Christmas Reclaimed
Part One

PART ONE
 

"Fate had not apparently gazed upon the newlyweds with any great affection. Despite their undeniable devotion to each other, the days of their life together could be counted as less than a year, even if you counted the few times Clay was able to get home after the hostilities commenced."
          (From "Never Another Christmas" by Roberta Stuemke)

CURTIS WELLS, DECEMBER 1880
 

"Peace on Earth, good will towards men. Now get out!" Twilight cast a final shining gray slant of light across the darkening room as the Ambrosia Club's owner bellowed out his command. Flashing his even white teeth in a smile that didn't reach his eyes, Clay Mosby slammed the cork into the bottle of Old Crow before him and pounded it on the bar. "The Club's closin' for inventory purposes, gentlemen. Please enjoy the Christmas music Bill will play for you on your way out." He winked at the young piano player, who lit into a bone-jangling version of "Oh Come All Ye Faithful", while shaking his head in bafflement at his employer's discordant actions.

Grimy mountain men and barflies reluctantly shuffled out the door as Mosby pointedly stalked around the room, gathering up dirty shot glasses and empty bottles. He'd closed the gambling tables in the afternoon and let the saloon's serving girls leave early for their holiday celebrations. Only Bill remained, steadfast in his desire to raise Mosby's mood by playing holiday favorites.

It hadn't worked.

As the last patrons disappeared into the dusk, Mosby placed a hand on the lanky pianist's slight shoulders. Bill raised his finger-cut gloves from the ivory keys and turned towards his boss. Taking a folded envelope from his inside vest pocket, Mosby handed it to him, at the same time gently lowering the cover over the piano keys.

Bill's startling blue eyes grew wide as wagon wheels as the youth thumbed through the envelope's contents. "Mr. Mosby..."

"A small token for immensely satisfyin' services rendered. I cannot begin to tell you what a welcome addition you've been to this establishment." Mosby tilted his head towards the door. "Now, go."

"But, sir..."

"Go. Please."

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Mosby." The only response from his employer was a lowering of his hazel eyes. Bill grabbed his duster and scarf from the hook beside the piano and with a nodding glance to the young woman shadowed in the corner, stepped out and across the snow-packed street.

Mattie Shaw lingered behind to help Mosby clean the tables, brushing cigarette butts and bent playing cards onto the floor while the Southern barkeep picked up a broom and followed her around, sweeping the debris into the center of the room. They worked together easily, with the crackling of the fire in the Franklin stove and the whistling of the winter wind outside the only sounds to break the silence. Then Mosby paused in his work to take a cigar from his father's silver case and when he raised his eyes, caught himself in her concentrated gaze.

"What is it?" he drawled.

"You owe me a favor," Mattie's eyes glowed azure coals beneath the heavy curtain of her strawberry blond hair. Coming towards him, her slim hands wrapped around the broom handle. "And I'm callin' in my marker."

Releasing the broom to her, Mosby shook his head, his long black curls sweeping across his collar. He'd been delighted to discover that the lady gunsmith's mechanical talents extended to fixing his broken phonographic machine, but knew when he promised her a "favor" in return that the price would be a high one.

"Turkey and all the trimmings. Egg nog and cookies. Amanda's been workin' on it all day. We're all goin' to meet at the Dove after church service. Please?"

"I already told you no."

"Even Call's promised to be there, and he hates the season almost as much as you."

Mosby rolled his eyes. "Now there's a reason to celebrate."

"You said it yourself, Clay. No one should be in a saloon on Christmas Eve."

"Except, perhaps, the saloon owner." He lit the cigar with a quick flare of a match off a table rim and coaxed the tip into an angry glow. A cloud of thick blue smoke hung in the icy air before him as he exhaled.

Mattie sighed. "I know this is a difficult time of year for you, but truly, you have friends waitin' to help you, to be with you..."

"Friends?" Twisting away, Mosby choked out a laugh. "You, perhaps." He cocked a sideways glance in her direction. "Sometimes?"

"Always." She leaned the broom against a table and followed him to stand beside the bar.

"Mattie...," Mosby ran his thumb over his lower lip, desperate to choose the right words. "I appreciate your concern. Your sweet compassion." A cant of his head stopped the protest that began in her eyes. Reaching out, he trailed his fingers across her cheek and jawline, then clasped her satin-vested shoulder. "But I want to be alone tonight. I to be alone."

The beautiful woman's lips curled up in a sad smile. " You aren't plannin' to be alone tonight, Clay. You're just goin' to spend it with ghosts, that's all." Her own hand rose up to caress his cheek but Mosby caught her wrist and brought her knuckles to his lips, his mustache and beard brushing silkily over her soft skin.

"Merry Christmas, Mattie." He walked behind the bar and started taking down bottles.

Mattie regarded the hard set of his shoulders, the unyielding wall of his broad back, chilled by the dismissal.

"Merry Christmas, Clay."

There came no response. Quietly, she gathered her coat and hat. The door banged twice on her way out.

Mosby pushed his sleeves up higher and reached for the good whiskey bottles perched on the bar's top shelves, set there for show only. While bartending in St. Joe, one of his last few legitimate jobs after the war, he was instructed to let the patrons think they were getting the best, but provide them with something more "cost effective". Served them right, he reasoned. If you took everything on faith, you got what you deserved, not necessarily what you asked for. He learned long ago to trust only what could be seen or held. Feelings were too easily discredited, and were not to be indulged. He kept his own as tightly corked as the decanter of 20-year old Virginia scotch atop his Wooten desk upstairs.

Placing the bottles on the bar, he sneezed lightly at the dust they brought with them. These were the last of his stock to be pulled down, cleaned off, counted and put back. Rolling his shoulders to work out the kinks, he inspected the glistening bottles, lined up in a parade review of glass soldiers. Quality of liquor determined their place in the file, alcoholic content determined rank. Rethinking the regiment, he moved the brandies up to lieutenant status, then, resting his elbows on the bar, lay his chin on clasped hands, absent-mindedly rubbing his lush black beard back and forth.

Furtively, he glanced towards the saloon's lowered window blinds. Through the thin glass, Christmas hymns echoed from the brightly-lit church and he drummed his fingers, trying not to hear them. He knew it was only a matter of time before they sang that song...his and Mary's song...and the night would shatter. He'd spent the better part of the evening in the back storeroom just to avoid the noise, but knew it was inevitable. God, in His wisdom, always seemed to find a way during the holidays to re-open the raw wound that festered in Mosby's soul.

He grabbed the only uncorked bottle and awkwardly managed to pour a large amount of Old Kentucky into a shot glass without a drop escaping. He brought the smooth sipping whiskey to his full lips and slid it down his throat like a sluice. Even after half a bottle, he had not achieved the numbness he sought. Taking the liquor with him, he shuffled over to a table beset with accounting ledgers, catching a glimpse of himself in a mirror on the way. Bloodshot eyes, golden skin glowing with the flush of alcohol, his long hair encircling his collar with bouncing ringlets the envy of any 12-year old city girl. His beard needed a trim, but he hadn't felt like going to the tonsorial parlor lately.

"Hibernatin'," he retorted when Bill wondered why they hadn't seen him on the floor of the Ambrosia Club for several evenings. "If bears can hibernate in winter, why can't I? 'Sides," he growled at the scrawny youth, twisting him around on the well-polished bench, "I'm Southern, boy. We don't like the cold." Then he strode away quickly, pounding up the stairway to his office, slamming the door behind him.

Mosby shot his reflection a grin of disgust and sat down heavily at the table, the ledgers and books spread before him like a five-course meal. Picking up a pencil, he wrote in the brandy bottles he'd already counted and looked up to finish the inventory with the whiskey bottles left at the bar. Half a dozen of Old Crow, eight of the Squirrel, seven of the best - the McBryan. He carefully penciled the words onto the lined paper, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his left hand. McBryan. His ruffled cuffs wiped the cold sweat off his brow. "McBryan, Cooper, Kenyon, Cook..." he mumbled, tracing over the word McBryan again and again. "McBryan, Cooper, Kenyon, Cook," he said louder, throwing the pencil across the room. "Damn!"

He stood quickly, the chair falling to the floor behind him. His fists pounded on the table in cadence with his litany.

"McBryan, Cooper, Kenyon, Cook, Benningham, Roberson, Elliott, Layton..." His mouth went dry. Layton. He always stopped at that name. Phillip Layton, one of his oldest, dearest friends from his home in Virginia, had died in his arms on Christmas Eve at Lookout Island prison camp during the last year of the war. In charge of a punishment barracks quarantined with diphtheria victims, Colonel Francis Clay Mosby, brigade commander in the 14th Virginia Regiment, did his best to remember the soldiers lost in the care of his watch. Not talented at memorizing unless it was in a song or poem, he turned the list of names into a monk's chant and repeated them again and again in a sing-song voice. "McBryan, Cooper, Kenyon, Cook, Benningham, Roberson, Elliott, Layton, Callaghan, Merrill, Montgomery, Vash..."

He dragged the chair back into place and snatched up the bottle. Glancing to the bar, he saw the glass he needed but didn't feel like moving, and so brought the bottleneck to his lips and took a deep pull. Rivulets of whiskey dripped off his mustache and beard as the liquid splashed back. He wiped the drops off his glistening hair with his sleeve.

That Christmas would be the worst of his life, or so he had to believe, and reciting the names had calmed him somewhat in the last days of their imprisonment. The diphtheria epidemic had passed by February and in April, the war ended. Five years of his life had been taken away, and his soul was battered. But not broken, he knew. He still had honor. He still had self-respect. He'd witnessed the bloody brutality of field surgery and breathed the stench of rotting corpses, endured the shattering horrors of Seven Pines and Gettysburg, and, finally, bore the final year of the war in a prison camp where the death of his friends was a daily occurrence. Mosby headed home to the confidence of happier Christmases with his wife and yet-to-be born children and grandchildren.

What a fool he'd been.

When he finally returned to Virginia, he discovered Hatton Willows, his boyhood home, burnt to the ground, with his mutilated and murdered family buried beneath the ashes. In one moment, he saw his past, present and future destroyed.

After settling what remained of his estate, he moved as far away as his broken heart would allow, to his only surviving relative, where he spent five years in a dark haze of drink and despair. New Orleans was a mecca for the lost and lonely, sheltering them in her whorish soft folds, and he nursed at her indifferent breast, shamelessly accepting her dispassionate succor.

And every year he'd be forced to bide through the damn Christmas holiday.

And every year they played that same damn song.

And every year he'd remember past holidays of spun gold and sweetness, where the love of his family had sheltered him like the softest down quilt, and the warmth of his wife had intoxicated him like the finest brandy.

And every year after the war, he'd try to kill himself, and never succeeded.

When he finally resigned himself to living, he headed up the Mississippi River, with no plan but to keep a tenuous hold on his small recovery. Refusing to temper his deep Southern accent like so many others, he was spat on and jeered as a soldier from the losing side of a war, refused food and employment, treated worse than the stray town dogs. He had wondered once, in his innocent youth, how liars and cheats could develop the callous disregard for their fellow man that enabled them to play their nefarious games. Now he knew.

Homelessness hardened him to cunning and thievery. Hunger sharpened his skill at hypocrisy. He discovered an innate talent for deceit and manipulation, all hidden behind a dazzling smile. A man could justify anything in times of war. Struggling to maintain pride and self-respect, Clay betrayed himself into justifying his actions in peace. He did whatever was necessary to go on, at anyone's expense but his own. And he almost successfully ignored the shame he felt at his deception, convincing himself that his selfish fight was in the righteous cause of survival. That the pampered Judge's son became an outlaw was ironic, but then he had seen injustices even his father couldn't have imagined.

A shiver ran down his spine and he haphazardly thought he should put another log in the stove. Who could say whether it was his numbing memories or the chilling temperatures that left him feeling frozen? Winter in Montana was only slightly less uncomfortable than when he was forced to do mock battalion drills in the ice and snow of the Maryland prison camp. He shook his head in wonder and took another drink. Curtis Wells, Montana. How the hell did he end up in this God-forsaken place?

Then he acknowledged that it was not the place, but himself who was God-forsaken.

Well, why not? He had killed enough men in his time, according to his own, revised rules of justice. Those who abused the disenfranchised, those who took others' lives in vain. Those who got in his way.

And to his utter astonishment, he had cheated death, too, a thousand times. Not just during the War, but so many times afterwards. It was a puzzle he'd be damned to figure out since the desecration of Hatton Willows. Why had the God who had forsworn him allowed him to endure for so long?

The answer had come to him some years back in Missouri, following a bank robbery gone sour, when an innocent child had been killed. Thwarted yet again by his boyhood friend Robert Shelby in another suicide attempt, God's plan for him became crystal clear.

Those who escaped death that many times, he reasoned, were there to endure a Hell on earth.

And Christmas for him was the Devil's favorite holiday.

He truly wanted to be able to celebrate Christmas again, if not with the wonder and delight of his youth, at least with the peace the season should bring. Raising the bottle to his lips once more, he recalled an earlier holiday, the more miraculous to have found happiness within those darkening times. At least at that Christmas, there was still hope.

HATTON WILLOWS, DECEMBER 1861
 

Crisp Virginia winter air infused his lungs as First Lieutenant Clay Mosby reined his horse to a stop on the hill west of Hatton Willows. Behind him, Sergeant Robert Shelby's lumbering plug clumped to a stop on the muddy promontory, wrenching Robert around like a rag doll. Clay smiled and barked a hoot.

"What was that?" Robert wheezed, bent over the leather pommel.

"A laugh. I think." Clay grimaced. "It's been a while."

"Six months," countered his friend. "Only a magistrate's son could wrangle a Christmas leave after only enlistin' in June."

Clay reamed his impatient horse straight. "If I can't use bein' a magistrate's son for somethin', what good is it?" he tssked back, a wicked gleam in his eye.

"I'm sure it's the only reason Mary Russell married you!" Robert retorted and dug his heels in, causing his too-solid mount to lurch forward into a fast trot.

"Mary..." Clay sighed and wheeled his horse around, kicking into one of the few remaining dry spots of the hill. Horse and rider surpassed his friend's plodding steed, careening through the still-green willow trees that gave Hatton Willows its name, till he whistled into the stable and paddocks area. The activity of the grooms stopped when they realized who rode in. Even creaky old Thibalt Jones, the stable master who was too quick with a whip for Clay's liking, dropped a tether line when the young soldier's horse whipped around on the packed earth of the paddock area and leapt up to wave his forelegs in the wind, Clay pulling up on the saddle, waving his kepi to the startled slaves.

"First Lieutenant Francis Clay Mosby reportin', sir!" Clay snapped a sharp salute off to Thibalt and prepared to dismount when he heard shrieks coming from the direction of the columned plantation house.

Twisting in the saddle, he saw four female figures running towards him, their hooped skirts flapping in the wind like a flock of ungainly birds. Two of the women were already tiring from the run and lagged behind. 'Miss Mathers ought not to run with her rheumatism,' he thought absentmindedly. 'And there's Mother next to her and Elisabeth sure ahead of them and...'

"Mary!" he screamed out at the top of this lungs, not caring a whit for proprietary. His heels dug in and he sprinted fifty yards, leaping over the shrubs and flower beds of his Mother's carefully tended garden between the stables and the house. Circling the women, he tapped his hat respectfully, then, with a grin that stretched from ear to ear, reached out a hand and caught his young wife up into his arms and onto the saddle.

Clay widened his eyes to take her all in as he lifted her sideways onto his lap and eased the horse to a walk. Her beauty was unparalleled. Long chestnut-brown hair curled around her sweet heart-shaped face before cascading down her back like a chocolate waterfall. Light freckles dotted her pert, upturned nose. Eyes of shining dark amber looked at him with faith and abandon and trust.

It was six months since he'd seen his bride and his lungs caught at each breath, he tingled everywhere. His hand rose up and traced a long curl of hair from her forehead, over her shell-shaped ear and down her back, grasping at the strings of her work apron.

Then his lips covered hers. She was shaking with tears or laughter, he couldn't tell and he didn't care. When they kissed, he tasted warm morning sunrises spent on starched cotton sheets, smelled cool evenings of apple brandy sipped between soft caresses by the fireplace, heard waltzes whirled to empyrean harmonies. His head spun at her touch. His blood churned with an impassioned ache that surged through his limbs, numbing all his senses to only the smell, taste and touch of Mary.

Her hands caressed his unshaven cheeks and she pushed his face away. "You're scratchy," she accused him. And sweaty and grimy, stained and tattered, and the best thing she'd seen since that sad day in June when they had parted.

Looking over her shoulder, Clay saw his best friend surrounded by the Mosby women, who alternated embraces and pats on his back, Robert beaming back at them in his shy, sad way.

Gently, Clay brushed his rough cheek against Mary's. His fingers wandered up through her voluminous white petticoats clustered up on the saddle, tracing a line up her thigh. "You're smooth."

"And what is all this?" she giggled in her silvery laugh, catching her fingers in the curls that were plastered to his neck.

He pulled back and squinted at her. "It gets cold up North in the wintertime. Man needs to have a good cover."

"Accordin' to your letters, dearest, you haven't been more north than Rappahannock Station." She ran her hands back over the black wiry stubble on his cheeks. "I didn't sign on for chin whiskers, Mr. Mosby. Both your father and mine have perfectly lovely, strong smooth chins. Besides," she whined, "It's goin' to chafe and..."

"Mary, by God, I've missed you!" He pressed his lips to hers again, holding her face in the palms of his hands. He felt his new beard scratch at their backs and tried to accept the fact that he'd have to start the growth over upon returning to his unit.

"And I've missed you, dearest, I..." she pushed him away suddenly. "How long do you have?"

"Shelby and I have to leave mornin' after Christmas. Three days."

"And three nights," she murmured.

He lifted her saddened chin with one finger. "So can I get off he horse now? My behind is hurtin' somethin' bad." He slipped off quickly and proffered his arm. "Lady fair?"

Mary dropped into his arms with the lightness of a feather. "My knight in shinin' armor." She pulled at his coat, her eyes glistening. "Well, maybe shinin' after a bath!"

Shelby and the others arrived and before Clay could reply, he was swept into the arms of his sister and mother, who reluctantly let him go after a crushing embrace and a comical attempt to find something to wipe her eyes. Laughing, they tumbled up the columned stairs, through the cool dark entrance hall of Hatton Willows to the side parlor, where cider and iced cakes lay in waiting for the scores of guests who paraded through the Mosby house during this festive season. The house was covered in wreaths of holly, and boughs of evergreen were strewn over the mantelpieces and balustrades, imbuing his home with the fragrance of pine and bayberry.

"There's so much to tell you, Francis, and so much to hear. I have letters from your father and your brother John for you to read but let me get them." Katherine Mosby whispered conspiratorially. "Miss Mathers has moved into your father's downstairs study,"

"I'm stiff, not deaf, thank you!" his former governess barked. "I'll get the letters...if Clay can take his eyes off his wife long enough to read them." Truly, Clay's gaze hadn't left that heart-shaped face.

"I'll get them," Elisabeth volunteered. "But only if you have somethin' for me in return?"

"I have no idea what you're referrin' to," he responded, with an innocent smirk at his sister's imploring stare. Then he reached deep into his uniform pocket and handed her several tattered, tissue-thin sheets of paper. "Except, perhaps, for these ridiculous love missives from Cory Herrick." Elisabeth grabbed them from his hand and ran out of the room.

Shelby, in the meantime, had been cramming his face with cake and Miss Mathers cracked him across the knuckles with a fork. "Years of deportment lessons wasted!" she cried. "You will lose this war on manners alone."

"We wouldn't dare lose when we have a repast like this to defend," Robert replied, around bites of the orange cream pastry he knew had been added to the kitchen menu from the spinster New Englander's own family recipes. He washed it down with a mug of cider and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Besides, I've had to endure six months of our cook's ash pone and cush stews. I'm long for anythin' with flavor!"

"Is army food that bad?"

"It has been suggested," Clay intoned, "that when we run low on ammunition, we can always use his corn dodgers for cannon fire."

Robert deliberately placed a last piece of cake in his coat pocket and bowed to his hostess. "I must go see my parents and brother now, Miz Mosby. But if this temporary lack of manners is excusable, I hope you will invite me back for the festivities tonight. The night before Christmas Eve, is that not the Musicale?"

Clay's mother placed a loving, lace-gloved hand on his cheek, then drew him in for a hug. "I want as many members of my family with me on this holiday as God and the war will allow, Robert. And you are part of that family."

Awkwardly, Robert released her warm embrace and, bowing to Mary and Miss Mathers, strode out with a soaring heart.

"To reiterate my earlier request, Mr. Mosby, you need a bath!" Mary winked at her mother-in-law, who placed one hand on her youngest son's shoulder and with the other, traced his jowl line.

"And a shave!" Before he could protest, she leaned up to kiss him on the forehead. "Supper in an hour, dear son. Welcome home," she said gently, and backed her way out of the room.

Clay clasped Miss Mathers' hand and kissed it as she gave him a wink and stiffly followed her employer, laughing softly to herself.

Mary dropped languidly onto her husband's lap and brushed her lips over his temple. "Permilla's drawin' a bath for you right now," she whispered. The susurration of her voice lapped against his ear and sent a hot rush down his spine.

"You think of everything," he grumbled as his hands roamed over her satin-covered shoulders and down her swan-like neck. "But maybe we could just stay here awhile?" Mary pulled his hands away and tugged on his arms. He stood up and followed her.

"A bath," she said firmly.

Firelight danced off the gleaming burled wood of the washroom furniture as Clay settled back into the warm, soapy water of he bath prepared by his wife's personal servant, and lit a cigar. He swirled the pungent smoke around in his mouth a moment before pursing his lips and trying for a smoke ring. He got one passable one, then heard the door behind him unlatch and Mary came in, fresh clothing and thick towels piled high in her arms. Reluctantly, he extinguished the cigar in the bath water and set it on a side table as she lay the towels on the wide brick hearth that flanked the crackling fireplace.

"They'll be nice and warm when you're ready to get out." Mary coyly clasped her palms in her lap and sat down beside the towels. "So will I."

He leaned up out of the steamy tub but she lurched forward and pushed him back down. Droplets of water splashed out, scattering a cascade of sparkling rainbow-colored prisms over her muslin dress. "Don't stop washin' on my account, dear heart. You've got six months of dirt to scrub off."

Clay clucked his tongue. A protest wasn't the only thing that was rising in him. Draping his arms over the sides of the tub, he continued to hold her gaze, shrugging his shoulders ingenuously. He picked up a washing cloth, then suddenly tossed it up at his wife with a teasing defiance in his eyes.

Mary caught the wet towel easily and rubbed the dun-colored lye soap over the fabric, trying to steady her trembling hands. Then she knelt beside the tub, pulling her skirts all the way up her long creamy-white legs, to keep them from the puddles of water on the floor.

Reaching out, he tenderly pushed her steam-curled hair away from her face, and let his hand glide down her dewy cheek. His fingers brushed her lips, and she kissed the tips and his palm before grasping his hand in hers and sliding the cloth over his callused knuckles.

She circled the rough cloth down his sinewy arms, across his broad shoulders, over his chest and ribcage. His eyes closed at her gentle touch and he laid his head back against the tub's copper rim. This was the only therapy that could wash away all the months of mud and insects, the smoke-blinding battles, the fine film of gunpowder that covered every inch of his skin. With deliberate slowness, she scrolled the cloth up his legs, over his knees and long thighs, skimming it over his hips and up onto his flat stomach. She twisted and turned him about while soaping his entire body. He was like a rag doll in her hands.

Then she tilted his head back and a cascade of warm sudsy water flowed through his hair. Her fingers massaged small circlets around his temples, down the back of his neck, rising to encircle his ears. Finally, she dropped the cloth and bent to him, sliding her tongue between his lips. She tasted of honey and vanilla as he rose up without breaking the kiss, enfolding her into him. He held her with a desperate necessity, feeling her strength and love permeate through him. It drained away as she slowly pulled back.

"Come here." He drew her towards him again while lowering himself back into the bath.

"Not now, Clay. We have to go down and supper with the family."

"The family will forgive us if we're a bit late."

He tugged at her but she pushed him away. "No! Not like this." She retreated to pick up the towels. "I've waited half a year to make love to you. But not in dirty bath water and not while the family is waitin' for us."

Acquiescing, Clay bowed, then submerged himself below the waterline to rinse the soap from his hair and body. He stood up quickly, displacing the water out of the tub and all over the floor. Mary gaped at the mess. "All right," he nodded, streams of water dripping off his glistening body. "But now you'll have to dry me off." Insouciantly, he lowered his long eyelashes.

Aghast at her husband's behavior, Mary was struck speechless, then threw a towel at him and strode from the room, leaving Clay laughing at her sudden modesty. The towel was, indeed, warm.

Later, in their bedroom, as she finished straightening his stock, her hand came up to cup his stubbly cheeks. "When are you goin' to shave? You know you look like a Shenandoah moonshine maker."

Clay stayed her hand. "Well, I thought..." he blurted out. "I thought I'd keep it, you know, grow a beard..."

"Like Mr. Lincoln?" Mary's saucy eyes taunted him.

"No!" He pulled away defensively, breaking their contact. "Like General Lee."

"Aaah." Mary caressed his cheek again, with the back of her hands. "How ever did Miz Lee put up with it?" she mused.

"Patriotic duty, I suppose."

"At least let me shape it then, give it a flair. Right now, it's just a bird's nest on your face, Lieutenant Mosby."

"As you wish, Miz Mosby."

His eyes followed her as she sashayed towards the dressing table's mirror and adjusted the bodice of her new deep blue moir, ball gown. An indulgence, she acknowledged, in these unstable times, but a gratification she refused to give up. Unbeknownst to him, Mary caught her husband's gaze reflected in the glass and flirtatiously lowered her d,colletage a bit, the gleam in her eyes growing. "'Sides, I understand why you feel you need to grow a beard."

He scratched at it unconsciously. "And why is that?"

"With the baby fat still on your cheeks, it's the only way the men might not know you're just nineteen years old!"

She ducked to the side when Clay came after her with a teasing menace, then allowed herself to become entangled in his arms, prisoner of his heart. "I really think the family will understand if we're late for supper, Mary," he pleaded again, but she wriggled out of his grasp.

"I would prefer to find them more understandin' when we are late for breakfast."

Clay shook his head. He thought maybe he should have found a more timid woman. But that just wouldn't be his Mary.

Proffering his arm, he escorted his dazzling bride down the grand winding staircase and across the long hallway into the front parlor, which was luxuriant with sprays of golden sugar maple and red oak. In one corner, a string quartet played Vivaldi and Bach. A modest but lush pine tree had been placed in another corner, the nearby fireplace's glow reflecting in its colored glass and tin ornaments. Strewn underneath were endless boxes of varying sizes, wrapped in patriotically-colored paper this year. Swarms of neighbors huddled in clusters around the room. There was his mother with his mother-in-law Laurel Russell, trying to keep her from rearranging all the dishes on the serving table. There was Elisabeth with Tilly Herrick, trying to find a common ground with her status-obsessed future mother-in-law. Robert was talking with Mrs. Layton and Mrs. Worthey, perhaps regaling them with the story of how he shot down a Yankee flag, causing the blue coats to retreat. And more than likely telling them how his gun had gone off accidentally. Mrs. Edgar, as usual, was racing after her unruly brood, which had grown again with a new daughter and several cousins, so replete they were always teased that, in the census, they should be registered as a county unto themselves. He spotted several of his mother's cousins that had come - Minyards from Lafayette, Daniels from Richmond, and Jessups all the way from New Orleans, including his favorite second cousin, Olivia. If he and Robert hadn't been wearing their clean uniforms, and he could pretend the men were only absent for retiring to the drawing room for brandy and cigars, he could imagine it any Christmas holiday prior.

But he also noticed a reduction in the house Negroes that stood behind the tables that were piled high with boiled ham and fresh South Carolina oysters to eat and syllabubs and champagne to quench the company's thirst. Lyverle and her sister Mirtha were gone as was Tall Tom, the house's best front parlor servants. Others slaves, several he'd known since he was a child, were gone from the stables and gardens, as well as many of those who worked in their tobacco fields. He shouldn't be surprised, he knew, but selfishly felt that the Mosbys offered fairer working conditions than the 'free' world would at large and his stomach turned at what he could only consider a betrayal on their part. But how could choosing freedom be a betrayal?

Mary squeezed his hand, bringing him back to the party around them. "Clay? Dearest?"

"I'm all right, Mary. It just seems I am developin' a propensity towards melancholia." He squeezed back in response and they entered the noisy fray.

The evening's traditional Musicale began shortly after dusk, after Miss Mathers managed to corral the last stray child from the upstairs playroom. The event began with the children singing Christmas carols, rehearsed for weeks in Katherine Mosby's music room, Clay knew, from years of his own participation. His brother John's wife Venetia sounded the chords on the parlor's pianoforte as the children desperately squeaked and squawked out the tunes. Her youngest brother caused a flutter of laughter when he forgot the words in the middle of "Angels From the Realm of Glory" during his solo and though Venetia tried to whisper to him in encouragement, the little boy decided he'd do better with "Dixie", to which everyone joined in. Clay wrapped Mary in his arms as they stood to one side, watching. He hummed along in her ear, so grateful he could share this with her.

He remembered the hours they'd spent together, rehearsing for the holiday galas. When he was fourteen, Mary had asked him to do a duet with her, finding out later it had been a well-devised ruse to spend time together. The ruse had worked, because it took only a few rehearsals for Clay to fall in love with her. He loved her straight-forwardness with him, and her ever-gnawing hunger for life. These qualities enervated the young Francis Clay and incited him to always test himself, always go the one step further. His schoolwork improved, his responsibilities grew. Through the ensuing years, there was talk between his parents of West Point for him, or possibly Harvard for medical school. And inevitably, talk of his marrying Mary, although she had already declared it a certainty when they were children.

Other young adults from the neighboring families, in quartets and trios, sang the popular songs of the day. Mrs. Herrick attempted an operatic aria and the Edgar twins sang a patriotic number. Elisabeth played and sang several solos, her musical talent so enjoyable that the crowd was wont for her to stop. Then she faced towards her brother and asked, "Clay? Would you and Mary sing for us?"

All eyes in the room turned to the couple. Clay regarded her in confusion and then realized by the small smile on her face that his wife and sister had conspired against him. "We haven't rehearsed anything," he stammered.

"You know the song we want," Robert cried out from across the room.

Clay glared back at him. "I don't see you volunteerin' to sing."

"That's because there are tree frogs outside with a better voice than I."

"And better grammar, too," Miss Mathers groused.

"Please, Clay," his mother implored. "It would help ease my missin' your father and brother." Other friends and neighbors took up the plea and he finally pitched forward when Mary tugged on his hands.

"I hope I remember to breathe," he grumbled.

"I hope you remember the words," Shelby retorted.

The laughter died down when the couple stood next to the piano and Elisabeth started to play the first chords. Clay cleared his throat and began... "What child is this, who lay to rest, in Mary's lap is sleeping?" His voice was gruff, surprisingly so at first, but after a verse he could smoothly compliment his wife's dulcet tones. They joined hands, looking into each other's eyes.

The room around him disappeared as he was mesmerized by her beauty and grace and the confident expectations the moment held. When the last note died out, the assembly stayed silent, remembering the sweetness of Christmases past and praying for the return of better Christmases to come.

Eventually the room swayed back into motion, applauding the house's youngest son and his lovely wife. Oblivious to the noise, he kissed away a tear that had formed in the corner of her eye and they hugged self-consciously, finally acknowledging the room's response. Then Katherine Mosby invited her company to join her in the dining room, where she had laid a table so covered you could barely see the linen beneath.

That night, as Mary lay in his arms, he wondered about the future that lay ahead of them. She was nuzzled into his neck, smiling in the afterglow of their love-making. His body still tingled in places he didn't remember tingling before and he smiled as well. If the damn war would end soon, as everybody thought it would, he'd spend the rest of his days in bed with her, tingling everywhere.

He had finally broken down and shaved before they went to bed, his skin now so sensitive he thought he would explode when her lips traveled down his cheek and throat. Her kisses had taken his breath away. Her touch burned into his soul. When they finally joined as one, Clay mingled his tears with hers, unashamed at his joy.

It felt like the first time again, although this time they didn't have the worry of anyone discovering them in the field's farthest tobacco barn. Had that happened spontaneously? He never thought so. Mary had always been a shrewd, resourceful sort and he didn't question it when she disingenuously brought an extremely soft blanket with her that summer afternoon. The barn was shady and cool, a great relief from the moist June day.

Unlike his peers, who were initiated into the manly arts at an early age, either with slaves or prostitutes, Clay had refused to follow custom, knowing his heart and soul were already wed to Mary. There could be no other woman he would lay with, for the first time or the last, except her. Mercifully teased, by friend and femme fatale alike, he stood steadfast, difficult though it was at times.

The victory was a sweet one.

Reunited after a year's separation, he longed for whatever physical affection Mary would allow, but accepted that for all gentlemanly purposes, the most he could expect were modest kisses and hugs. Mary went far beyond his expectations, stripping him of his vest and shirt to plant shameless kisses on his chest, then removed her own shift, blushing only in the first moment when Clay knelt before her and suckled at her breasts. They had fallen into each other's arms, crashing down onto the velvety leaf-strewn floor, neither knowing exactly what to do, but very eager to figure it out. He felt as if they had invented love-making that day, and, for the rest of the summer, they worked tirelessly at refining their discovery. After their betrothal ball in August, Clay prayed nightly they wouldn't spoil the January wedding date with a shotgun wedding.

Now their love-making had a maturity and strength within it. Their caresses felt deeper, their trust more secure. They moved together seamlessly and yet, with the distance of their time apart, a new measure had been added to the dance.

How complete he felt when he was with her, and how empty without. A cold draft of fear blew across his heart and he shuddered. Whatever would he do if he lost her? How could he leave her alone here, during these dangerous, uncertain times? Clay didn't know what to do, torn between his responsibility to his country and his responsibility to his wife. His hand traced a line down her neck, between her breasts, to lay over her flat stomach.

Mary awoke and looked up at him, covering his hand with hers. Then she spread her legs open and Clay forgot all thoughts but of being home, for now, with Mary.

Christmas Eve was the high point of the Mosby festivities and Clay woke early in anticipation. Mary stirred next to him, and he held his breath as he stepped out of their bed, desperate to avoid the squeaky third floorboard as he moved stealthily to the washbasin. She turned on her side and lay back against the pillow, her tawny hair billowing out like an angel's wings.

Gazing out the window at the green-tinged hills, he was hypnotized by the willows swaying in the cool morning breeze. He felt a million miles away from the war. From the distruction and disarray. The endless noise and madness. And from the surprise in his companion's eyes, when they realized that war was not a battle of metal soldiers on a felt playing field that could be stopped for bedtime.

War was everything and nothing he expected. He had steeled himself for the discomfort of sleeping outdoors, the mud and flies, the sore feet, the endless drills. But the emotional toll had surprised him. It was day after day of trying to act relaxed, though his heart was in his throat. It was measureless hours of waiting for the enemy to attack; an enemy that only six months earlier he might have met and shared a drink with in any local tavern. It was wondering if that enemy also had a wife and family waiting for him in a home that smelled of rosewood and bayberry. And if the man across the field was as scared as he was.

"Clay?" Mary's smile parted the clouds over his face. He dove back into her reaching arms.

"We will definitely be late for breakfast."

The day became a blur of tea parties and socials as Clay and Mary paid visits to all their neighbor's homes, exchanging gifts, meeting the latest additions to the families, and mourning the losses. The Edgars had already lost one son to dysentery before the first battle was fought and Phillip Layton's parents hadn't received word from his oldest brother since Manassas Junction; it was feared he had deserted or worse, fled to the Northern side. At each house, Clay would pass on messages his friends had entrusted him to deliver, and helped embellish the inadequate or purposefully-vague information they had written, while gathering letters their mothers implored him to bring back to their sons and husbands. He noticed that these once grand plantations were also suffering from the same desertion of slaves as his own, and he grimaced at the thought of their personal losses becoming the worse for losing their livelihoods. Cotton and tobacco required great manpower to harvest and he sensed that if the South did not forego her stubbornness and work at becoming more independent of the North's tight hold on the markets and adopt their far more adequate technology, she would surely drown in a well of her own tears.

In between the parties, Clay and Mary delivered food and other staples to the sharecroppers on their land, a family tradition going back to his great-great-grandfather's time. It did not go unnoticed to him that the faces of his tenants seemed more pinched and more anxious to receive their goods than years before.

Finally, the obligatory rounds were over and they headed to Shelby Hills to escort Robert to the church service before the traditional Mosby Christmas Eve Ball. Clay wondered whether Robert should sit with his own family now that he was an adult, or with the Mosbys, as he had as a child, but with one look at Jackson Shelby's unshaven, alcohol-stupored face, he considered how some things never change, and with a curt nod to Robert's "invalid" brother Joby, and a reluctant kiss on Margaret Shelby's over-perfumed hand, he whisked his friend out of that dreary environment and into brighter circumstances.

When the first cork had been popped and the champagne poured around, Clay felt he could finally relax and enjoy himself. In the absence of his father and older brother, it fell to him to make the first toast. Looking around at all the families, he could only choke out the sentiments he heard all day. "To the hope that we will all meet again soon, surrounded by our fathers and brothers and sons who have safely returned. And to the Confederacy. May she prevail!" He gulped down the glass, the liquor warming the chill that had overtaken him. "And quickly," he muttered.

The Mosby household's holiday celebrations were characteristic of the southern spirit's refusal to be bridled, in spite of the war and its needed sacrifices, and his mother had spared no expense in providing for her guests. The dinner table overflowed with turkey and goose served with all the trimmings, collard greens and bacon, the ubiquitous oysters, chitlins and cracklin' bread, dodgers of corn bread and biscuits soaked in gravy. Ginger beer and whiskey joined the champagne at the sideboard that served as a bar. Another side table was piled high with apple dumplings and pralines, taffy, fudge and honey popcorn balls, and Miss Mathers was hard pressed to keep the children from knocking it down in their hurry to gather as many sweets as they could to carry back to the playroom.

Contrary to popular etiquette, Katherine Mosby asked that the ladies be allowed to stay while the few men not in service took their brandy, for they, too, wanted to hear the war stories as eagerly as any old veteran in the room. Clay and Shelby were only too happy to oblige an enraptured and appreciative audience. Clouds of smoke from the men's cigars hung over the table as the young soldier crescendoed to the thundering finish of his grandest battle so far - the first great battle at Manassas Junction.

"Bee mounts up on his horse and rides back towards his men, batteries firin' all around him. Artillery thick as a July rainstorm. He staggers back to his regiment, who are circlin' and moanin' in despair. Striding among the men, desperate to keep them holdin' firm, he yells out, in a voice that rivals the roar of the cannons, 'Men, there are Jackson and his Virginians standin' behind you like a stone wall!'"

Clay and Robert exchanged a look between themselves and laughed. "Truth be told," Shelby explained, "it's never been too clear whether Bee was complimentin' Jackson on his steadfastness or insultin' him for not movin' faster!"

"Finally, a column of men approaches from the west and we're joined by Jubal Early's men from the Shenandoah. Immediately, all batteries open fire, scattering the Feds like ripples 'round a rock thrown in water." Clay paused, taking another deep pull on his cigar, and let the smoke drift up through the chandelier before continuing. "It stopped as suddenly as it started. All grew silent for a breath, then to my right and to my left, and inside myself, a battle-cry arose."

Shelby nodded, remembering. "I was yellin' hard just to cover the roarin' in my head. And the roarin' all around me."

"It was as if all our voices were combined into a whirlin' eddy of sound that swept over the Yanks like a twister. I sensed their fear at the resonance. It sure scared the hell out o' me." He glanced towards his mother with a deferential look. "Please excuse my language."

"Your goin' off to this enterprise scared the hell out of me, Clay, " his mother intoned dryly. "I can excuse the language as long as you do not recreate that Rebel yell within my house."

"Only if we're under attack. Which doesn't seem likely, since we whupped out o' them after that. Rifles, blankets, even overcoats were dropped on the road as they retreated." He turned to Mary. "I brought you a souvenir." Dramatically, he reached inside his coat pocket and handed her a mud-stained square of paper.

"Oh, Clay," she cooed. "It's an invitation to a grand ball!" Clay's eyes shined a grin and he chuckled softly as she continued to read. "In celebration of the overthrow of Richmond?"

"Those Yankee crackers were so sure we were goin' to back down at the sight of their grandfather's muskets, they'd already planned the victory dance." Shelby laughed along with the others.

"Certainly, now, Europe can no longer ignore the validity of the Confederate States, and it will only be a matter of time before they volunteer their support, monetarily and with men. And all this from a band of three-month enlistees."

Mary glanced at her mother-in-law as Clay basked in the attention his tale had accorded. "Are you sayin' then that you will be comin' home soon? To stay, I mean." She looked up at her husband, her eyes clouded with apprehension. "You...were only enlisted for three months."

Now Clay glanced at Robert. He stubbed his cigar out and finished off his brandy. Clearing his throat, he lowered his eyes against Mary's gaze. "I have enlisted for as long as it takes. Shelby and I have...vowed...to see it through. It is, fter all, our responsibility to Virginia and to our fair cause..."

Mary stood up suddenly, causing the china plates to clatter. "And have you no responsibility to your family? To your wife? We've been married less than the time you've spent in service! I don't see any fairness about that!"

"We'll take this up in private, Mary."

"No! I want an answer now. Right here."

Clay gritted his teeth as Mary crossed her arms over her chest, a sure stance she would not back down. His voice was low and liquid as he tried to reason with her. "No one here can possibly know how it pains me to be separated from you." He gestured languidly to his friend. "'Cept Robert, who has to listen to my nightly moans and whines." Clay raised both palms upturned towards his wife. "But as my love for you is as deep as time, so is my knowledge that I cannot be worthy of your love if I do not do my part to make a better future for our children. And that means fightin' in this accursed conflict until our cause is victorious and I can return here, havin' laid a foundation of honor on our land to build upon, deservin' of the prosperity that will lay ahead."

Mary slowly clasped his hands, warming them in her own. She tilted her head and smiled. "Francis Clay Mosby. I have never heard a more sincere and heartfelt load of bunk since you tried to convince me on my thirteenth birthday that your horse was responsible for spillin' ink on my party dress!" She fell into his arms and Clay sighed as the laughter of his friends and family rang through the air.

When dancing in the ballroom started, Clay was hopeful about spending the time with his wife only, but gentlemanly etiquette and the sad lack of men prevailed and he found himself waltzing many of the unescorted women around the floor. Cousins and neighbors' faces blurred in his sight and their conversations fused into one endless prattle as he whirled in circles, desperate for these dances to end so he could return to Mary.

"And then Jeff Davis appointed his favorite cow to take over Armistead's Division."

"What?" Confused, he focused his attention on the woman in his arms.

Olivia Jessup laughed huskily, shaking her head at his anxious demeanor. "You haven't been listenin' at all and that is extremely impolite. That isn't like you, Clay."

Her second cousin hung his head in mock shame. "Please forgive me."

"Of course you are forgiven. But only because I know how difficult it is for you to take your eyes off Mary. It's been that way for many years. And certainly, now, every moment is more precious." She dropped her chin coyly. "But I thought I was your favorite kissin' cousin, and for that, you should provide me your complete attention."

"And your understandin' is why you are my favorite."

"I just wanted to remind you about the sphere of influence I have entered into. Their services could be extremely helpful to you durin' this conflagration. While you are only a Lieutenant now, it seems sure that you will be risin' fast in the ranks, as our men of leadership do, and the people I am getting to know appreciate someone of quality and ability."

"Merely survivin' a battle appears the best prerequisite for advancement in this war. 'Sides, I may not even make it to Major, Olivia. It looks like the whole argument will be reconciled before the next tobacco crop dries."

"As we are all anticipatin', my dear Clay. But if you ever find yourself in a position where information or hard-to-attain provisions can make the difference between life and death, you will think of me?"

Clay narrowed his eyes and regarded her nefarious gaze. "Of course."

"As I am sure you will also be meetin' men of influence, you must remember me, as well." Olivia withdrew herself from his arms and curtseyed. "And now, since I am the last in a long line of cousins, I can return you without malice to your wife. Merry Christmas, Clay. And a happier New Year."

"The same to you, Olivia." He kissed her hand and she sauntered away, striking up a conversation with Laurel Russell. Clay cocked his head and thought to himself. She'd always been the ingenuous kind, finding and encouraging the dangerous streak in her cousins during their visits. He'd already encountered several of her type in the saloons and salons of Richmond; though their purpose may be worthy or essential, they held no qualms at the ends justifying their means. If it came to that, Clay wondered, would he have the guts to do the same.

When the ball ended sometime in the wee hours of the morning, Mary braced herself against her weary husband and helped him up the stairs to their bedroom. Seating him on the creaky bed, she turned around to help remove his boots and Clay lay his head against the small of her back, running his hands over her waist and hips.

"Mmmmm. Do I get to unwrap my present now?"

Mary tossed the boots into a corner and, settling into his lap, pulled his coat down his shoulders and off his arms. "Only if you've been a very good boy." Undoing his tie, she threw that in the corner as well.

Clay watched her through heavy-lidded eyes as she undid his shirt buttons, then, starting over his heart, planted a row of kisses up to his throat. Raising her chin in his hand, he kissed her long and slow, wondering if there was any way to stop time completely so he could stay in her arms forever. She twisted on his lap and obligingly he undid the laces of her bodice, skimming his hands under her stays to trace the swell of her breasts beneath them. Scooping her cinnamon tresses to one side, his lips brushed across the back of her neck, and she arched up against him; his mouth drifting down her back with tender kisses that were soft and reassuring. Then his fingers raked through her lush mane of hair and he pulled her around to crush her mouth to his. She tasted like the spring dew rising off a field of wildflowers as his hands wrapped around her waist, and he drank deeply of her essence. Grasping, clutching, catching, seizing, he was unquenchable.

Mary ran her hands down the cords of his neck, to the taut muscles of his collarbone. The passion in his kiss overwhelmed her and she returned his ardor in kind. Parting reluctantly, she slid off his lap.

"Where you goin'?"

Blowing him a kiss, she backed away, lowering her gown off her shoulders and down her breasts before disappearing into their dressing room. Putting on the sheer satin nightgown she'd worn on their honeymoon, she placed a drop of gardenia oil on her throat and wrists and smiled at her flushed reflection in the mirror. But when she returned, radiant with anticipation, she found Clay sprawled across the bedcovers, fast asleep, his dark curls spilling over his forehead.

Placing a chaste kiss on his cheek, she rolled him under the blankets and snuggled into the down covers beside him. "Well, that decides it," she sighed to herself. "We'll be late for breakfast again."

The Russell and Worthey families joined them on Christmas for the final day of gift-getting. Anticipating their trip home for the holidays, Clay presented his mother with a new picture of him and Robert in their full dress uniforms; he had another of himself alone for Mary, who held it to her breast and struggled not to cry. Although they had been unexpected participants, there was no lacking in the presents Clay and Robert received. There was paper and pens from Miss Mathers and a sewing kit from his mother-in-law. His mother and sister drowned them in a sea of much-appreciated scarves, mittens and socks.

Vesta Worthey gave both of them belly bands, those flannel belts that some believed relieved dysentery. Even though he'd gotten through his service so far otherwise unscathed, Clay had lost a little weight and to his annoyance, she commented loudly upon the leanness in his waist and arms, for, as she reminded him, he was normally on the verge of being a butterball. He accepted her gift graciously, winking at an eye-rolling Mary.

A hay ride was organized after the children finished tearing through their presents and they rushed out, leaving ribbons and wrapping scattered about the floor. The adults murmured among themselves, out of sorts that no servant was there to pick up the mess immediately. Finally, Elisabeth and Venetia gathered up the refuse and threw it in the fireplace.

Drawing Mary to a corner away from the others, Clay pulled a small cloth-wrapped parcel from his uniform pocket and timidly presented it to her. "Robert and I made a stop en-route. I wanted you to have this." She loosened the soft material and uttered a gasp when she opened the box and beheld a thin band of sparkling garnets and diamonds. "Merry Christmas, Mary." He searched her eyes for favor. "Your birthstone and mine," he pointed out. "And gold for our fiftieth weddin' anniversary, if you can stand me for that long."

Wordlessly, Mary slipped the ring on, then buried her head in his chest. Clay stroked her hair and rocked her back and forth, soothing her with reassuring hushes as she wept in awe. "Ordered it in April. Didn't think I'd ever get it. Damn if it wasn't there in the shop waitin' for me when we stopped in Richmond. There's room to add more birthstones..."

"It's so beautiful, Clay."

"Not as beautiful as you, my dearest heart."

She drew away and wiped her eyes with the cloth. Glancing over the room, Clay caught Robert smiling at them and nodded.

"I have somethin' for you as well," she said, hiccuping in recovery.

"But you didn't even know I was comin' home."

"Do you want it or not?"

Clay nodded and giggled his assent. "If you insist."

"I do." She strode to the lemonwood desk, tugged open a hidden drawer, and took out a package only slightly bigger than the ring's box. "I hope you like it."

With unbridled curiosity, he ripped open the wrapping and pulled the cover off. There, set in a bedding of cotton and lace, was a small painted cameo portrait of his wife.

"It's exquisite," he finally exhaled. "When was this done?"

"A travelin' artist stayed here for several weeks in September. To pay us for the food and shelter, he painted all our portraits. I thought you'd..."

"You let a stranger into our house?"

"But don't you like it?"

"It doesn't matter if I like it. You can't feed and clothe every stranger who passes by!" Clay's voice rose, surprising everyone in the room. "You didn't know this man, you didn't know his background..."

"He was nothin' but an itinerant painter!"

Clay could barely spit the words out. "He could have been a spy. Or worse."

"How hard you are becomin', dearest." Her voice dripped with an unusual anger. "So suspicious and untrustin'."

"You can't take just anybody in, Mary. These are dangerous times!"

Shelby cleared his throat in an effort to calm them. "You let me in and I'm probably the blackest of them all."

"That was completely different, Robert! And a very different time." He turned to face the rest of his family. "How could you, Mother? You...you've got to think!"

"Francis! Compose yourself." Katherine Mosby stood with a polished grace and reproached her son. "Do you think for one moment I would endanger those I love? He'd already stayed with the Wortheys and the Herricks." Vesta Worthey placed her arm around her daughter and nodded assent. "Tilly Herrick praised him highly. They even had some cousins in common from South Carolina. Now beg your wife's forgiveness and accept her gift graciously."

Chastised, Clay dutifully bowed to the woman before him and turned back to his wife. "My sincerest apologies, Mary. I have lost all manners and proper deportment. I was just...concerned for your well-bein'."

Her chin raised in proud defiance, Mary courtesied in response. "My well-bein' can take care of itself, Clay Mosby. If you are not goin' to be around to protect me, then you must trust I can protect myself. Has it ever been not so?"

A small smile couldn't help but escape his lips as he replied in a syrup-smooth tone. "I forgot how capable you are, dearest. I am truly humbled." He looked upon the portrait cradled in his hand. "And though this will be much appreciated when we are apart, I could never forget how beautiful you are."

His mother shook her head in teasing sufferance and gestured to the cypress-inlaid mahogany sideboard. "Now, with that settled, more egg nog anyone?"

That last night, once again, Clay stood at the window, contemplating the moon-lit rolling hills of his home. He was in braces and breeches only, having recently returned from a midnight reconnoiter for food. Robert had left shortly after supper, to spend the remaining time with his own family. Clay and Mary had taken leave for their room not long afterwards, trying to spare him the sad, lingering farewells he hated. His limbs felt bruised and his eyes were swollen after many tight, tear-filled hugs from his mother and sister, governess and in-laws. Katherine Mosby had already packed up several bags of provisions for them to take back, and the horses were groomed and ready for them to make a quick getaway in the morning. He knew this good-bye to Mary would be the hardest he'd face. Guiltily, he thought of slipping away when she went to sleep and was startled when she gently lay a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't leave me, Clay."

"What? I don't =want= to, dearest."

"I mean, don't leave me yet. Your body is here, but I can tell your thoughts are not."

"My heart is always with you." He stroked her breast lightly. "You keep it here, I think?" His hand lowered and he tickled her "Or maybe it's here?"

Twisting with laughter, Mary tugged on his arms, pulling him away from the window. "You'll have to search harder than that. It might take the rest of the night."

"As you wish." Hand in hand, she led him across the room. "I'm sorry I got mad at you earlier, Mary, it's just..."

Turning, Mary pressed her fingers to his lips to quiet his thought. "I'm afraid for you, too, Clay. You're in much more dangerous circumstances."

There was a twinkle in his hazel eyes when he replied. "Oh, but nothin' will happen to me, Mary. Look what I'm fightin' for." Casually, he slid one strap of her nightgown down her milky shoulder, then the other.

Mary responded in mirror-fashion with his suspenders, tracing a line down his muscular arm. She paused at a short, stark white line across his biceps. "What is this?"

"A scratch," he said quickly, covering her hand with his. "A tale told to our grandchildren."

"If the army's goin' to send me back damaged goods, I will have to ask for reimbursement from the merchant."

"As long as you don't ask for a replacement."

He scooped her up in his arms and lay her down on the great rosewood bed. Spooning together, Clay wrapped his arms around her tightly, reluctant to ever let go.

Mary turned her new ring over and over on her finger as she lay in his warm embrace. "Do you really think the war will end soon?" she asked, trying to disguise the tremor in her tone.

"I pray so." His voice was a low rumble in her ear as he spoke. "If war's were won on resolve and desire alone, the victory is ours. We are, after all, defendin' our own homes, our own land."

"But what if..."

"Shhhh, hush now." He turned her in his arms and gently kissed her brow. "I want to tell you 'bout a vision I have. A vision for you and me, Mary. I want to find a place where we can help build a community with schools and churches, libraries and concert halls..."

"How grand," she giggled.

"I'm serious!" He tweaked her chin, then pressed his forehead to hers. "I've seen nothin' but desolation and hopelessness lately and I think it's given me...a direction. A purpose. My father worked all his life as county magistrate, helpin' this society to grow with honor and integrity. I want to do that, too."

"Judge Francis Clay Mosby." She snuggled deeper into his arms. "That sounds nice."

"Oh, I don't know if I can judge others, not like he can. But to help others, as a servant of the public, hmmm? There are lots of places to do that. Like a city council or legislature." His lips traced a path down her shoulder and she quivered in delight. "Who knows what I can accomplish, dearest, with you by my side."

"Maybe...President Mosby?"

He lowered his hand over her stomach. "Well, maybe... father of presidents."

Then Clay started to sing softly to her, "What child is this who, laid to rest, on Mary's lap is sleeping..."

CURTIS WELLS, DECEMBER 1880
 

"Whom angels greet with anthems sweet, while shepherds watch are keepin'..." Mosby's voice trailed off. He dropped his face in his hands and laughed to keep from crying.

He tried to make a meal earlier in the store room, wiping the knife clean on his braces after cutting the bread and meat. Taking a bite, he found the food tasted rotten to him and left the sandwich on the counter. Through the window he saw the lights on in the Lonesome Dove, and tried not to think of the carols being sung.

He walked a circuit around the room, draining the whiskey's dregs as he followed an imaginary maze through the gaming tables. Staring at the picture of Ingres' Grande Odalisque on the wall behind the bar, he rolled the empty bottle back and forth between the palms of his hands, then suddenly smashed it against the stove, flying glass scratching his cheek. The fire had long gone out and Mosby shivered, half-hoping the cold would bring him back, somehow, to some sensibility. He wavered between faith and despair, on a precipice he'd stood upon so many times before, exhausted at the effort it was taking him to stay alive.

Staggering back to the table, he uncorked a new bottle, took a long pull, then held the glass to his bleeding cheek. Giggling drunkenly, he clumsily erased the current count in the ledger and scrawled in a new total, by one less. Then he violently swept the ledgers onto the floor.

After another long drink of whiskey, he took his Colt out of his gunbelt and placed it on the table in front of him.

He hadn't feared death for many years. Since the war ended, when he looked into death's face, he recognized it. With a kind and loving gaze, welcoming and compassionate as it shone in his view, he recognized it as Mary's smiling face. But time and again, when the gun pointing at him would click and miss, the heart-shaped face would disappear and he was brought back to the misery that she was gone and he wouldn't be joining her.

"Not that God would actually allow us to be together, with all the sins I've managed to effectuate." Squinting at the bottle's quickly vanishing contents, he laughed again. "Suicide", he mumbled with sweet irony, "will be the final nail in my God-damned coffin."

Holding the gun aloft, he calmly checked the chambers and tested the balance in his hand. The wind outside had died down and a palpable silence filled the room. He thought he heard a banging at the door, then realized it was his own heart. His face flushed with the tormenting loneliness that flowed through his veins and he held the cool metal of the gun against his cheek, trying to assuage his fevered agony.

His inventory was finished, his payroll issued. End of the year accounts for all his holdings were taken and his will was set down, with only two names on it for distribution. He could take his business being in such good order as a sign it would cause no difficulty to go. He would not be missed.

But selfishly, he wanted credit accorded him for the soul-depleting effort it was taking him to make Curtis Wells into more than just another muck-spattered stagecoach stop, one of so many destined to become ghost towns before their potential was realized. There was an energy in the town, he'd felt it from his arrival. An energy becoming all the more potent for the disparate citizens who seemed to coalesce daily to thwart his endeavors, a community united in its disfavor of his methods and manners. And no defense he could muster would permit him to disagree with them.

Like the fancy false fronts of the clapboard buildings in town, he knew, his life had become a facade, the more squalid and tattered for every time he allowed his conscience to be distanced from the power he desired. And he =was= the most powerful man in town, he reminded himself. The wealthiest. The most favored. Yet he lived not on an impressive estate but in an office above a saloon, ate hotel food by himself, avoided church, paid for sex. Suffered the disdain and dislike of the very people he was trying to raise up from the mud. His only living relative was a pariah in his own town, his only friend carried a death sentence even =he= couldn't ameliorate.

'Aren't you just the biggest toad in the puddle', his governess had always chided him, when he acted too self-important. 'It must be lonely on that lily pad.'

Oh, he didn't have to be alone, he knew. He'd always been able to find a game of cards and fit right in with the crowd. Laugh at their jokes, lend a sympathetic ear. Get their undeserved trust. Get physical relief whenever he needed it, too, from the prettiest whores. The only kind of loving he would allow himself.

He was going on forty years old soon enough, in good health, except for the annoying catarrhs that seemed to plague him since he moved so far north. His grandfather lived until sixty-three, his great-grandfather 'till seventy. If the war hadn't claimed his father, there was no knowing how long he would have lived. Barring gunshot or accident, Clay could expect to survive another twenty, thirty, maybe even forty more years.

But was he willing to bear thirty more years of this?

Thirty more years of constantly fighting through the dark depression that suffocated him in a embrace of sorrows? Thirty more years of suffering an empty ache in his gut that was as intense as any physical pain he had experienced? Thirty more years in a barren and desolate world of his own making?

How could he go on living, when all those who loved him were gone? How could he even sustain the illusion of wanting to live, when in his heart he only wanted to be with Mary? What reason was there to continue?

And then he heard the song...

"Whom shepherds guard and angels sing; haste, haste to bring him laud, the babe, the son of Mary!"

His hand shook as he raised the gun.

 

 

 
 

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