Kary, Elizabeth (2 page)

"God
damn!" he whispered. "God damn it, no!"

Stunned
and outraged by his curse, neither moved, hanging suspended, untethered by
reality, until the nearby crack of a musket and the splintering of the bark not
a foot above their heads broke the spell that held them.

In
a maelstrom of confusion, Leigh looked away, seeking to calm her ragged
breathing and quiet the jarring of her heart. Beyond her rescuer's broad
shoulder she could see a wounded man twisting in pain on the ground nearby.
Without considering the risk, she moved instinctively to go to his aid, but the
hand that had loosened its hold on her shoulders flexed again to hold her fast.

"Where
the hell do you think you're going?" her rescuer snarled.

Leigh
struggled and pushed against him, heedless of the gunshots erupting around
them.

"For
God's sake, let me go!" she shouted. "Can't you see that man is hurt?
Let me go to help him!"

The
tall man's hold slackened, though he held her effortlessly immobile.
"Don't be a fool, woman," he hissed against her ear. "At least
wait until the shooting stops. Be sensible."

The
logic of his words penetrated slowly, and Leigh went still, though now the
protection this man offered seemed suddenly as much restraint as shelter. She
became agonizingly aware of the press of his wide chest against her and the
intruding knee that had insinuated itself between her thighs. She could feel
his heartbeat in counterpoint with her own and the warmth of his breath against
her skin. In spite of his obvious concern for her safety and the fact that he
had probably saved her life, Leigh resented his encroaching presence and the
enforced intimacy. Within her there was an overwhelming need to be free of him,
to be doing her part to help the injured, and she tried without success to
withdraw from his touch.

The
firing dwindled away at last, and when he deemed it safe, the big man shifted
his weight and Leigh scrambled away. She went immediately to the wounded man
fallen near them and noted, as she bent to aid him, that there were other
bodies sprawled across the grass and along the roadside. With practiced hands
she opened his clothes to expose a wound high in his shoulder.

"Give
me your handkerchief," she ordered her rescuer. He complied wordlessly,
watching in surprise as the young woman worked quickly and skillfully to
staunch the blood that flowed freely from the hole in the man's shoulder.
"And now your cravat," Leigh continued.

"What
for?" he demanded, already loosening the black silk tie at his throat.

"I'm
going
to need it for a bandage," she explained. Taking the strip of cloth to
bind the compress in place, she reassured her patient and moved swiftly to a
woman crumpled on the ground not far away. After a cursory examination Leigh
moved on, her face grim. The next injured person they came across was a girl of
twelve or thirteen bleeding from a gash at her hairline. As Leigh attacked the
hem of her petticoat for cloth to bind the wound, she turned to the tall man at
her elbow.

"I'm
going to need something for bandages, Mr...."

"Banister,"
he provided helpfully as he turned to go. "I'll see what I can find."

Banister
strode quickly in the direction of the Rebel compound, ignoring the dregs of
the troops that marched past him. Surely, he reasoned, even if there were no
bandages to be had at Camp Jackson, he could at least get some bedding to press
into service to bind the injured.

By
the time he returned, the troops were gone and most of the crowd had dispersed.
He found Leigh comforting a crying child while she fashioned a sling for him
from the sash of her gown.

"Thank
you, Mr. Banister." She paused to send him a melting smile. "Now
could you tear those sheets into strips and sit with our young friend here
until his parents come to claim him?"

Banister
did as he was told, watching with amazement and growing respect as the tall,
auburn-haired woman moved with calm dispatch from one group of needy to the
next, leaving comfort in her wake. By the time the child's mother came to claim
him, the first ambulances had begun to pull up at the roadside. After that,
Banister helped load the dead and wounded into the wagons for transport to the
city's hospitals.

As
her rescuer watched the last of the emergency vehicles rumble off down the
street, Leigh came to stand beside him. All around them the ground was littered
with the rocks and bottles that had been thrown at the hapless troops and with
stray clothes and belongings dropped by the crowd in the frenzy of escape.
Already scavengers were picking through the leavings, exclaiming occasionally
over a fortuitous find. With the emergency over, Leigh's energy ebbed, draining
away to leave her weak-kneed and weary. Her companion instantly recognized a
change in her and with difficulty stifled the urge to drape a protective arm
around her sagging shoulders. Instead he offered her what encouragement he
could.

"You
were magnificent with the wounded, my dear," he told her softly, a warm
smile lighting his face.

With
an effort Leigh turned to him, surprised and strangely delighted by the rich
words of praise and the glow of admiration in the depths of his pale eyes.
Color mounted to her cheeks as the current of some undefinable emotion flowed
between them. It was a sweet and nourishing force that seemed to strengthen and
renew her. All at once Leigh was able to square her shoulders and smile back at
this tall stranger, oddly flustered by his nearness.

"I
thank you for your kind words, sir," she began formally, "for saving
me from the crowd, and for helping with the injured, though in truth you did
quite as much as I to make them comfortable."

Banister's
smile deepened at her thanks, and for the first time she noticed the deep
masculine dimples that bracketed the curve of his lips and the crinkling lines
that webbed from the corners of his eyes.

"I
did what I could, miss," he demurred in an equally proper tone, "but
you are the one with real skill."

"My
grandfather was a doctor, Mr. Banister," she volunteered.

"My
given name is Hayes," he corrected her, "and since we've been
partners in adversity, I see no reason why you should be so formal as to call
me Mr. Banister. And your name is..."

"Leigh,
Leigh Pennington."

He
offered her his arm as if they had met on a dance floor and not in the midst of
a battlefield. "Well, then, Leigh Pennington, after all that's happened
today, I think it would be wise for me to take you home."

She
retreated a step, prepared to refuse him. What did she know about him, after
all? Could she trust him? He had saved her from the crowd and then helped her
with the injured, but he had also cursed at her for no apparent reason, as if
she were some common woman. Besides, she had made the trip to Lindell's Grove
on her own, and she was surely able to find her way home again. "That
really isn't necessary," she began, ready to assure him that she was quite
capable of taking care of herself, but then the absurdity of what she had been
about to say struck her. Here she stood, bruised and battered, disheveled and
bloodstained, her basket and bonnet gone, touting her independence to the man
who had saved her life.

In
the pause Hayes Banister pressed his advantage. "Even if you don't need my
protection, won't you humor me? I know I haven't made the best first
impression, but unless you let me see you home, I won't sleep a wink tonight
wondering if you arrived safe and sound."

Leigh
knew she was being manipulated and saw the glint of teasing laughter in his
eyes. Still, there was no way to refuse him. Reluctantly she took his arm, and
he covered her hand with his.

"I
rode the horsecar partway out here, but I doubt they're running now," she
began, but Banister cut in on her explanation.

"It
doesn't matter; I was quite looking forward to the walk."

As
they retraced Leigh's steps together, she studied her rescuer. He was an
uncommonly tall man, built big and rangy, but with smooth, confident movements
that belied his size. His wavy, walnut-brown hair grew thick and long on his
collar and in heavy dark sideburns that traced the lines of his cheeks. They
set off his strong features—a long, straight nose, a sculptured mouth, and
determined chin—in the same way the curving dimples framed his smile. His
forehead was high and his eyes wide set, their color as pale and cool as
aquamarine. Nor was Leigh unaware of the expensive, well-cut clothes he wore,
now as dirty and tattered as her own.

They
chatted companionably as they walked: about his reasons for being in St. Louis
and the friends she'd had in Camp Jackson. But when they arrived at the gate to
the Pennington town house on Lucas Place, both fell silent.

How,
Leigh wondered, staring uncomfortably at her hands, could she adequately thank
a man whose quick action had saved her life? What words could express her
gratitude for the help he had given her with the injured? And why did it seem
so difficult to say good-bye to this virtual stranger? She raised her eyes to
his face and saw that he was waiting almost tentatively for her to speak.

Then,
as they hung in the abyss of their fading conversation, a woman burst from the
door to the house and rushed toward them down the steps. "Leigh! Oh,
Leigh! Thank heavens you're safe!" she gasped as she hugged the girl
fiercely. "Oh, Leigh, I've been so worried!"

There
was no question of the relationship between the two women. Each had the same
rich auburn hair and the same creamy skin. Even their fine patrician features
were cast in the same mold, though the younger woman's seemed set in an
expression more determined and resolute than the one the older woman wore.

"I'm
fine, Mother," Leigh assured her, returning the embrace.

"I've
been nearly frantic since your father sent word about what happened at Camp Jackson.
Though why he didn't go to search for you, I will never know." Her
Louisiana drawl was shrill with concern. "And what about Lucas and Bran?
Are they safe, too?"

Leigh's
face clouded. "In the confusion out there I never caught sight of either
one of them, but I suppose they were captured with all the rest of General
Frost's command. And as for their fate, no one knows what it will be."

Hayes
Banister had been taking in the joyous reunion between the two women, pleased
at his part in insuring it. Then, as if suddenly remembering his presence
beside her, Leigh turned abruptly.

"Mother,"
she began, trying to remedy her oversight, "may I present Mr. Hayes
Banister from Cincinnati. It's Mr. Banister you have to thank for my safety.
Hayes, this is my mother, Althea Pennington."

Her
daughter's casual use of Banister's given name was not lost on Althea, and as
she ran a discerning eye over the man who had given Leigh his protection, she
wondered at the familiarity between them. "I thank you for seeing to my
daughter's welfare, Mr. Banister. I fear she guards that precious commodity far
too carelessly, as she did today, going off alone instead of waiting for Jeb
and the carriage."

"I'd
say Leigh was a victim of circumstances this time, Mrs. Pennington,"
Banister corrected her, "or she was sent to Camp Jackson by fate to look
after the injured. Her skills and quick thinking may well have saved lives in
the minutes before the ambulances arrived this afternoon."

"Oh,
Hayes," Leigh began to demur, but Althea Pennington was pleased with his
words of praise for her daughter's skill.

"Mr.
Banister," she began, smiling up at him, "perhaps you would be
willing to accept an invitation to supper this evening. It will only be a
simple meal
en famille,
but I know my husband will be anxious to meet
you and thank you for what you did to help Leigh today."

The
invitation was both unexpected and welcome; he'd eaten far too many meals alone
of late. Banister accepted warmly. "I'd like that very much, Mrs.
Pennington."

"Good,"
Althea said and nodded as she ushered her daughter toward the house.
"We'll see you at six o'clock."

"Until
this evening, then," he replied. Hayes watched the two women enter the
double doors of the handsome brick town house, then set off down Locust Street,
scuffling absently through the dust.

***

Hayes
Banister crossed the elegant lobby of the world-famous Planters' House Hotel,
past the slick horsehair couches, the milling guests, and the banks of potted
palms to the front desk. "There's a Mr. Travis waiting for you in the
Gentlemen's Ordinary, sir," the clerk told him as he gave Hayes the key to
his room.

Hayes's
fingers tightened around the cool metal, and he frowned irritably. Now that he
had found something more pleasant to occupy his mind than the business that had
brought him to St. Louis, Travis had finally deemed it convenient to show up.
Banister had been cooling his heels for the best part of a week waiting for
this meeting, and now, though Travis's appearance was not particularly welcome,
it would at least end the waiting. With a grimace, Hayes glanced down at his
clothes. Finding them as dirty and disreputable as Leigh Pennington's had been,
he decided Travis could wait for him for a change while he made himself
presentable.