Chapter One
October 1862
Seven miles west of Falmouth, Virginia
A bitter wind slammed through the tattered countryside,
sucking warmth from the morning. Emaline McDaniels rocked
back in the saddle when she heard the shout. She glanced
over her shoulder and her eyes widened. Across the fields
of ragged tobacco, her farrier rode toward her at breakneck
speed. Lines of alarm carved their way across the old man's
ebony face.
Emaline spurred her horse around to meet him. "What's
wrong?"
Tacker pointed a gnarled finger eastward. "Yankees, Miz
Emaline! Coming up da road from Falmouth!"
"Yankees?" Her heart lurched against her ribs. She'd
heard of their thievery, the fires and destruction left in
their wake. Teeth–gritting determination to save her
home flashed through her. She leaned sideways, gripping his
work–worn sleeve. "Are you sure they're not the home
guard?"
"No, ma'am. I seen em, dey's blue riders, for sure.
Hundreds of em."
Two workers moved closer to listen to the exchange, and
the farrier acknowledged them with a quick nod.
"Everyone back to the cabins," Emaline snapped, sinking
into the saddle. "And use the wagon road along the river.
It'll be safer."
"Ain't yo' comin' with us?"
"No. Move along quickly, all of you. And keep out of
sight." She flicked the reins and her horse headed straight
across the fields toward the red–brick mansion that
hugged the far edge of the horizon.
The spongy ground beneath the animal's hooves churned
into clods of flying mud. Aside from a few skirmishes
nearby, the war had politely stayed east along the Old Plank
Road around Fredericksburg. Her mare crested the small
hillock near the main house, and Emaline jerked back on the
leather reins. Off to her far right, a column of cavalrymen
numbering into the hundreds approached. The dust cloud
stirred up by their horses draped in a heavy haze across the
late–morning air. In numbed fascination, she stared
at the pulsing line of blue–coated soldiers, a
slithering serpent of destruction a quarter of a mile long.
Waves of nausea welled up from her belly.
"Oh my God," she whispered. She dug her boot heels into
the mare's sides and the nimble sorrel sprang into another
strong gallop. Praying she'd go unnoticed, Emaline leaned
low, her thoughts racing faster than the horse. What do
they want? Why are they here?
Her fingers curled into the coarse mane as seconds flew
past. At last, she reached the back entrance of the
mansion. Quickly dismounting, she smacked the beast's
sweaty flank to send it toward the stable then spun to meet
the grim expression fixed upon the face of the old woman who
waited for her at the bottom of the steps. "I need
Benjamin's rifle!"
"Everythin's right there, Miz Emaline. Right where you'd
want it." She shifted sideways and pointed to the .54
caliber Hawkins, leather cartridge box and powder flask
lying across the riser like sentinels ready for battle.
"Tacker told me bout the Yankees afore he rode out to find yo'."
"Bless you, Euley." Emaline swept up the expensive,
custom–made hunting rifle her late husband treasured.
The flask followed and she tumbled black crystals down the
rifle's long muzzle. A moment later, the metal rod clanked
down inside the barrel to force a lead ball home.
She'd heard so many stories of the bluecoats' wicked
cruelty. What if they kill us all? The ramrod fell to the
ground. With a display of courage she did not feel, Emaline
heaved the weapon into her arms, swept past the old servant,
and took the wooden steps two at a time.
There was no time left for what ifs.
"You stay out of sight, Euley. I mean it." The door
banged shut behind Emaline as she disappeared into the house.
Each determined footfall through the mansion brought her
closer and closer to the possibility of yet another change
in her life. She eased open the front door and peered out
across Shapinsay's sweeping lawns. Dust clogged the air and
sent another shiver skittering up her spine. She moved out
onto the wide veranda, and with each step taken, her heart
hammered in her chest. Five strides later, Emaline stopped
at the main steps and centered herself between two massive
Corinthian columns.
She squared her shoulders. She lifted her chin. She'd
fought against heartbreak every day for three years since
her husband's death. She'd fought the constant fear of
losing her beloved brother in battle. She fought against
the effects of this foolhardy war that sent all but two of
her field hands fleeing. If she could endure all that plus
operate this plantation all alone to keep Benjamin's dreams
alive, then surely, this too, she could fight.
And the loaded weapon? Well, it was for her fortitude
only.
She knew she couldn't shoot them all.
"Please, don't turn in," she mumbled, but the
supplication withered on her lips when the front of the long
column halted near the fieldstone gateposts at the far end
of the lane. Three cavalrymen turned toward her then
approached in a steadfast, orderly fashion.
Her gaze skimmed over the first soldier holding a wooden
staff, a swallow–tailed scrap of flag near its top
whipping in the breeze. The diminutive silk bore an
embroidered gold star surrounded by a laurel wreath, the
words, US Cavalry–6th Ohio, stitched beneath.
Emaline disregarded the second cavalryman and centered her
attention directly upon the officer.
The man sat his horse as if he'd been born in the saddle,
his weight distributed evenly across the leather. A dark
slouch hat covered sable hair that fell well beyond the
collar of his coat. Epaulets graced both broad shoulders,
emphasizing his commanding look. A lifetime spent in the
sun and saddle added a rugged cast to his sharp, even
features.
An overwhelming ache throbbed behind her eyes. What if
she had to shoot him?
Or worse–––what if she couldn't?
The man reined his horse to a stop beside the front
steps. His eyes, long–lashed and as brown as a bay
stallion's, caught and held hers. Though he appeared
relaxed, Emaline sensed a latent fury roiling just beneath
the surface of his calm.
Her hands weakened on the rifle and she leaned forward, a
hair's breadth, unwillingly sucked into his masculinity as
night sucked into day. Inhaling deeply, she hoisted the
Hawkins to her shoulder, aiming it at his chest. Obviously
in command, he would receive her lone bullet should he not
heed her words. "Get off my land!"