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The Angel Of Devil's Camp
Lynna Banning
A widow before she'd even been a wife–Mary Margaret Hampton was in big trouble! Lonely loggers. One genteel lady.A dangerous combination, Tom Randall thought. He was trying to run a business, not a tea party! And if obstinate Meggy Hampton didn't hightail her moonlight and magnolias back south, the sweet sparks she was igniting would make the camp–and his passion–explode like the Fourth of July!
Lonely loggers. One genteel lady. A dangerous combination, Tom Randall thought. He was trying to run a business, not a tea party! And if obstinate Meggy Hampton didn’t hightail her moonlight and magnolias back south, the sweet sparks she was igniting would make the camp—and his passion—explode like the Fourth of July!
Tom leaned in and inhaled the fragrance of her hair.
“You have any idea what that does to a man?”
“I should think it means they are perfectly starved for civilized conversation.”
Tom snorted. “They’re starved, all right, but it’s not for conversation. They’re starved for something soft. Something that’s sweet scented and…” His thumbs began to caress her shoulders. “And warm. And alive.”
He stepped in closer, bent his head to sniff the scent emanating from her skin. “It can make a man crazy, being alone,” he said in a rough whisper. “I can’t let a man near you without risking his life.”
The Angel of Devil’s Camp
Harlequin Historical #649
Praise for LYNNA BANNING’s previous books
The Courtship
“The Courtship is a beautifully written tale with a heartwarming plot.”
—Romantic Reviews Today (www.romrevtoday.com)
The Law and Miss Hardisson
“…fresh and charming…
a sweet and funny yet poignant story.”
—Romantic Times
Plum Creek Bride
“…pathos and humor blend in a plot that glows with perception and dignity.”
—Affaire de Coeur
#647 TEMPTING A TEXAN
Carolyn Davidson
#648 THE SILVER LORD
Miranda Jarrett
#650 BRIDE OF THE TOWER
Sharon Schulze
The Angel of Devil’s Camp
Lynna Banning
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Available from Harlequin Historicals and LYNNA BANNING
Western Rose #310
Wildwood #374
Lost Acres Bride #437
Plum Creek Bride #474
The Law and Miss Hardisson #537
The Courtship #613
The Angel of Devil’s Camp #649
For my agent, Pattie Steele-Perkins
With special thanks to David and Yvonne Woolston. And to fellow writers Suzanne Barrett, Tricia Adams, Brenda Preston, Ida Hills and Norma Pulle.
Contents
Chapter One (#uf4fde816-64c4-5108-81de-655f713c46af)
Chapter Two (#u8939e595-d82c-5895-b0d0-7b19ab932d58)
Chapter Three (#ua5f0c80c-b144-5e65-b2bc-93a33398fe67)
Chapter Four (#u30273f75-ff0a-57b8-a93f-863a89306d55)
Chapter Five (#uc666a052-deee-5019-ac63-574e879f43db)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
Seton Falls, South Carolina
March 1872
Mary Margaret pulled the parsonage door shut with a satisfying thunk and for the very last time twisted the key in the lock. She’d married off five sisters in the past three years, the last one just the day before yesterday. Now it is my turn.
She marched down the walkway and out the front gate, lugging her satchel. For half a heartbeat, she wavered. The yellow rose rambling along the fence needed pruning, but with all the preparations for Charlotte’s wedding, Meggy had had no time for gardening. She forced her gaze away. It no longer mattered.
She smoothed her black traveling dress, slipping her hand into the left pocket. The letter she’d carefully folded crackled under her fingers. Dear God in heaven, let this be the right thing to do.
She heaved the tapestry bag into the buggy and climbed up onto the sagging seat. I will not look back. I will look to the road ahead and be joyful.
At last! She was free. No more meals to eke out from the squash and dried beans donated by the congregation. No more wedding dresses for Charity or Charlotte, cobbled together out of old tablecloths and scraps of lace. She had remade most of her old ball gowns into dresses for her sisters, and sold the rest for food. A barrel of flour cost 150 federal dollars, a basket of eggs $25. The war had made such a struggle of life!
She closed her eyes and pressed her knuckles against her lips. The war took everything, even our hearts and our souls. She and her sisters had survived, but the scars would always remain.
Leaning forward, she patted the satchel at her feet. Inside, on top of her spare petticoat and her nightgown, lay her father’s revolver. She would travel three thousand miles, all the way to Oregon, to marry a second cousin of her father’s, a man she had never seen. It was the only proposal she had ever received, and she most certainly intended to arrive in one piece!
She gathered up the worn leather reins. “Move on, Bess.”
The mare took a single step forward, and Meggy’s heart took flight.
“Colonel, darlin’, wake up!”
Tom rolled over on the narrow canvas cot and opened one eye. “What is it, O’Malley?”
“The deed needs doin’,” his former sergeant said. “And you’re the proper one to do it.”
Tom groaned. Being in charge didn’t let him sleep much. A logging crew wasn’t like an army unit. Loggers were a fractious bunch of misfits with a heightened instinct for survival and an even more heightened taste for liquor and high times. Not one of them would last a day under military discipline. Tom had mustered out two years ago, taken Sergeant O’Malley with him and headed west. The undisciplined men he commanded now obeyed him because he wasn’t a colonel.
“Tom.” The Irishman nudged his shoulder. “You won’t be forgettin’ now, will you?”
With an effort, Tom sat up. His head felt like someone was whacking an ax into his skull, and the aftertaste of whiskey in his mouth made him grit his teeth. He figured his breath alone could get a man drunk.
“Remind me what it is that needs doing, Mick? If it can wait, let it.”
“The peeler, the one that got killed yesterday? The coffin’s ready and Swede and Turner’s dug the grave. You need to speak some words over the man.”
Oh, hell, he had forgotten. Wanted to forget, in fact. Which was why he’d finished half a bottle of rye last night. In the past month he’d lost one, no, two bullcooks and a skinner. The timber was turning dry as a witch’s broom and then one of his peelers, a square peg on a logging crew if he’d ever seen one, let an ax slice into his thigh and bled to death before they could load him into the wagon.
“The men are waitin’, Tom.”
“I won’t forget, Mick. See if you can rustle up some coffee.” He tossed off the grimy sheet, lowered his legs to the packed-earth floor and stood up. “Tell them I’ll be there.”
The interior of the tent spun and Tom sat down abruptly.
“Get me that coffee, will you?”
“Sure thing, Colonel. And you’ll be wantin’ a clean shirt and your Bible.”
His Bible.
He clenched his jaw. His sister had sent it when he’d first joined the army. She had even marked certain passages she liked. He hadn’t opened it since that day in Richmond when he’d read over her grave.
Today would be different, he told himself. For one thing, he didn’t know the peeler very well. He’d known Susanna all her short life, had raised her by himself after their father died. A familiar dull ache settled behind his breastbone.
“One more thing, Tom. We found something on the body. You better have a look.”
“Later.” He stuffed the single folded page the sergeant handed him into his shirt pocket without glancing at it. “Coffee,” Tom reminded him. “And make it double strength.”
Meggy dropped to the pine-needle-covered ground beneath the biggest tree she had ever seen. She had climbed halfway up the steep ridge, dragging her satchel, which felt as if it was filled with bricks. Her mouth was parched, her stomach hollow, her eyes scratchy. The supply wagon had left Tennant at daybreak, and she had been walking the past hour. Now it was near noon and she could go no farther.
She gazed up into a sky the color of bluebonnets, listening to the rat-tat-tat of a woodpecker. All at once the sound was obliterated by raucous men’s voices.
Good heavens, Yankee soldiers. She scooted closer to the massive tree trunk.
