Beaudry's Ghost Read online

  She looked around to see if any other members of the unit displayed any signs of confusion, but the only people who looked that way were the few sleepy tourists still hanging around the outer edges of the camp. The re-enactors were pitching in and breaking camp as if it were normal to do so in the dead of night. If this whole Beaudry thing was a joke, Leon and the rest of the boys were carrying it a bit far.

  Taylor reached for her knapsack with trembling hands, pulled out her copy of the re-enactment schedule and scanned it. Yes, she’d been right. They were supposed to stay here a day, demonstrating living history to visitors and re-enact the scavenging of a shipwreck for weapons and supplies. They were supposed to interact with tourists, demonstrating muzzle-loading rifles, cooking and camp life, all before receiving a “message” from General Wise that they were to move down toward Roanoke Island to engage Union troops overrunning the Confederate forts.

  A short, intense skirmish was planned, one of the main reasons Taylor had driven several hundred miles to be here.

  She scanned page two of the schedule. A similar group of Union re-enactors was encamped a few miles south toward Cape Hatteras in an effort to spread the events over a wider area. The crush of tourists would have overrun the fragile environment of these long, thin barrier islands, stuck out like the continent’s elbow forty miles into the Atlantic Ocean. The islands served to fend off the wild, pounding waters where the southbound North Atlantic current clashed with the north-flowing Gulf Stream.

  Taylor tucked the paper back inside her knapsack—Troy’s, actually—her fingers brushing against a plastic bag of trail mix, toothbrush, clean underwear and other bits of paper she hadn’t bothered to examine before packing.

  Of course, she reasoned. Someone among the Union re-enactors had heard the legend of Jared Beaudry as well, and had sent this guy as this Beaudry character as a joke. Still, why was Stephen deviating so drastically from the carefully planned course of events? He was usually meticulous. The previous year at the Gettysburg re-enactment, Stephen had even volunteered to have this very unit change into Union uniforms to make sure the correct number of soldiers fought on each side.

  Straightening slowly, she looked down the double row of a dozen tents and frowned. Her friends, normally a friendly, vocal group, moved around as if sleepwalking. Sure, it was late, but these were the same guys who could stay up all night singing, talking war stories and arguing the merits of one general’s tactics over another, then march off at dawn for the battle lines as fresh as the dew wetting their trouser legs.

  Come to think of it, Taylor couldn’t quite get the feel of her feet touching the ground. As if the sea-borne wind blew through every pore of her body, making her shiver with something other than cold.

  In the feeble light of the nearby fire, she glanced at her prisoner and considered talking to Stephen privately. This joke was going too far. Way too far.

  The man who called himself Jared Beaudry had drained all the contents of the canteen in one long gulp, and now let his head sag forward to rest on the heels of his bound hands.

  He was plainly very, very tired. Or maybe ill. She’d decided her first assumption of drunkenness was wrong, since she’d smelled no alcohol on him. But what was he doing here if he was sick? Concerned, Taylor approached and squatted on her heels in front of him, reclaiming the empty canteen that had fallen forgotten to the ground at his side.

  Without her usual caution, she reached to touch his left hand, where the skin was drawn tightly over his clenched knuckles. It was ice cold.

  Instantly a strong impression crashed through her brain—helpless rage, and caged, barely restrained violence. A stinging sensation ran up her arm, as if she’d laid her hand on a hunk of dry ice. With a soft gasp she jerked her hand away, her heart pounding.

  What was happening? All these years of shutting her ability down so easily, only to unleash this beast and have it take new and wildly unpredictable turns? Yet another facet she would have to learn to shut off? She suddenly pictured herself a hermit living on a mountain, swathed in rags and rubber suits to keep from touching anything, anything at all.

  She rubbed her tingling elbow as a similar jolt tugged at the corners of her memory, just out of reach.

  Jared lifted his head and stared at the woman in front of him. If he had doubted Troy’s sincerity before, there was no doubt now this was a woman. Men and boys didn’t have hands that soft. Infantry soldiers didn’t smell the way she smelled, even under the damp wool she wore. She was so close to him now that if he wanted, he could reach out, grab her by the throat and use her as a shield to get the hell out of here.

  But he was exactly where he needed to be. He was here to relive the last few days of his life, and this time he intended to hang on to his body parts. And perhaps exact a little revenge for more than a century of suffering. Honor be damned.

  Well, he’d made it. He was here. Now what? Jared stared down at his hands.

  Hands. Two. A number he had taken for granted, back when he had carried around a pair of his own. The skin on the left one was still warm where her palm had touched it.

  A woman in Rebel uniform. He’d heard rumors of such females, but had never believed them. He and his friends had joked about how the Rebels, running short on able-bodied men, were turning to their women to fight their battles for them. His best friend, Sam Adams Grady, had pondered whether to shoot them or ask them to dance.

  God, he was so damned tired. And shivery as if with fever. He’d expended an enormous amount of energy just to take over this body, and he was nearly played out. On top of that, he desperately craved the sleep he’d been denied for the past century-plus. But still, deep within, a tiny surge of energy, a bright spark of hope, kept his eyes open.

  For a moment during his confrontation with Harris by the fire, Jared had been struck nearly dumb the instant he’d tried to say his own name. Another man’s voice had shouted from deep inside the spiritual prison in which Jared had shoved him, and insisted his name was “John, damn it. John.” It had taken nearly all Jared’s concentration to shut out the voice.

  An involuntary tremor ran down his back as the moist ocean wind chilled through damp clothes to his skin.

  Not his skin, he reminded himself. Another man’s. But it was so damned good to at least pretend it was his own. And to savor the sensation of having another human being actually touch him. Jared glanced at Private Taylor’s slim back, and was shocked by his own imagination picturing what her body must look like under that baggy uniform. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. Was it his imagination, or that of the man he held prisoner deep inside?

  Jared suddenly had the distinct impression he was sitting on top of a rumbling volcano. The man he held prisoner inside this body was fighting like hell to get out, pushing, testing for weaknesses. One wrong move, one moment of inattention, and Jared knew he’d be thrown out and right back where he’d started.

  He closed his eyes and swallowed. Good Lord. As if he didn’t have enough to deal with. Not only his own hundred-plus-years-dormant carnal urges, but the added burden of someone else’s. Jared suppressed a grin. Then again…

  “Excuse me…”

  Jared jerked back to awareness as Taylor twisted around, balancing herself with one palm on the ground. A woman stood uncertainly by the tent, dressed some kind of rumpled suit that looked made from potato sacks. Her curly hair lay flattened on one side of her head from sleeping on it. In the woman’s hand was a small silver box with a blinking red light on the front. In spite of himself, Jared stared at the machine in fascination.

  “Yes, ma’am?” Taylor rose to her feet and whacked the canteen against her leg to knock the sand off.

  “Is all this planned?” The woman gestured to the camp, where canvas tents bellied in the wind as their supports were taken away. “Wasn’t this unit supposed to stay here until tomorrow?”

  Taylor opened her mouth, and closed it again, apparently undecided about something. “Ma’am,” she said in a low-pitched
voice, pointing toward the lieutenant as he emerged from his tent, fully dressed. “That there’s Bloody Zachariah Harris, 2nd North Carolina. Ever heard of him?”

  The woman blinked. “Why, yes, I read about him before I…”

  “Then I don’t need to tell you, ma’am, when he gives an order, it ain’t no request.” Taylor smiled a genuine smile of amusement as the woman wandered away, little red light on her contraption still blinking, muttering something about this being the most poorly planned re-enactment she’d ever…

  Jared went still as he recalled Taylor’s choice of words. Bloody Zachariah Harris. She’d spoken the name as if it were a joke.

  He must have made a noise, because Taylor turned completely around and stared at him, then narrowed her eyes and knelt down close.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  Jared raised his gaze and tried to focus on Private Taylor’s spectacled eyes, wide and defenseless as she studied him.

  “That woman. Wearing those…potato sacks.”

  Taylor glanced over her shoulder in confusion. “What, the tourist?” she gestured with her thumb. “They’re all over the place. We’ll be tripping over them before…haven’t you…?” Realization dawned in her face, then intense relief. “Ah, I get it. The boys in the Union unit down island sent you, right? As a joke?” She leaned forward conspiratorially, her eyes sparkling. “That’s okay, Beaudry. I’ll play along.”

  Jared gazed in wonder as a fresh well of tears brightened her eyes. She laughed softly and dashed them away before he could reach out and do it for her.

  “Or you’re a newbie stumbling around in the wrong place. This unit is the 35th Tennessee, Company H, temporarily attached to the 2nd North Carolina for this re-enactment. You took a wrong turn at Kitty Hawk. You’re supposed to be with the group down toward Cape Hatteras. Didn’t you get directions with your registration materials?”

  Jared wanted very much to laugh, but feared if he gave in to the wild urge, he might not be able to stop.

  He was on this train, and he might as well ride it all the way down.

  Weak relief flooded Taylor’s limbs. Maybe she wasn’t going insane, after all. The ghost on the beach had been a dream; Jared Beaudry was not sitting in front of her tent in the sand, bound by the hands. Stephen Powell was only doing an exceptional job of portraying Lt. Harris, even if it meant breaking the schedule of events to do it. Trust Stephen to keep things interesting.

  “So,” she said companionably as she worked. “This is your first re-enactment?”

  A long pause. “Not…exactly.”

  Something about his tone of voice caused Taylor to glance at him.

  The pasty look was gone, and he smiled that smile again. Dangerously curved. The smile of a man accustomed to pushing things right to the edge. A funny sensation curled low in her abdomen, and Taylor forced herself to look away. Heaven knew she hadn’t been attracted to anyone for quite a while. This was not the time for her hormones to decide to kick back in. She had things to do, places to go.

  Someone to see.

  She shook her head and touched a loose button on Troy’s uniform and waited for the vibrations, the visions that in this case just wouldn’t seem to come.

  A flash of light caught the corner of her eye, and she turned her head along with Beaudry toward the source. Glaring lights, mounted on tall poles, shone down on a cluster of white, boxy houses on stilts set far behind the sand dunes. Taylor had never liked that kind of modern design. She preferred the older clapboard homes; weathered, low-roofed and hunkered down against the buffeting winds.

  She looked at him again as the smile disappeared. He muttered an oath and brought his hands up to press against his forehead.

  Taylor glanced at the streetlights, newly relit by returning power, and back at Beaudry, frowning. “Are you sure you don’t need a doctor?”

  This was getting weirder by the minute. This guy was bipolar and off his meds, or he had a concussion or something. She made to turn away to look for her commanding officer.

  Jared reached out and grasped the front of Taylor’s uniform, his fingers closing in a desperate grip.

  “Listen to me. There’s something I have to do.”

  She froze, too stunned to speak. A current, emanating from Jared’s clutching hands, spread through her torso and down her limbs. She forgot to pull away as the current grew stronger and took her breath. She couldn’t shut herself off. Her power to do so fled the second he locked eyes with hers.

  His face was angular and undeniably attractive. But his eyes…his eyes reflected bottomless age. An old soul, Taylor found herself thinking.

  “Do?” she whispered, slightly lightheaded.

  He shook her once, hard. Then his fingers, trembling, awkward in their bindings, released her uniform long enough to touch the soft curve of her jaw. A light touch, barely there. But electrifying. She trembled under his caress and fought the notion that something was terribly out of place about this man.

  He appeared to be willing himself to think clearly. “I know you don’t believe who I am, but just remember one thing. Whatever happens, stay out of the way. Don’t help me.”

  “Private Taylor!” The roared imperative nearly knocked Taylor off her feet. Wrenching away from the Yankee, she stumbled to a semblance of attention and faced Stephen, who was backed up by Leon Gulley’s imposing bulk.

  The raw fury on his face sent a jolt down her spine.

  Stephen wouldn’t have his Colt revolver drawn, cocked and pointed directly at someone’s head, even if loaded only with blanks.

  But Zachariah Harris would. Taylor’s stomach turned over.

  “Sir, the prisoner is ill,” she managed, moving without thought to block the lieutenant’s view of him. Illness was as close as she could come to describing the Yankee’s state of health. Or mind.

  Stephen’s eyes slid from the Yankee to her. “Ill, is he? Ill? Have you no sense, Private? The bastard was an inch away from disarming you!”

  And how, she thought, belatedly noting her musket lay several feet beyond her reach. Troy, after recovering from a bout of helpless laughter, would have given her a good dressing down for this. Lt. Harris might have her shot where she stood.

  “Load your gear on the wagon, boy, while I have a talk with our guest.”

  Jared took his eyes off Harris just long enough to note Private Taylor’s face as she backed toward the wagons, grabbing her gear and lugging it behind her. Guilt stabbed at him.

  She’s frightened. But that’s all right, Private Taylor. I’m feeling none too courageous myself at the moment. Pray God you listen to me and stay out of the way.

  Then Harris blocked his view as he crouched down to eye level, waving the muzzle of his pistol in lazy, calculated figure eights.

  “Mr. Beaudry,” said Harris with a cheerful silkiness that crawled down Jared’s spine, “what you say in the next few minutes will have a grave impact upon your life span.” The muzzle drifted lower. “And upon your unborn offspring.”

  Jared’s left hand, the one Harris had removed a hundred years ago, warmed as if held too close to a fire. His brain, he realized, might not remember the exact time he’s lost the limb. But the flesh remembered. Breathing slowly, he ignored the sensation and met Harris’s smile with a polite one of his own.

  Don’t do it, Beaudry. Don’t do it… warned his better sense.

  “If God be at all merciful, Lieutenant, my seed is already planted and the vines being trained to twine around Rebel throats,” he said with equal friendliness, expecting and getting the flicker of reaction in Harris’s face.

  The lieutenant’s smile faded.

  “Any vines that come sniffing around me, Sergeant, will be pruned. Therefore, I advise you to cooperate, should you wish to return to your Ohio roots. Now.” Harris settled himself more comfortably on his heels. “About this cavalry unit of yours which has, by some miracle, penetrated undetected this deep into Confederate lands…” The sentence trailed off and Harr
is lifted an expectant eyebrow.

  Jared instantly placed a bland expression on his face, though his fists tightened in their bonds. There were no troops. But Harris didn’t have to know that. Harris still thought it was 1862.

  As the silence lengthened, the expression on Harris’s face changed to a mixture of impatience and glee. His pistol, with knife-edged precision, rose to aim dead center between Jared’s eyes.

  Jared’s hand burned, and he clenched it. The wind, already strong from an offshore storm system, picked up another notch, whipping up a gust of sand.

  “Your unit, Sergeant Beaudry. Who commands it? How many horses, guns and men? What are its intentions, or is it part of a larger scheme? Because it won’t work, you know. We’ve known for months now that General Burnside has been planning something. You can’t possibly tell me anything I haven’t already guessed.”

  Grady, I know you aren’t alive, but if by the grace of God your spirit is wandering around here somewhere, I could sure as hell use that cavalry right about now…

  “Then where,” said Beaudry softly, tilting his head in genuine curiosity, “is your commission, Lieutenant? Surely a brilliant tactician such as yourself would have caught the eye of ol’ Joe Johnston himself, by now.” Then, brightening, “Ah, but those West Point boys are too busy promoting each other up the ranks to notice someone who wasn’t fit to set foot inside the front gates.”

  Jared bit his wayward tongue. Hadn’t he learned his lesson? The last thing he ought to do—again—was antagonize someone like Harris. But then, he never had been able to resist yanking any overblown officer’s chain.

  This unfortunate little character flaw had gotten him into trouble more times than he could count.

  All the same, that didn’t prevent him from smiling and adding, “Am I right, Lieutenant?”

  From her spot by the wagon, where she refilled her canteen from the water barrel, Taylor admired the sparkle that lit Beaudry’s eyes and the smile that lifted the corners of his mouth. The wind blotted out their conversation, but she relaxed when she saw that the two men appeared to be exchanging pleasantries.