Chapter 11 #2
Morning Fawn’s interest in this Moyer fellow could be a definite asset. By all rights, he should encourage the attachment and tag along as a chaperone, get access to the inner workings of this place. He could stomach that about as much as filling his canteen in the drainage ditch.
As they reached the hitching post, Morning Fawn blew out a breath. “You can wait outside.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “You and your aunt need to get one thing straight. I’m not at your beck and call. I do my work the way I see fit.”
“Have it your way.” She dismounted and marched on ahead of him, straightening her skirts as she went, her stride as stringent as an officer on his way to reprimand a private.
“Whoa.” Devon swung off his stallion and caught up to her. He blocked her path. “You’re not going to hurry in to Moyer as if you can’t wait to see him. This isn’t a horse race.”
“Are you trying to tell me I don’t know how to behave?” She crossed her arms.
The breeze rippled the rim of her straw hat and tossed a tendril across her brow. She swatted it away.
His gaze fell to her hazel eyes. Like a river current, they swept his thoughts away.
He blinked himself free and glanced at the rest of her face and dress.
Beautiful and unpolished. No hoop. No bonnet.
Maybe this Moyer fellow wouldn’t even respect her as a lady, or maybe he’d think her a country bumpkin and easy to trick.
He stuck his right elbow out. “Take my arm. You’re going to show Mr. Moyer you could care less if he accepts the invitation.”
He braced himself for her to turn up her nose and cut around him. But she didn’t. He sucked in a breath as she latched on to the crook of his arm, her fingers sinking into the butternut-colored wool.
Inside, a clerk showed them down a hallway to a glass-doored office.
Morning Fawn hesitated at the threshold.
A man with dark, tonic-smoothed hair and a thin sliver of a mustache looked up from a ledger. “Miss Logan.” His eyes lit a second before his smile. A shadow twitched across his face as his gaze shifted to Devon. “And who is your escort today?”
She stepped in. “This is Lieutenant Reynolds.”
Lips pressed tight, Devon nodded.
Morning Fawn exhaled. “My uncle felt I needed a chaperone. After—”
“Oh, the Thoroughbred race.” Chuckling, Moyer stood and moved from behind his solid oak desk. The man was around thirty, maybe a little more. Not in uniform. Probably talked some judge into giving him an exemption. “I heard about your ride. I’m thankful to see you’re not injured.”
Devon clamped his hand down on Morning Fawn’s before she could slip it free. “Mr. and Mrs. LeBeau asked us to extend their invitation to you for dinner at Sweet Briar this coming Saturday evening if you are free.”
“Us?” Moyer tugged on the lapels of his gray-striped frock coat.
“He means my family.” Morning Fawn squirmed.
Moyer extended his hand, his slender white fingers unscarred by physical labor. “Pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant.”
Slow to respond, Devon released Morning Fawn and accepted the handshake. “Quite an operation you have here, Mr. Moyer.”
“Just doing my part for the Confederacy. You’ve heard of the Shenandoah Valley being the breadbasket of our new nation?
Well, the Alleyton Depot is the bank. Cotton will pave the way to victory.
” Moyer stuck out his broad chest. “But tell me, Reynolds, what brings you to our fair town? Part of the troops stationed here? An acquaintance of the LeBeaus?”
“Not stationed here. Paroled. I was a prisoner of the Yankees. I’m back in Texas to recuperate before making my way to my regiment, the Third Cavalry. I’m helping Mr. LeBeau for the next few weeks. Business.”
“Business? Hired pirate,” Morning Fawn muttered under her breath.
Moyer latched onto the military part. “Third Texas? Part of Van Dorn’s division? My cousin was in his brigade. Helped them hit the Union supply depot at Holly Springs, Mississippi.”
Devon pursed his lips. His informant had given him details of the attack. But how trustworthy was the word of a deserter, even if he did claim to be a Unionist? “We hit ’em hard.” He forced a smile.
“Easy prey, I heard.” Moyer smoothed his mustache. “Were the Yanks asleep or just incompetent?”
“I don’t know about the infantry boys, but the cavalry were in the middle of a drill.”
“Captured enough supplies to outfit an army?”
“Four train loads.”
“I heard it was three.” Moyer’s brow crinkled.
“Maybe it was.” Devon shrugged, but his voice hitched.
“But with all of the whooping and hollering from our boys, and me busy rounding up prisoners, I didn’t stop to count.
All I knew was that my men had their bellies full, new rifles in their hands, and the Yanks looking more whipped than hound dogs left out in the rain. ”
Moyer chuckled and offered him a cigar. “And what about the raid into Tennessee?”
“Some other time.” Devon twirled the cigar in his fingers. Best stick the thing in his mouth and endure the taste. “We don’t want to bore Miss Logan with war stories. She might prefer a tour.”
“Of cotton bales?” She blinked.
Devon reached for her arm, but Moyer was quicker. His hand closed around her elbow. “I’d be delighted to show the lady how we serve the Confederacy. If you prefer to rest in the outer office, Lieutenant, my clerk could supply you with a glass of brandy recently arrived from London.”
Wait in the outer office with the potential of finding an excuse and a few moments in Moyer’s office unobserved? An unexpected opportunity. Exactly what he should choose.
But Morning Fawn glanced at the man’s hand as if a dog had latched onto her sleeve.
“I’d enjoy a tour myself.” Devon hooked his thumb over his cartridge belt, resisting the urge to grab her other arm. He’d not stoop to playing tug of war. After all, Devon was the one leaving with the lady.