Cheryl Reavis Read Free

coat pocket.
    “I don’t reckon he’s got anything in there that bites,” Perkins said mildly.
    She gave him a look and began to search in earnest. He didn’t seem to be carrying anything at all.
    “You let him in?” Perkins asked.
    “No,” Kate said pointedly, moving to another pocket. “He was just...here.”
    “Kind of like you are, I guess,” he said. He was clearly suspicious about the situation, and he wasn’t doing much to try to hide it. “You miss your train?”
    “I didn’t ‘miss’ it. I didn’t get on.”
    “Colonel Woodard know about the...change in plans?”
    “He does not.”
    “I was afraid of that.”
    “There is nothing for you to worry about, Sergeant.”
    “And yet here I am. Down on the floor with an unconscious and unknown man, helping you riffle through his pockets.”
    “The riffling was your idea,” Kate reminded him.
    “So it was,” he agreed. “Anybody else here?”
    “Just him—as far as I know.”
    “You’re not sick or anything, are you?” he persisted, the question impertinent at best.
    She didn’t answer. Her fingers closed around a small book in the man’s other coat pocket—a well-worn Bible, she saw as she pulled it free. She opened it. There was some kind of...card between the pages. The texture felt like a carte de visite . She moved closer to the lamp so she could see. It wasn’t a photograph. It was a Confederate military card.
    “Robert Brian Markham,” she read. She looked at Perkins. “Max’s wife was a Markham. She had a brother named Robert,” she said, forgetting how long he had been Max’s right hand and how likely it was that he knew more details about Maria Markham Woodard and her family than Kate did.
    But that Robert Markham had been killed at Gettysburg, along with a younger brother, Samuel. Kate had understood for a long time why Max tried to be elsewhere during the first three days of July. His wife’s heart had been broken by her brothers’ deaths, and he was the last person who could comfort her. He had been at Gettysburg, too, fighting for the other side.
    Kate picked up the lamp and held it near the man’s face so she could see it better. It didn’t help. She didn’t recognize him at all and she couldn’t see any family resemblance. She’d never actually met anyone with his kind of rugged features. She thought that he might have been handsome once, but then his face must have gotten...beaten and battered somewhere along the way.
    She realized suddenly that Perkins was watching her. “He’s not bleeding,” she said, moving the lamp away.
    Perkins reached out and briefly took the man’s hand. “Prizefighter, would be my guess,” he said. “Men fresh out of a war can have a lot of rage still. And they have to get rid of it.”
    “By beating another human being for sport?” Kate asked.
    “There are worse ways to live—especially if you need to eat.”
    Kate looked at the man’s face again. How much rage could be left after that kind of brutality? she wondered.
    Perkins took the card from her, then stood. “I want you to go upstairs and lock yourself in, Miss Kate,” Perkins said.
    “Why?”
    “I need to take care of all this and I’m going to have to leave to do it. I’ve only got the one horse and the snow’s too bad to try it on foot. You’ll be all right if you stay quiet and keep your door locked.”
    “I don’t think he’s in any shape to do me harm,” Kate said, trying to sound calmer and more competent than she felt. “I’m not afraid. Just go.”
    Perkins hesitated, looking closely at the man again. “All right,” he said after a moment. “I’ll be back as quick as I can. Find something to cover him with. He needs to be kept warm until we find out what he’s up to—just in case.”
    Kate was about to ask what “just in case” meant, but then she suddenly realized that Perkins was considering the possibility that this man might actually be Max’s—and her—brother-in-law, or at