mouth to call, then shut it with a snap as he heard careful, stealthy footsteps coming down the staircase. He froze, his eyes huge, memories of the last time Confederate soldiers had visited his home screaming in his mind. A figure darted from the bottom of the steps, hit the floor and rolled. A startled Clay jumped back and looked down the barrel of a cocked pistol that seemed a yard long. He closed his eyes, waiting for the shot that would end his life.

From his prone position on the floor, Spencer recognized the frightened youth. Without turning his eyes away, he called up the stairs, "Come down, Ada. It's your son," then got up from the floor and let his gun hand drop to his side. He kept his eyes on Clay as if he expected the boy to charge him.

"Clay!"

The patter of lightly running footsteps and she was there, holding him, kissing his cheeks, taking his hands and standing back to look and marvel at how much he'd changed in just two months. Clay blushed, glanced over her shoulder to the man standing quietly against the wall. There was something familiar about him, something that nagged and plucked at his mind. And then it struck him…he saw it all as if it had just happened; the man with the pistol was one of the rebel soldiers who had come to the farm in October. One of the men who had killed his father.

"Mother? What is he doing here?" Clay said, hoping his voice wouldn't crack and reveal his fear.

Ada laid a soothing hand on his arm. "Clay, this is Spencer Neville. He is...my friend. A very dear friend, darling."

For the first time since she'd come down the stairs, Clay really looked at his stepmother. She seemed different...prettier, younger. Her hair was down, it hung to her waist in the back, and was swept behind her ears in the front. He'd never seen it that way; she’d always worn it up, or in a long braid for the night. His eyes narrowed as he saw that the hooks on her bodice were done up improperly, as if she'd dressed in haste. A quick glance toward the soldier confirmed his sudden suspicion. The man was in his stocking feet, his shirt tucked untidily into his pants. He dropped his gaze, blushing furiously as his mind screamed, 'Whore! Liar! Betrayer!'

He lifted his eyes and glared at Ada, all the rage and hatred he felt evident in every rigid line of his face. And then he bolted through the back door and ran toward the barn. Ada started after him, but Spencer put a restraining arm on her shoulder.

"Wait, sweetheart," he counseled. "Give him a little time to himself first."

She hesitated, then nodded, turning sorrowful eyes up to his. "I knew he would hate this, hate you," she whispered. "And now he hates me too…"

"Shh now, it'll be all right, darlin'." Spencer murmured comfortingly, and drew her into his arms. "We'll both talk to him. Just give him time to come to grips with it."

Clay leaned against the rough wooden side of the stall and wept. Tears scalded his cheeks and ran down his neck and into his shirt collar; he swiped at them with the back of his hand. Try though he might to block them, his mind fabricated images of his mother and the soldier together in the bed where she'd slept with his father. And over it all ran the memory of the day when the troop of gray-clad horsemen had shot his father down like a dog in his own dooryard.

'How could she? How could she?' The refrain ran through his consciousness, over and over until he thought he'd go mad. The soldier's horse turned his head and nibbled at his hair, he pushed it roughly away, cursing at it like he wanted to curse at Neville. Like he wanted to curse at his mother.

'Fornicator! Harlot!'

Echoes of memory, a circuit-riding Methodist preacher who'd come to Poolesville just before his father left for the war. He'd preached a sermon so full of hellfire and brimstone that it had made a lasting impression on Clay's twelve year old mind: They shall not take a wife that is a whore, or profane; neither shall they take a woman put away from her husband...

The Reverend Mr. Bayless had been a staunch Union man, and he had preached loud and strong against those in rebellion. His text had come from Micah, and his words had been a warning: Up thy groves out of the midst of thee: so will I destroy thy cities. And I will execute vengeance in anger and fury upon the heathen, such as they have not heard.

Execute vengeance in anger...an eye for an eye. Clay climbed to the hayloft, pushed aside the fragrant bales until he came to the secret place he'd made in a dark corner. Just two months ago, after he and Ada had buried his father in the church yard, he had stolen up here alone. Ada had thought he needed time and left him in peace to mourn, but Clay, determined that nothing like this should ever happen again, had hidden his father's repeating carbine and .44 caliber Navy Colt pistol under a loose board. He'd sworn to himself that if rebel soldiers ever came to their farm again, they'd get more than they bargained for.

The weapons were still there, wrapped in oily rags against the damp, ready to execute anger and vengeance and fury upon the heathen. Carefully, Clay removed them and checked the loads. The carbine used rimfire ammunition, seven shots encased in a metal tube. His father had shown him how to use it once, soon after his band of guerillas had been issued the weapons. The rifle was fully loaded, just as it had been on the day his father died. There were only two shots left in the pistol, and with shaking hands, Clay examined them. The powder was dry, but there were no percussion caps. He left the pistol behind, took the carbine down with him and put it closer to hand in the stack of pitchforks, rakes, and spades leaning against the wall. He stepped back and surveyed his work critically. The rifle wasn't noticeable, the barrel seemed like nothing more than another tool. Satisfied, he left the barn and went back to the house.

His mother was alone in the kitchen. "Where is he?" Clay's tone was sharp with accusation.

"Upstairs. He wanted to give us some time alone." Ada reached a hand to him, but he ignored it. She smothered the ache his coldness left in her heart and said kindly, "Sit down, Clay. Please."

The boy hesitated, curbing an automatic instinct to obey his mother. "Please, son," Ada urged, and he reluctantly sat at the table, but kept his eyes down.

"I know what this looks like to you, Clay," she began. "I know what you're thinking, and I don't blame you." She paused hopefully, but he made no response. "But you must listen to me, and try to understand."

Clay shook his head.

"He's not what you think, son. Spencer Neville is a good man, an honorable man. He didn't have anything to do with your father's killing; he hated it, hated the idea of it. That's why he is here. He came to see us both, to ask our forgiveness."

At that, Clay's head snapped up, his eyes blazing. "And you forgave him, didn't you Mother? As if what he'd done was nothing, you forgave him and took him into our house, into your bed!" He didn't say the word, but it hung in the air between them: Whore!

Ada's cheeks flamed. She had thought that she could make him understand, that given time, he'd recognize Spencer's good intentions, his honor and decency. But she had been wrong to expect so much from him. Clay was still a boy, he knew nothing of love between a man and woman, of how emotion could flame up between them and consume their souls. He didn't have the maturity to step back and consider, or overcome his natural instinct to despise them both. She dropped her eyes to escape his, blazing with disgust, and wondered what she was to do.

"I hate you," Clay said evenly, and to Ada, he sounded like a man of a sudden. This wasn't a childish fit of pique born of jealousy and confusion, this was a man's rage, cold and deadly. "I hate you and I hate him," he went on. "And I want him gone." He stood, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles were white. "I'm going for a ride," he said curtly. "And you'd better get him out of my father's house before I come back, or I'll kill him."

Devastated, she watched her son slam out of the house. She ran to Spencer then, ran sobbing into his arms as he turned from the window where he'd watched her son stalk to the barn. He held her, kissed the coil of coffee-colored hair that circled the back of her head, and whispered soothingly.

"What's all this?" He pried her chin up with gentle fingers, kissed her cheek and tasted the salt of her tears. "Don't cry, sweetheart, tell me..."

She shook her head sorrowfully. "It's no use," she murmured. "I couldn't make him listen."

His hand cupped her head tenderly, he brushed away her tears with his thumb. "Poor darling," he whispered. "I should never have let you face him alone. Perhaps if I spoke to him, as I did to you," he began, but Ada shook her head violently.

"No. It's no use, I tell you. Spencer...my dear...he's threatened to kill you if you don't leave here. And I believe he will do as he says." She broke into bitter sobs and hid her face on his chest.

He held her, his hands warm and strong on her back. "I reckon I expected him to behave this way," he said softly. "You did too, sweetheart..." he gave her a rueful smile, "...only women aren't as violent as men, thank God, or I'd have been dead the first night I came. Here now, hush," he whispered when she sobbed all the harder. "I would have had to go tomorrow anyway, my leave is up and I need time to travel back to Virginia. If my presence upsets the boy that much, I'll go now and spare him. And then maybe you can talk to him when he's calmer. When he's not resenting the idea of me taking his father's place."

Her fingers tightened on his upper arm and she shivered. "I don't want you to go," Ada pleaded. "I'm afraid something will happen. Dear God, I'm almost afraid of my boy...if you could have seen the look in his eyes, Spencer..."

"Hush now, you don't need to be afraid of your son. He's mad, that's all. Hurt. But he's still your boy...still the same child you raised. He loves you, Ada." His lips were tender on the crown of hair. "But not like I do, sweetheart."

"Do you really have to go?" she whispered against his chest, and his answer was a simple, "Yes."

She nodded. She remembered this, being strong for her soldier going back into danger, never letting him see her fear that he wouldn't come home, that she'd never see his beloved face again, nor feel his hands on her. That the heart that beat so steadily against her cheek would be stilled by a bullet, and the voice that could comfort or thrill her might never be heard again this side of heaven. Ada raised her face and forced a smile that, though lacking in brilliance, was brave all the same.

"Let me wrap up some food for you, then," she said, resorting to practicality. "Can't have you going hungry, can we? And you'll take some extra blankets, Spencer. There's still so much of winter left to get through." Her hand slipped up to caress his cheek, he turned his face into her palm and kissed it.

"I'll be fine, sweetheart. And I'll come back to you," he promised, reading her sorrowful eyes. "Don’t worry."

"You'd better," she replied, mock-firm. "Or I'll come to Virginia and look for you myself."

He grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners into the sun wrinkles that were permanently etched in his skin. "Go on now," he said, turning her toward the door. "Pack my lunch while I get ready." He swatted her teasingly on the rump, though his touch was more of a caress, and watched her go through the door before he sat at her little writing table and took pen in hand. He wrote to her, just a little note reaffirming his love, and told her he'd be back as soon as he could get away. And then he wrote another note to tuck inside his waterproof: 'In the event of my demise, please notify Mrs. Ada Wellman of Wellman's Farm, near Poolesville, Maryland '

He didn’t know where he’d gone, but the boy wasn't around to witness his leave-taking. Spencer leaned from the saddle to kiss Ada one last time, then seated his hat more firmly and turned his horse's head for the road. He looked back once, just before he turned out of the lane. She lifted her arm and waved, and beside her, Major barked his own goodbye. And then Spencer put the spurs to his gelding's flanks, hoping to reach the river crossing before dark.

Again there were no pickets posted at White's Ford. He sat his horse in the cover of the woods for a good half hour, waiting to see if any would show themselves. When he was sure the ford was deserted this darkening Christmas Eve, he guided the gelding toward the slippery bank. Just before he reached river's edge, a figure stepped out the scrub with rifle raised. Spencer reined in with a muted, "Whoa, boy."

"I ain't your boy, you bastard."

Spencer squinted. Was it Clay standing there with a carbine pointed toward him? "Easy now, son," he cautioned.

"I ain't your son!" Clay's enraged scream echoed off the water and the hills. "I'll never be your son, and she'll never be your wife."

Spencer didn't move. His mind tortured him with images of Ada, her face in the lamplight, her eyes when he entered her body to love her. In the span of time it takes to snuff a candle, he remembered the gentleness of her hands on his face, the sweetness of her lips on his. To give up the promise of a life together with the mother of this boy, all in the name of vengeance, was a bitter draught when he could so easily stop it by killing him.

Vengeance.

It had been Douglas Mosby's need for revenge that had set his feet on this road, and it was young Clay's need that would bring him to the end of it. For the boy meant to kill him, Spencer saw it in his eyes.

The irony of the situation mocked him. He faced Clay coolly from the back of his mount, aware that his pistol, fully loaded, was close to hand in his belt. He knew he could draw it, cock, and fire before the boy could get off a shot. But he wouldn't do it, not even if it meant letting Clay kill him. He could not shoot Ada's son.

Viciously, he dug his spurs hard into the gelding's flanks. The animal screamed in pain, rose up on his hind legs, forefeet flailing. A startled Clay stumbled and fell to his back. His carbine discharged a shot that went wild at the same time Spencer shouted, "Yah!" and slapped the reins smartly across his horse's neck. Man and beast plunged into the river, moving as fast as was possible in the swiftly flowing water.

Stunned by a turn of events he had not foreseen, Clay struggled to rise from his prone position, only to throw himself flat when a volley of shots rang into the night. The Union picket guard, aroused from their Christmas celebration by the sound of gunfire, had come to the bank with rifles ready. He squinted, peered across the river, and saw Spencer Neville slide from his horse and fall on the far bank of the Potomac.

Summer, 1863

The mails were uncertain in the best of times, but in war time they were almost non-existent. Ada didn't worry when no letter came from Spencer, assuring her of his safe arrival in Virginia. It wasn't until spring came and the armies were once again on the move that she began to think that soon Spencer would come to her, or perhaps send a message by courier. But April passed, then May, and still she heard nothing.

Clay was due to come home in June, when the academy dismissed its students for the summer. Ada was not surprised when he wrote from Baltimore and said he planned to stay on at his uncle's and work as a clerk in his store until classes were in session again. The estrangement between them had not healed, where there was once love, there was now bitterness and disapproval from her son. She hired free blacks to help her plow and plant, paying them from the rapidly dwindling store of cash that her husband had left her. And she waited, lonely and anxious, for word from Spencer.

Gettysburg. Ada had never heard of the place before, but she had learned all about it since the battle there in early July. Hope took flight in her breast at the thought that the war would soon be over and she would see Spencer again, for everyone in Poolesville said that Lee's defeat signaled the beginning of the end, that his heretofore invincible Army of Northern Virginia could not recover from the beating they had taken. The Confederates were in full retreat south; for the past two days, Ada had seen gray-clad soldiers passing on the road, and once or twice, men had come to her dooryard asking for food. Her free blacks had disappeared, gone God knew where since the troops appeared, fearing capture and enslavement. Ada worked harder than she ever had, struggling on alone to keep things going.

"So hot..." she murmured to herself, and pumped a glass of cool water from the cistern to take with her out to the porch. Exhausted after a day in the cornfield, she settled in the splint bottomed rocker and, after a furtive look around, raised her skirts above her knees, blessing the wash of cool air on her limbs. Her fingers unhooked her basque until the tops of her breasts were exposed to the air as well. Ada leaned back and fanned her damp face in the twilight, comfortable at last. Major lay panting beside her.

She must have dozed, but the dog's growl woke her quick enough. She tossed her skirts down and hurriedly hooked her bodice, her eyes on the lone rider coming at a slow walk up the lane. Another soldier begging a meal, no doubt. She squinted into the fading light and started when she recognized the face of the man she thought of as the devil incarnate.

Douglas Mosby reined up before the porch, much as he had done the October day when he'd killed her husband. Her pulse pounding in terror, Ada sat rooted in the rocking chair.

"Mrs. Wellman, ma'am." Douglas removed his hat politely.

She didn't move, couldn't move, not even to run screaming into the house. She only stared at him, her eyes huge in her white face.

He spoke without a trace of compassion. "As per his request, I've come to inform you that my friend Spencer Neville has passed from this earth. He was shot and killed by a sniper’s bullet last Christmas on his way across the Potomac. I can only assume he was returning to Virginia from a visit with you."

Ada's hand went to her throat in shocked horror as the impact of what Mosby said slammed its way into her brain. And her mind cried Spencer's name desperately, silently, even as she pictured his face as it had looked when he'd kissed her goodbye.

Douglas Mosby leaned from his horse and passed her a bundle wrapped in black waterproof. "This was all that was found on him at the time of his demise," he said. "He wanted you to have his things. I...I've included a lock of his hair. "

With shaking hands, Ada took the bundle and held it to her chest. Her head dropped and tears tracked down her cheeks.

Mosby stared at her bowed head and felt nothing for her pain. "I'll be leaving now, ma'am," he murmured, without a trace of pity in his tone. "My condolences."

His coldness didn't matter, for she didn't hear him. Stunned and sick, she could think only of her son's face and the loathing in his voice when he'd said: 'I hate him, and I hate you...'

The bundle fell to the floor as she fainted. Mosby looked at her lying there for a long moment, her dog whining and licking her face, then turned his horse and trotted up the road. He didn’t look back.

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