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  Now no one, not even Olivia, would question that he was Noelle’s father.

  Chapter 22

  It was a cold day in February, 1860. Spring should arrive in a few weeks, and George couldn’t wait for it. He’d been doing some odd jobs for Mr. Hudson down at Hudson Carriages, and he’d bought a baby carriage for Noelle with the money he’d earned. It wasn’t a new carriage, but Bart had helped him refurbish it, and it looked good as new. As soon as the weather turned warm, he planned to take his baby sister for walks through the neighborhood.

  The animals’ body heat and breath made the stable warm, and George pulled off his coat and hat. Between grooming four horses and the mule and mucking out their stalls, he knew he was going to work up a sweat.

  Frank followed his lead. George bit back a smile. Frank had learned the hard way that removing his coat at the start was the best way to keep from overheating.

  George hooked a lead rope to the buckskin filly’s halter, led her out of her stall, and tied her to a post. He’d named her Otra Salida del Sol, Another Sunrise, an apt name, or so he thought, for a horse with her coloring.

  Bella Dama stood with her head over the stall door, watching as George groomed her baby. Papa had taken Sunrise out for a run, and George had already groomed Bella because she still tended to be skittish around other people.

  Frank had Nightfall secured to another post, and he ran a curry comb over the gelding’s hide.

  They fell into a comfortable rhythm, and the conversation became desultory—about what was going on at the academy George attended, and some of the cases at the law practice where Frank clerked.

  “That cat looks like she’s going to have another litter of kittens,” Frank observed after a few minutes’ silence. She was sprawled on a hay bale, her tail flicking while she stroked a paw over her ears.

  “Yeah. I wonder if any of them will look like her this time.” The last litter, which she’d had months ago, had all had blue eyes, cream-colored coats, and dark fur at the tips of their ears and on their legs and tails.

  “I don’t think I’ve seen a cat like that before.”

  “I know. It’s strange, considering she’s a calico.”

  Frank glanced over at George, paused in a stroke over Nightfall’s barrel, and burst into laughter.

  “What?” George asked as he ran the curry comb over the buckskin filly’s rump. “You know she’s a calico.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “Then what?”

  “I’d swear Salida was laughing.”

  “I reckon that is a ticklish spot.” George grinned at him and dug his fingertips into Salida’s golden hide. It rippled, and while at this angle he couldn’t see it, he knew her lips would be curled back over her teeth and her eyes would be half-closed in pleasure.

  “So are you ever going to name the cat?”

  “I don’t know. She doesn’t feel like she’s ours, you know?”

  “Huh?”

  “Cats are independent critters.”

  “Well, she isn’t going to tell you her name.”

  “No, I suppose not. What do you think of La Gata?”

  “Cat? You’re naming your cat Cat?” Frank sounded horrified, and George turned his head away so Frank wouldn’t see his smile.

  “Yes.” George had been teaching his friend Spanish, and he was pleased to see he remembered.

  He glanced back just as Frank rolled his eyes and gave a huff.

  “Kindly remember your mama named her kitten Little Eva.” George had suggested Frank give Mrs. Thompson one of the kittens for her birthday after Frank had somehow forgotten it.

  “Mr. Vaughan says that book is enough to start a war.” Frank ran errands for the lawyer’s firm after he finished his schooling for the day.

  That gave George pause. “He approves of slavery?”

  “I think it’s more he wants states to have the final say in it. Father keeps trying to change his mind about the slavery issue, but Mr. Vaughan laughs and calls him an abolitionist.”

  “That’s just wrong. I’m glad I don’t have to work for him.” He and Papa had chanced to come across some runaway slaves who were making their way to Canada, and the stories they’d told of plantation life had made Papa so angry he’d changed their destination to help them. “If anyone asks,” he’d told George, “they’re ours until we get them across the border.”

  Frank sighed. “Lucky you. I wish I didn’t have to. How did we get on this subject anyway?”

  “You were about to thank me for suggesting you give your mama one of La Gata’s kittens. You’re welcome, by the way. I was pleased you were able to take her.”

  “And you found homes for the other six, too.”

  “Which was a good thing. Dunno what we would have done with them otherwise.”

  Frank put down the curry comb when George did, and they both reached for brushes almost in unison. They shared a grin.

  “Have you seen Bart lately?” Frank asked as he smoothed the brush over Nightfall’s neck. He knew Bart came by the cottage to escort his mother home during the dark months of winter.

  “Yeah, but he’s around just long enough to fetch his mama. He looks so tired. I reckon his boss is running him ragged.” George looked around when he heard the sound of hurried footsteps, and his grin broadened—he recognized those footsteps. “Speak of the devil.” It was earlier than Bart’s usual time, and he hoped his friend would be able to visit longer today. “Sounds like he’s about to arrive.”

  Sure enough, Bart came running in. “George!” He wrapped his arms around George and swung him around before he set him back on his feet. George stood five foot eight in his stocking feet, but Bart was an easy three or four inches taller. “Hi, Frank.”

  “Hullo, Bart.”

  “Hi, Bart.”

  Bart’s breath whispered over George’s cheek, and he leaned back so he wouldn’t give into temptation and kiss him. Frank might not mind seeing that, but George wasn’t sure how Bart would react to being kissed by another boy.

  “You’re not going to believe this!” Bart let him go and stepped back, and George missed the warmth of his embrace.

  “You’ve finally become a journeyman carpenter,” George offered, smiling in hopes it concealed his wayward thoughts. If he were lucky, Bart would assume George was amused because it seemed like Bart was going to burst his britches at any second.

  “What? Oh, no. Not until next week, anyway.” Bart waggled his eyebrows.

  “Then what’s got you so excited?”

  “I was at the Cooper Institute last night. The weather was bad, and it cost me two bits to get in, but Mr. Abraham Lincoln gave the most electrifying speech. He spoke of how the majority of the signers of the Constitution believed it was Congress’s responsibility and not individual states to control slavery in the territories.”

  “Yeah?” George didn’t think any man should own another. He would have voted for Mr. Lincoln if he could have, but he was too young to vote. As a result, George didn’t pay much heed to politics. He was getting the education Papa wanted for him—with Frank’s help—but he would have preferred to run a ranch. It was in his blood, thanks to Grandpapa. George didn’t want the rancho where he’d been born, but there was the valley in the Dakota Territory. Papa wouldn’t hear of it though. Mama had recovered from having the baby, but Noelle was too small to make the journey west.

  “That’s very thought-provoking,” Frank remarked. He did find politics interesting. “I wish I could have attended, but Father feels I’m too young to be involved. And Mr. Vaughan…” His expression became sour. After a moment, he dismissed the lawyer. “I’ve been hearing good things about Mr. Lincoln, though.”

  “Yeah. I’m telling you, I ain’t never heard nothing like it in all my born days,” Bart said.

  George swallowed a grin. Bart wasn’t all that old. He’d turned fifteen a few weeks after George’s birthday in January.

  “Bart—”

  “No, from now on, my na
me is Abe.”

  “What?”

  “I want you…I want everyone to call me Abe. Abe Lincoln Hall.”

  George exchanged glances with Frank, who shrugged. George shook his head. “Okay, Abe.”

  For a second, he thought Bart was going to do handsprings across the stable floor.

  “We’re almost done. Why don’t you sit on that bale with the cat and tell us about it.”

  Bart went to the bale, scooped up La Gata, and made himself comfortable. He rubbed her ears and watched them, still grinning.

  George draped an arm across the filly’s neck and leaned against her, content to wait until Bart spoke.

  Frank wasn’t willing to wait, though. “What do you think will happen if Mr. Lincoln becomes president?”

  “Not if, Frank. When. No man should own another.” It made George happy that Bart—Abe—echoed his thoughts. “America will truly become the land of the free.”

  “Mmm hmm.” Of course Bart couldn’t vote either, but he read every newspaper and then discussed it with Frank, while George listened.

  Now Bart talked about the speech Mr. Lincoln gave. Frank nodded in agreement with the sentiments Mr. Lincoln had voiced.

  Abruptly, Bart leaped to his feet and began waving his arms and declaiming. “What is the frame of government under which we live?

  “The answer must be: ‘The Constitution of the United States.’ That Constitution consists of the original, framed in 1787, (and under which the present government first went into operation,) and twelve subsequently framed amendments, the first ten of which were framed in 1789.”

  George let the words wash over him, enjoying the cadence of his friend’s voice.

  And keeping his body angled so his erection wasn’t obvious.

  Chapter 23

  Tom wiped his shoes before he entered the kitchen. The scent of roast duck filled the room, and he gave a soft hum, took off his hat, and hung it on its hook by the door. He’d taken a change of clothing with him when he left for work that morning and visited a bathhouse to get cleaned up. It was their second anniversary, the most beautiful spring day, and he couldn’t remember being happier, especially since, three months after Noelle’s birth, Olivia had shyly invited him into her body. She hadn’t expected anything, so he made sure she had…everything. And when she’d come apart in his arms, her surprise had made his own climax explosive.

  He had a bouquet of roses behind his back, ready to surprise his wife, but Mrs. Hall was the only person in the kitchen. He’d asked George to take the baby to visit the Thompsons for a few hours that afternoon so he and Olivia could spend those hours together.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Hall. Where’s my wife?” Tom set down the flowers and took off his coat.

  She didn’t say anything, just gave him an arch smile, and his brow furrowed.

  “What is it?”

  “The missus is in the bedroom lying down.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Not a thing.” Her smile broadened when she noticed the roses. “Are those flowers for Mrs. Olivia?”

  “Uh…” He picked up the bouquet and gazed at the roses. “Yes.”

  “I’m so pleased she doesn’t have a problem with them any longer.”

  “Right.” Tom remembered telling Mrs. Hall roses made Olivia sneeze.

  There was a tap on the kitchen door, and when it opened, Bart Hall poked his head around it. “Hi, Mr. Pettigrew.”

  “Bart. Sorry, Abe.”

  “No, you may as well call me Bart. No one remembers to call me Abe.”

  Tom remembered what it was like to be sixteen, and he kept his grin in check. “Come in.” He was pleased his son had two such good friends as Bart Hall and Franklin Thompson. They called themselves the three musketeers, but they were three parts of a whole. Franklin was the brains, Bart was the brawn, and his Georgie was the heart.

  Bart entered the kitchen and set down his tool chest.

  “I’ll be with you in a moment, son,” his mother said. “I just want to wish the missus a happy anniversary.”

  “Okay, Ma.” Bart waited until she left the room before he said, “I read in the newspapers that there’s a possibility North Carolina will secede any time now.”

  “I reckon.” Tom sighed. Things had certainly gone to hell in a handbasket since Mr. Lincoln had won the election in November. Within a matter of months, seven southern states had left the Union.

  On April 15, the president had called for seventy-five thousand men to form a militia and serve for three months, and the states that hadn’t seceded before then did so at that point, refusing to send southern men against their brethren.

  “That will make eleven states.”

  “Yeah. You gonna join up, Mr. P?”

  “No. I’m too old.” Tom was forty-one, and he was at the high end of the recruiting age. In addition, he had a family to look after.

  “I’d volunteer, but Ma needs me.”

  Tom rested a hand on Bart’s shoulder. “You’re a good man.”

  Bart puffed out his chest. “They shouldn’t have—”

  “That’s enough, Bart.” Mrs. Hall had come out of the bedroom. She didn’t approve of war talk. Truth be told, neither did Tom. The only thing of good that had come out of the Mexican-American war had been his friendship with Guillermo Echevarría and his eventual meeting with Analeigh.

  “Sorry, Ma. But they shouldn’t have,” he insisted under his breath. “You ready to go?”

  “Yes, son.” She got her bonnet and shawl. “Well, I’ll wish you and the missus a pleasant evening, Mr. P. Dinner is keeping warm. Enjoy your afternoon.” She smiled that smile again.

  “Thank you.”

  “Afternoon, Mr. P. Tell George I’ll see him in a few days.”

  “All right, Bart.” He touched a finger to his forehead and sent the young man a small salute.

  The door closed behind them, and Tom hung up his coat. He could tell Bart was itching to volunteer, but Tom hoped he wouldn’t, that his sense of responsibility to his family would keep him from marching off to war. Tom had fought in one war, and that was more than enough.

  Besides, now he had a wife and children, and the last thing he wanted to do was put his life in danger.

  He gripped the flowers carefully, mindful of thorns, and walked into the bedroom.

  Olivia was sitting at the small dressing table Tom had paid Bart to make for her. The boy was a good carpenter; Tom hoped his boss appreciated him.

  “Querida, are you all right?”

  She turned and looked up at him, and he caught his breath. Her eyes sparkled and an expression of sheer joy covered her face.

  “Oh, Tom!” She rose and flung herself into his arms. “Querido. I’m so happy!”

  “Obviously. And that makes me happy also.”

  “You don’t even know why.”

  “Whatever makes you happy, makes me happy, but suppose you tell me.”

  “Oh, Tom,” she said again. “We’re going to have a baby!”

  “Olivia.” He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into a tight hug. Then he quickly eased his hold. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  “No, no! I’m fine!”

  “Why are you in the bedroom?”

  “I had to lie down for a while. I haven’t been as sick in the mornings as I was with Noelle, but come lunchtime, I can barely keep my eyes open. Mrs. Hall suggested I might be expecting, so I went to see Dr. Choate this morning, and he confirmed it. Sometime in October, a new baby is going to join our family. Are you…Tom, are you pleased?”

  “More than I could hope to say, querida.” He rested his cheek against her hair. And then that thought like a damned snake slithered in. Her hips were still too narrow.

  “I asked Jane Thompson if she’d mind letting George and Noelle stay with her family for a little while. I wanted to celebrate this with you.”

  “And I asked George pretty much the same thing, only it was to celebrate our anniversary.”


  “I wondered why he was laughing.”

  Tom extended the bouquet of roses to her. “Happy anniversary, querida.”

  “They’re so pretty.”

  “I wasn’t sure if you’d want them, after what happened last time.”

  “That’s in the past, and I…Well…” She tugged back the coverlet, and Tom couldn’t help chuckling. “I made sure to remove the thorns and the stems.”

  The linen was covered with rose petals.

  “Mrs. Hall said dinner was keeping warm. Suppose we…” Tom glanced from the bed to his wife.

  “I think that would be a wonderful idea.” She reached behind her to undo the buttons at her back, but Tom turned her and worked them himself.

  And if she hadn’t already been pregnant, he was sure she would have been by the time they dressed once again to have a late dinner.

  * * * *

  Their newest daughter, Charlotte Olivia, was born in the early morning hours of October sixteenth.

  Two weeks later, after the Union defeat at the Battle of Ball’s Bluff, Tom was called up to serve in the militia.

  * * * *

  He was proud of his family. Olivia didn’t weep, although she was pale.

  She cradled Charlotte in her arms.

  “You keep working Salida,” he told George as he saddled Sunrise. He was also taking Nightfall and Sancho Panza with him.

  “I will, Papa. And I promise to look after Mama and the babies.”

  “Not a baby.” Noelle pouted. She was almost two now, the spitting image of her Mama. George was holding her, and he shifted her on his hip.

  “No, you’re not, my little Christmas angel.” Tom pinched her chin, and she smiled at him. Tom knew if he didn’t leave right then, he’d start sobbing like the baby Olivia held.

  He kissed his children, kissed his wife, and nodded when Olivia murmured, “Please, Tom. Please don’t be a hero.”

  “I’ll come back to you,” he promised. He caught up his saddlebags and secured them behind Sunrise’s saddle. Then he slipped his rifle into its scabbard, and stepped into the saddle. The pack on Sancho Panza’s back was loaded with all the supplies Tom could afford. He wouldn’t let Olivia pawn her jewelry, in spite of her insistence that she no longer had any use for them, not even her mother’s pearls.