Only the Gallant by Kerry Newcomb Read Free Book Online

bread and berry cobbler. The widow made no secret as to her allegiance. The walls of her restaurant were decorated with the stars and bars of the Confederacy. Interspersed between the Rebel flags were several of the widow’s oil paintings depicting a handsome array of gray-clad soldiers marching off to war, leaving sweethearts and loved ones behind. The one above McQueen’s table was entitled FAREWELL TO ALEXANDRIA, and it featured an especially poignant rendering of sad-faced, cherubic children clinging to their mother’s billowing skirt, their pudgy hands waving a last good-bye to the father they might never see again.
    By the time Jesse finished the meal, he knew Ophelia’s name and that her brother was the notorious Captain Bon Tyrone, a Confederate cavalryman and scourge of Yankee patrols. Ophelia had spoken longingly of Dunsinane, the Tyrone plantation northeast of Vicksburg. Jesse spoke of the family farm in the Indian Territory and how his grandfather had forsaken the comforts of his ancestral home outside Philadelphia for the plains of the territory. He spoke of his childhood and his Choctaw grandmother, Raven O’Keefe McQueen, and her magical ways, how she taught him of the spirit in all things, the wind, the earth, and the creatures of the plains.
    Ophelia was a good listener and found herself liking the second lieutenant despite the color of his uniform. She kept him talking, and not just for interest’s sake. She didn’t want him asking questions about what had brought a young woman such as herself out into the Memphis streets at night and alone. She could always claim the lame excuse that her driver had run off and she had gone looking for him. But that was hardly the only reason, and the truth—a clandestine meeting with her cousin Elmo Dern—might well land her in a Yankee prison. So she smiled and led her companion on. Indeed, Ophelia found the stories of his youth fascinating. She recognized his loneliness. He was a man far from home and a stranger. She, on the other hand, was home, though equally a stranger. Memphis was occupied country now, peopled by enemies of which Jesse McQueen was one. By rights, Ophelia ought to hate him.
    Instead, she ordered a second dessert and let the minutes flow by like the unceasing currents of the Mississippi. She wondered where they were carrying her.
    Jesse leaned back in his chair and noticed the last occupied table had just emptied. Three middle-aged men, merchants all, filed across the lantern-lit room toward the front door. Constance Petersen waited for them, greeting each of the Southerners with an affectionate farewell. The widow was an attractive woman in her late thirties, doe-eyed and voluptuous in her saffron-colored dress and apron, her cheeks smudged with a trace of cornmeal. She had a knack for making each of the merchants feel important. The merchants had stared stonily at Ophelia and Jesse throughout the evening. They had made no attempt to hide their disapproval of the woman’s actions, consorting with one of the Northern oppressors. But the merry widow of Memphis seemed to have melted the merchants’ icy resolve with a whisper and teasing admonitions. The men left in better spirits. Jesse had the feeling the widow Petersen lived quite a colorful life. Obviously she was not about to pine away for her deceased husband. The widow turned from the door and, sensing Jesse’s scrutiny, met his gaze. She flashed him a look of invitation and a lusty smile.
    “Constance likes you,” Ophelia said, noting the widow’s interest.
    “No doubt her husband died in bed,” said McQueen. With a smile on his face , he silently added.
    “Why, so he did. How did you know? The poor man, I am told, just wasted away.”
    “Drained,” McQueen wryly commented.
    Ophelia caught his meaning, blushed, and returned her attention to the last of the cobbler set before her in a stoneware bowl. Two bites and it was finished. Jesse gulped the last of his coffee. Being the