The Union Belle Read online

  She ladled some broth into a bowl, picked up a piece of bread and brought it over to him. “Three days,” she said, giving him the food. “This is Sunday.”

  He dipped the bread into the hot broth before shoveling it into his mouth so fast she cried out, “Don’t choke yourself!” Laughing again, Lola got his coffee and came back to sit down with it, watching as he ate. When he handed her the plate, she gave him the coffee, saying, “Better wait for a little while—then you can have some bacon.”

  He took the coffee, sipped it and closed his eyes with pleasure. “Never knew anything could taste so good!” he murmured. He gave her a quick glance and the corners of his mouth turned up in a smile. “Once in the trenches at Petersburg we ate one of our ammunition mules—but this is even better than that.”

  She leaned back and was amazed at how light and happy she felt. The burden of fear had been heavier than she had thought. “I’m glad you’re better,” she said. Her short hair framed her pale face, and he saw the relief in her dark blue eyes. “I was so afraid.”

  He studied her closely, then nodded. “Been worse on you than on me.” Several moments passed before he spoke again. “Thanks, Lola. Seems like you’ve made a habit of getting me out of jams.”

  “Well . . .” Flustered by the steadiness of his smoky gray eyes, Lola reached out to take his cup to cover her confusion. “You’re out of coffee.”

  She had, he saw, built up a wall around herself. Trespassers keep out, he thought suddenly, and remembered how adamant she had been about the third condition—that he keep his distance. He took the cup and said easily, “Well, I reckon it’s hard to be hit with a lot of gratitude all at once. . . .” He paused to sip the coffee, then smiled and added, “So I owe you a couple of thank-yous, okay?” He saw her relief, and began to question her about the horses and the supplies. The change of subject put her at ease, and soon they were talking in a relaxed manner. Just got to remember to keep my distance, Mark resolved.

  Aloud he said, “One good thing about all this—no danger of anyone coming out to look for us in a storm like this.”

  “But as soon as it stops, they might.”

  “Sure enough—but we’ll be on our way by then.”

  She gave him a stern look, saying, “You’re weak, Mark. I don’t think you should travel for a while.”

  “Just wait ’til that storm lets up, and you’ll see how fast I can move!”

  He slept peacefully that night, woke up as hungry as a wolf, and for two days did little but eat and sleep. On Wednesday he clambered out of bed, saying, “I’m sick of being an invalid, Lola,” and proceeded to take over the chores outside. The next day the wind suddenly died down, bringing an eerie silence to the white world around them. Mark said that night as they ate their simple supper of beans, “If what I’ve heard about these blizzards is right, this one’s about played out. Temperature’s rising fast and the wind’s stopped.”

  “Thank God for that!” she exclaimed, then flushed as he gave her an odd smile. “I’m no believer—but it seems like a miracle that we found this place.”

  “Reckon that’s right, Lola,” he mused. “Just ten more feet—and we’d have missed this shack. They’d be coming along in a few days, and we’d be ready for the undertaker.” He was cleaning his Colt, looking out the window at the pale sun beginning to break through the ragged clouds. “Had many a minie ball come so close I could hear ’em whistle during the war. Just an inch to the right or to the left, and I’d have been one of those boys we had to bury.” He looked down at the revolver, not really seeing it, then gave her a direct glance. “Why was it me and not them that lived? And why did we find this place instead of missing it?”

  “Maybe just luck.”

  He shook his head firmly. “No, I can’t believe that. A man is born into this world. He’s got a brain and a heart. He can look up at the stars and see them marching across the skies in perfect order just like a drill team—and he knows something’s made them to do that! Then he sees a woman and she sees him. They touch—and there’s something more than chance in that.”

  “You believe love is like that?” she asked softly, then shook her head. “I don’t. I’ve seen too many ugly and grasping people. Men take what they want—and then leave the woman to get by as best she can!”

  The bitterness of her words drew his gaze, and he considered what she had said. It had been the most revealing clue that she’d let slip, and he thought it might be a common enough philosophy for a saloon girl. Nevertheless, he shook his head in denial. “No, there’s more than that to love, Lola. I’ve seen the men you’re talking about—and some women are just about as greedy. But every now and then I see someone who’s not like that—like my parents.” He rolled the cylinder of the Colt, slipped it into the holster and laid it down on the table.

  She was staring at him with a faint wonder in her eyes. They were so blue they looked almost black, and her lips were parted in an unconscious look of awe. “Maybe a few people love,” she admitted finally, then shook her head in a gesture of doubt, “but most do not.”

  “If one man and one woman can love,” Mark said, “it’s possible.” She was, he saw, tremendously interested in what he had said, but he did not push his sentiments. Instead he said, “I think we can get out of here by Friday.”

  “Good. I don’t feel safe this close to Eagle Pass.”

  The temperature rose steadily and the clouds changed from sullen gray to azure the next day. The snow began to melt and Mark took the horses out for exercise, riding one and leading the other. When he returned he said, “It’ll be rough going, Lola, but we’ll pull out in the morning. Let’s get everything packed up.”

  They left around nine the next morning, and as the horses plodded through the melting snow, they both turned around for a final glance at the cabin.

  “Fort Salvation,” Mark murmured.

  “Yes.” Lola felt a strange sensation as she gazed at the dilapidated shack, and added, “I feel like we’re leaving home somehow, Mark.” She thought of the shelter it had provided as the storm had howled outside. “I’ll never forget this little place.”

  He nodded, then said soberly, “Neither will I, Lola. Lots of places I’d like to forget, but like I said, this little cabin saved our lives.” He spoke to the horses sharply, and soon they had passed over a hill and into a valley, leaving the line shack behind.

  All day long they traveled through the melting snowdrifts, the horses as happy to be out of the confinement of the past days as Mark and Lola were.

  At noon Mark stopped to make coffee, and just before dark they made camp inside an abandoned barn. Most of the roof was off, but they found enough loose timber to make a place for beds free from snowdrifts, and after cooking a quick meal, they rolled into their blankets. “You’re pushing yourself too hard, Mark,” Lola said as he lay down wearily.

  “Won’t kill me,” he muttered sleepily. “I want to get to Galveston as soon as we can. Won’t feel safe as long as we’re in Texas.”

  Both of them slept soundly, rising before dawn to eat a hurried breakfast. The snow melted rapidly, so that two days later the horses’ hooves were churning up brown mud instead of snow. They stopped once at a run-down hotel in a little town called Unity, dividing one room for them both, then turned south the following morning. Two days later they passed into Galveston at dusk.

  “Warmer here, isn’t it?” Lola remarked.

  “It’s the Gulf, I guess,” Mark nodded. “Smell that air? That’s salt water.” He drove into what seemed to be the center of town, pulled up at a cafe called The Blue Goose, and got out of the wagon. “Come on. Let’s eat somebody else’s cooking.”

  He reached out his hand, and when she took it and stepped to the ground, he laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” she asked.

  “We are,” he grinned. “This dye in my hair is half in and half out, for one thing. And it looks pretty suspicious for one man to be handing another down out of a wagon.”


  Lola’s face burned, for she had completely forgotten her role as a boy. Looking down at herself she said, “I can’t go in like this.”

  He gave her a skeptical look, then shook his head. “I reckon not. You’ve got to either be a boy or a girl. You’re not going to fool anybody very long.”

  “I—I’ll stay in the wagon and you can bring me something to eat.”

  “You can’t stay in the wagon all the way to Omaha,” he said practically. His eye roamed down the mud-filled street. “There’s a hotel,” he signalled. “It’s not much, but it’ll do for one night.” They moved along the street until he pulled them up in front of the Palace Hotel. “I’ll go get a room, then you can sort of sneak in and change back to what the good Lord made you,” he grinned.

  Mark entered the hotel, and in less than five minutes came back out. “Come on,” he said. She jumped out of the wagon. “You take your case and I’ll get the bedroll,” he said. They entered the hotel and the elderly clerk did not so much as glance in their direction as Mark led her through the small lobby and up a set of flimsy steps that groaned under their weight. The hallway was dim, and he had to peer carefully to discern the faint number on the door. Shoving it open he entered, and she followed him into the small room. He lit a lantern mounted on the wall, and took a quick look around. It was a rough, unlovely room with a single bed, a four-poster made of solid mahogany, the only touch of elegance in the coarse room. The floor had once been covered with a lead-colored paint, but this had chipped away until it was a kind of leprous gray and brown.

  “If you don’t want to go out, I can bring you something to eat,” he said.

  She gave him a quick look and understood that he was aware that she felt awkward. It gave her a warm feeling, and she shook her head. “No, just give me a few minutes.”

  He smiled and left the room, going downstairs to wait in the lobby. Picking up a March 16, 1867, newspaper, he scanned it casually until he ran across a small article on the third page, entitled PACIFIC RAILROAD READY FOR SPRING. The first line told him what he needed to know: “General Grenville Dodge, Chief Engineer of the Union Pacific Railway, announced today that he intends to push the railroad as far as Cheyenne this year. Speaking from his winter headquarters at North Platte, Dodge issued a challenge to the Central Pacific Railroad which is building north from Sacramento, California, stating flatly, “Mr. Leland Stanford and the C.P. will never beat the Union to Salt Lake City.”

  “So Dodge has got to get there first,” Mark said with a smile. It made him feel lighter in spirit, for he knew that his services would be needed—something he had not been certain of previously. He read the article several times and was caught off-guard when a voice said, “I’m ready now.”

  He lowered the newspaper and his eyes reflected the shock that ran through him as he looked at Lola. “Why . . . !” He got to his feet, pulled his hat off, and then caught himself when he saw the old clerk watching them. “All right,” he murmured, casually tossing the newspaper down. Taking her arm, he gently directed her toward the door.

  “You shouldn’t surprise a man that way, Lola,” he said when they turned down the walk toward the cafe. He had seen her in the revealing dress of a dance hall girl, then in the masculine attire of a young Mexican, but he would not have recognized her as she now looked. She wore a simple blue wool dress, fitted around the bodice with a full skirt that swirled when she moved. A hat of a lighter blue was tilted on her head. It was not an expensive dress, but it lent her a touch of elegance.

  “It’s just an old dress,” she said quickly, but her cheeks grew warm at the admiration that showed in his face. She walked beside him to the cafe and they enjoyed a good meal of pork chops and baked potatoes with apple pie for dessert. Afterward they sat there talking quietly, watching the customers, mostly roughly-dressed working men and their wives.

  Mark took one last sip of his coffee and said, “Tomorrow I’ll sell the horses and wagon. Got to be some kind of a ship going to New Orleans.” Then he stood up to leave and stretched. “I’ll take you back to the hotel.”

  He paid the bill and they left the cafe to walk along the wooden sidewalk. “I don’t like using your money, Lola,” he acknowledged as they reached the hotel. “Makes me feel like—” He paused and shook his head.

  “It’s something we have to do, Mark,” she assured him. “Don’t think of it.”

  Leaving her at the door he said, “I’m going to go out to see if I can’t find out about a ship tonight. Lock the door and keep it locked until I come back.” He slipped his Colt out of his holster and gave it to her. “If you have any visitors, put a shot in the door.”

  “You might need it,” she said quickly.

  “No. I’m a tame cat tonight.” He turned and left, and she shut the door and bolted it. She put the gun on the table, then washed her face and got ready for bed. For a long time she sat in the chair looking out at the street, but finally grew sleepy and went to bed.

  A slight knock awakened her, and she was off the bed in one motion. “Who is it?”

  “Winslow, Lola. Open the door.”

  “Just a minute.” She quickly lit the lamp, slipped on a robe and unbolted the door. As Mark entered the room, she saw by the look on his face that he was pleased. “What is it?”

  He took off his hat and tossed it on the floor, then turned to her. “There’s a banana boat pulling out at eight tomorrow morning. It’ll stop at New Orleans. I got us two places. Sold the horses and wagon, too. Had to give a bargain—but I got most of the money back. They sure earned their keep!”

  She smiled up at him. “You certainly accomplished a lot tonight!”

  He looked down at her, aware for the first time that she was only wearing a robe over her nightgown. He had had several drinks, and though he was not drunk, his natural impulses were not under his usual tight constraint. Now that he was a free man again, he realized that the long months of isolation in prison had been harder on him than he had thought at the time. The past days spent lying helpless in a cot with the constant threat of being hauled back to prison hanging over him had ground his nerves to a razor-sharp edge. All of this, combined with the admiration he had gained for Lola, caught him off-guard.

  Her beauty struck him with a raw force, and he reached forward without thinking. There was no conscious decision to do so, and the suddenness of his action caught both of them by surprise. Her soft body came against him, stirring old hungers, and again without thought, he lowered his head and kissed her. At that moment, she was for him like cool water to a thirsty man, and the touch of her lips under his awakened the longing he had kept penned up for so long.

  As for Lola, she surrendered to his sudden embrace, not out of a single impulse, but for several reasons. She had yearned for a man she could trust, and in this tall Virginian it seemed that she had found him. Like Mark, she had kept herself apart, a prisoner no less than he. The years of constant vigilance, the eternal necessity of fighting off Ramon and a hundred others like him had forced her to erect a wall—and it was just as firm as the steel bars of the Mexican prison that had held Mark captive.

  She was a woman of strong emotions, but her hard life had forced her to bury them. They lay under her outer stillness like a bomb ready to explode. But as he kissed her, she too had a moment of weakness. Nothing had touched her spirit, and even after all her hard experiences, she craved something to believe in and to love.

  If he had released her at that moment, as he was about to do, things would have been vastly different. It might have been a moment for her to treasure, for she thought she sensed in his caress something different from the crude advances of the men she had spent a lifetime avoiding.

  But her long habit of self-defense caused her to shove him away. “Leave me alone!” she breathed quickly. His reaction came slowly, and a fear touched her nerves. She was, after all, alone with him and in his power—just the sort of situation she had learned to stay clear of at all cost.

  “Lola . .
. !” he started to respond, but she misread the look in his eyes. With a quick angry motion she struck at him, hitting him in the chest. Her eyes were filled with a mixture of fear and loathing, and he saw at once how badly he had hurt her.

  He tried to hold her, to explain, but she was beyond that. She frantically jerked herself free and backed against the wall, her eyes fixed on him. “You’re no different from all the rest, Mark Winslow.”

  He stood there, a tall shape framed by the yellow light of the lantern, looking down at her. He was a hard man, hammered by the blows of war and the demanding forces of the West. In the silence, broken only by the sound of her quick breathing, he sought to find a way to explain his action. But that softness which had been his in a youthful day was now less malleable.

  He tried anyway. “Lola, it was just a kiss. Nothing more.”

  “I’ve heard that before,” she announced in a flat voice. She crossed her arms over her breasts in a defensive gesture and shook her head. “I won’t sleep in this room.”

  He stared at her, realizing that his rash gesture had thrown up a wall in her spirit he would never break through, and in a manner of self-defense, let his voice grow hard. “You get in bed. I’ll make myself a pallet on the floor,” he commanded.

  She saw the determined look in his face as he turned and left the room. Still frightened, she climbed into the bed. Lying there, she listened as he made up a bed with the blankets he had brought up, then she heard his boots hit the floor. Eventually he was still, though she could hear his breathing plainly. She opened her lips to say something, for it occurred to her that she might have misjudged him—instead she paused, abruptly rolled over and lay there quietly until she heard his breathing deepen. For a long time she thought about the past few days, a tragic sense of vulnerability came to her. She longed to cry out to him—but the old defenses were too strong. He’s just like the others, she reminded herself. For hours she lay there, filled with the sense that she’d made some sort of wrong decision. The darkness seemed cold and the future lay before her like a black tunnel whose end she could not see.