Devon’s stomach felt as if he were still crossing the Gulf of Mexico from New Orleans to Brownsville. No rolling waves today, just the turmoil in his heart. He couldn’t wait for this mission to be over, and to be done with pretense.
Frieda bit her lip. “Perhaps, we should stop somevhere and act like you’re fixing my shoe. That’d give us a chance to take a more thorough look.”
“Good idea.” The corners of his mouth edged upward. She had a knack for subterfuge. But he wasn’t dull enough tobelieve the glow in her cheeks had anything to do with cotton and sabotage.
A mosquito buzzed near his ear. He slapped at it. The weather hadn’t gotten cold enough yet to kill them off for the winter.
Devon guided Frieda beyond the platform and over a set of tracks, then another, mindful of her slower step. “Let’s wait till we get past the roundhouse. We’ll find a stump or discarded rail to sit on.”
A freight worker, in his shirt sleeves and scruffy trousers, took a gander at them.
Devon nodded to the man, then gave Frieda a playful bump with his shoulder. “Best play it up a little more, sweetheart.”
“Of course, darling.” Frieda twirled her fringed reticule on her arm. “You always know best.” She cuddled closer, teetering in the process.
A handful of workers hustled between tasks at the roundhouse. The spare steam engine towered in its domain like a sleeping dragon ready to spring to life if given a meal of coal in its belly. At the loading docks, men hauled crates from the quartermaster’s depot, fresh supplies for the troops back east in western Louisiana. Devon had memorized the train schedule. One should arrive in less than an hour, bringing more cotton to the bulging warehouse and carrying away goods.
He’d seen the layout back here at night from a distance with only the stars for a guide. Daylight added clarity and much more detail. If he was lucky, they’d throw the depot doors wide open as they transferred supplies, giving him a good look at what lay inside.
He needed to strike before the order came from Confederate headquarters to load the cotton onto wagons headed for San Antonio and beyond to Mexico. He’d selected five men from the German League to help. Hopefully, New Year’s Eve would be soon enough.
He led Frieda past the hoists and crates into crumpled grass. About a quarter of a mile farther, they stopped in the shade of a pin oak. Devon spread his neckerchief over the top of a rotting stump, and Frieda sat with her back to the warehouse.
Blushing, she stuck her dainty foot out from beneath her skirt. “I’ve never had a beau before. You’ll have to forgive me if my act isn’t polished.”
“You’re doing fine.” Devon knelt in front of her. “I can’t believe you’ve never courted.” He snapped his lips shut, but not before the words slipped through. The last thing he needed to do was make this personal.
“Oh, there was a fellow or two. Bought my pies at the fairs, but no one I fancied. Besides, I vas too busy helping my father.”
Frowning, he tugged off her shoe, avoiding the touch of his fingers to her stocking. He needed to get this conversation back on track. “A few fellows glanced our way, but they don’t seem overly concerned.” He turned her shoe in his hand, one way and the other, supposedly examining it while his gaze scoured their surroundings.
A hawk sailed overhead. White clouds with gray undersides loomed on the western horizon. The weather had been unusually warm lately. A storm could be brewing. He needed to finish his surveillance, get Frieda home, and head back to Sweet Briar before evening.
The hair spiked on the back of his neck, just as it had on occasion when he traveled through Comancheria, half expecting an arrow in his back at any moment. He rocked on to his heels. A shiver coursed down his spine.
He directed his gaze at the buildings. Nothing unusual. No one seemed to be looking his way. The front of the roundhouse was out of view now, and only the east side of the loading dock was visible from here. Men moved between the dock and thequartermaster’s depot. The half-open door revealed a stack of crates.
Beyond all of that, some slight fellow, dressed in a rough brown coat and a flop hat, sat on a log working on something with his hands. Maybe a slave, maybe not. Hadn’t there been someone dressed like that on the street outside Frieda’s house?
Could it be possible that someone was following them, watching them? Probably just his imagination. He wouldn’t give it another thought if it wasn’t for the hair prickling on the back of his neck. After all, if the Rebs suspected something serious, they wouldn’t send a fellow in full uniform to march up and ask questions. The smarter move would be for them to wait and watch, catch the whole network.
Wiggling Frieda’s shoe back on, he stood and held his hand out to her. “Let’s go for a walk. There’s a fellow I want a better look at.” He patted her hand to his arm.
A furrow creased the space between her eyebrows. “Something wrong?”
“Probably nothing. But just in case, let’s put on a show when we get closer. Follow my lead.”
She nodded. The breeze ruffled the lace on her bonnet. “Yes, of course.”
Forsaking the path which meandered toward the river, they made their way parallel to the buildings. Hip-high buffalo grass swiped at his cavalry boots and clung to her skirt.
As they neared the spot, he drew her closer to his side. One of her errant curls caught on his beard. “Tell me something fun from your childhood, a happy memory. It’ll show on your face.” He inhaled lilac. Lilac wasn’t required for a pretend courtship.
She batted her lashes and smiled until her cheeks dimpled. “There was the time my brother Clem was chased by an armadillo. He was only six, and he swore it was a monster….” Her voice lilted as she wove the tale, only a slight quaver now and then, easily attributed to the excitement of a young lady walking with her beau.
Devon chuckled as he wove them closer to the whittling youth, not a direct path but a casual drift that brought them within earshot.
The young man wore a patched brown coat and rough trousers rolled a good three or four inches at the cuff above scuffed boots. A battered hat with the world’s floppiest brim shadowed the fellow’s face, revealing just enough to show he was white, not black, not a slave. Maybe a drifter. Nothing unusual, not even a glance their way. The boy whittled away at the spike as if he weren’t aware of their proximity. But that’s what didn’t fit. Wouldn’t someone glance up to see who was passing?
