Union Encampment, 10 Miles South of Spotsylvania Courthouse, March 1861

          "Malcolm!"
          He turned and she was there, like always, running toward him across the barnyard, laughing brightly, her long, auburn hair flowing behind her like a banner of silk. He caught her up and swung her around, gazing into her beautiful brown eyes touched with gold, and glittering with love. Slowly he lowered her down, his eyes never leaving her face. A face he would know anywhere.
          "Malcolm."
          She said his name softly, seductively. Dear God, how he wanted her. He lowered his mouth to hers. She stretched up on her toes, pressing her breasts into his chest, teasing him, enticing him. Their lips met. Fire upon fire. His tongue found hers and desire consumed him. He had to possess her. He had to have her. He pulled her closer, crushing her to him...
           KA-BO-O-OM!!
          The first explosion caught him unawares. Malcolm jerked away from the girl and turned. Behind him the confusion of a battlefield erupted. Canon smoke, soot, dust and dirt, men screaming, and the field littered with men caught up in war. He heard the shrieking, saw men falling to gun fire, smelled the acrid smoke wrought by shell fire, and the rusty scent of blood. Another explosion, too close.
          Behind him, she screamed. He turned back. The farmhouse was gone, but she was still there, staring at him with horror in her eyes. He grabbed her hand and began to run toward the trees. He had to get her to shelter. He had to save her.
          She stumbled over her skirts and fell. He fell with her.
          He got back to his feet and pulled her up, but it was too late. He heard the horseman gaining on them and turned. The rider raced toward them, saber raised over his head. Malcolm reached for his revolver. He aimed and fired, but nothing happened. Perspiration beaded his forehead; the rider was almost upon him. He reached for his saber, but his scabbard was empty.
          Dear God, he was unarmed, and the rider was on him now. He could do nothing but stare up into the cold, pale eyes of the man who was about to cut him down.
          "Malcolm, no!" the girl shrieked. She pushed him aside just as the saber sliced downward.
          "No-o-o!" The cry ripped from his throat, and Malcolm sat bolt upright, his lungs heaving, his body covered with sweat.
          "Major! Major MacInnes, are you all right?"
          Malcolm looked up at the young man running toward him. Corporal Lester. Then he glanced around himself. Camp. He gulped in a deep lungful of air. It had only been a dream. Thank God. But...it was the dream. It was back.
          He raised one unsteady hand to wave assurance to the corporal, and ran the other through his damp hair. "I—I'm fine, corporal."
          "Yes, sir." Corporal Lester halted, then ambled away.
          Malcolm held one hand in front of his face and stared at it. He couldn't will the trembling to cease. He dropped it to his lap and glanced at the camp around him. He hadn't had the dream in such a long time. Why had it come back now?
          He tried to shake off his lingering uneasiness, but the dream had been so vivid this time, and terrifying. And the girl. She had been so...real. The oddest part of the whole thing, however, was the persistent feeling that he knew her. She felt familiar somehow. Surely that was only because he'd dreamed of her often enough. She wasn't real. Certainly he'd never met her. If he had, he would have remembered.
          He lay back on his bedroll and closed his eyes. From past experience he knew the dream was over and it wouldn't come again tonight. Thank God he'd reach Washington by tomorrow evening. Then he could look forward to a nice long stretch of peaceful leave...

*************************

Handelman's Mercantile, Fredericksburg, Virginia, March 1861

          "Five inches deep and shipped all the way from New Orleans!"
          "It's beautiful, Mrs. Handelman."
          "And it would look so nice with that blue dress you're making. Ja?"
          It would indeed, but...Abigail released the delicately scalloped lace she'd been fingering and shook her head. "Thank you, Mrs. Handelman, but I—I can't afford it. What with our winter crops doing so poorly..."
          The plump woman patted her shoulder. "Na, do not worry over that. Papa and I want you to have it. Come, let me wrap it up for you."
          Abigail's eyes widened with pleasure, but just as quickly an image of her father's disapproving scowl evaporated her elation. She shook her head again. "I couldn't possibly—"
          "You can, liebchen, and you will. Here now—you wait right here une Augenblick." Winking, Mrs. Handelman pulled the bolt from the shelf and trundled off behind the counter to disappear in the back.
          Abigail could scarcely suppress her giddy grin and, clasping her hands together, she pressed them to her lips to stifle a giggle. Just what she needed to finish her dress in time for Peter's return. And what a dress it would be.
          Thinking of the silky blue satin gown which awaited her under a dust cloth in her bedroom, she slid one hand over the bodice of her plain, green cotton gingham. She'd never owned anything so fine, so expensive, so fashionable as that satin dress. She smiled to think her father would likely have an apoplexy over the bodice, cut daringly low, but it was the style women were wearing these days, and she was near enough a woman. She traced her full bust approvingly with her hand. Eighteen years and eight months...and every bit as shapely as the women she'd seen at Mrs. Barnaby's House of Repose, a place for men of certain vice.
          Strolling to one of the freestanding shelves laden with toiletries, she picked up a bar of soap and lifted it to savor the sweet lavender scent. Just as hushed voices from the other side reached her ears, and pricked her feelings.
          "Imagine that! Alma Handelman giving her all that lovely lace."
          "Well the woman never had any common sense."
          "I've never understood how Alma can dote on her. Everyone knows what kind of a girl she is."
          "Yes. Wild and wanton as any of those ladies at Mrs. Barnaby's. Abigail O'Connor is a trollop, that's what she is, and it's too bad her poor old Papa doesn't know it. She's going to disgrace him, and put him in an early grave—"
          "Oh, you're so right, dear. She's been chasing after that Gallagher lad. Why, I've heard she's already given him what he's after and that's what keeps him sniffing around her door."
          "Well, he'll never marry her."
          "He most certainly will not. You did hear, didn't you, Iris dear? He's become engaged to a girl over to Halifax County way."
          "Peter Gallagher is engaged? I hadn't heard."
          "Oh my, yes! His parents are simply delighted with the girl. She comes from a very good family. Her father is involved in cotton or peanuts, or some such, and they're very well off."
          "Well, won't Miss Abigail O'Connor be shocked to hear about this."
          "I knew he would never have her."
          "And what gentleman would? She's a tramp."
          Abigail stood stock still several long moments after the whispers ended. Her ears rang in the silence and her eyes throbbed with the presence of tears. The names didn't truly bother her; she'd heard them all before. Growing up on the outskirts of society, without a mother to curb her enthusiasm, she'd quickly been branded a hoyden. No, it wasn't the cruel names that stung, but...Peter was engaged? It wasn't possible. It couldn't be true! Lying old biddies. She sucked in a hard, painful breath. Peter would never betray her—he wouldn't! He'd sworn he loved her. Carefully, she replaced the bar of soap, fighting back the sob that ached to escape. Then, as quietly as she was able, she walked to the end of the shelf and peeked round the end.
The three women had moved closer to the front counter. She could probably reach the door without being noticed, though she had to cross that open space...She took a deep steadying breath, gathered her skirts and started toward the back of the store.
          "Abigail, where are you going?"
          Abigail halted, bright crimson creeping up her face. Humiliating titters erupted behind her. Slowly, she turned back. Mrs. Handelman was bustling toward her with a wrapped package, but behind the German woman...the three women at the counter were sharing smug grins and whispering behind gloved hands. Abigail's cheeks flamed brighter still, but she held her ground and waited for Mrs. Handelman. She accepted the package with a wan smile. Lace for the dress she was making to wear for Peter—which suddenly weighed as much as an armload of bricks.
          "Thank you, Mrs. Handelman," she murmured, crushing the package to her chest as another panicky sob rose inside her. She had to get out. She had to flee. She turned and practically ran through the door, but the sunshine blinded her the moment she stepped outside. Stumbling to a halt, she had to squint to see across the broad porch front. Down below her father's wagon waited, already loaded with supplies and sacks of seed. Her safe haven.
          Abigail swiftly strode across the wooden porch, her boots ringing hollow on the planking. As hollow as she felt. Still she managed to keep a brave face. She skipped down the steps, and her father and Mr. Handelman, standing beside the wagon, both turned from their discussion of business.
          Her father, having drawn his pipe for his customary smoke on the long drive home, jabbed the pipe stem in her direction, indicating the package she carried. "What's that you got there, Abby girl?"
          "It's lace for my dress," Abigail said quietly. The dress she no longer had a desire to finish.
          Her father's brows furrowed. "Ah, Abby, you know we haven't got money for such as that."
          "Yes, Papa, but—"
          "Abby, no buts. Now take it back."
          "But Papa, Mrs. Handelman gave it to me."
          Her father sighed. "Abby, we aren't the sort after taking charity."
          "Ach, Patrick, it's only lace for a dress," Mr. Handelman said. "Mama wanted her to have it."
          "You've done kindly by us, Friedrich, and I'm beholden to ya, but the O'Connors pay for what they want. Now Abby, give Mr. Handelman the lace and let's get going." Her father jerked his head toward the wagon.
         "Yes, Papa." She offered the wrapped bundle to Mr. Handelman, but he folded his ample arms across his wide chest.
          "No."
          "Now see here, you stubborn old German, she'll not keep it—"
          Abigail's heart ached, her stomach churned, and she couldn't bear another minute of this debate. Impatiently she thrust the package at the shopkeeper. "Please, Mr. Handelman, just take it."
          Mr. Handelman's jaw dropped, but instead of taking the parcel, he touched her arm. "Abigail—Mama said you need it for a dress you are making. A dress you will wear for Peter Gallagher when he comes home."
       Oh Lord, please not now...Abigail's eyes shot to her father. His face darkened and his jaw tightened but he said nothing. She sighed in relief. Peter Gallagher. Ever a bone of contention between them. And just now she had no desire to be party to an argument—especially not about Peter. And especially not in public. Not after hearing that he might be...engaged.
          Mr. Handelman squared his shoulders. "Come now, Patrick. It's a gift. Are you saying we cannot give your daughter a gift?"
          Patrick O'Connor's gaze skipped back to the mercantile door. Abigail followed where her father's attention had been drawn, and blanched. The three elderly women were standing there, watching the exchange. The same three that had said Peter was engaged. The same three that had named her a harlot.
          Abigail's face blazed bright red again and her gaze snapped back to her father. He merely tipped his hat in the direction of the women, then hitched his shoulders and jammed his pipe stem between his teeth. "All right, Handelman. We'll take the bloody lace. But you be sure to put it on my bill, you hear?"
          Abigail hastened to clamber up into the wagon, the sting of humiliation pricking her. Only the shards of her pride kept her from breaking out in tears. It seemed interminable moments passed before her father also mounted and settled on the seat beside her. Then, at last, he gathered the reins and clucked to the team.
          The horses threw their weight into their harnesses and slowly the wagon lumbered forward, too slowly for Abigail's liking. She could feel the gloating stares of those three women on her back and she could imagine the cruel gossip they would continue to spew long after she was gone. The wagon finally rounded the side of the mercantile and turned out onto the main road, and Abigail was able to take a decent breath.
          Thankfully her father didn't seem to notice her distress for she could never bring herself to repeat what those women had said about her. It would break her father's heart. The moments of peaceful silence did not last, however. They ended with her father's long drawn out sigh.
          "Abby, girl, we need to talk."
          Abigail stiffened on the hard, wooden seat. She knew what was coming, and she didn't want to have this conversation yet again. Certainly not today.
          "Abby, I know you have your heart set on young Gallagher—"
          "Papa, please, we've discussed this before."
          "That we have, girl, and we'll discuss it again, until you get some sense into that hard noggin of yours."
          He fell quiet for several moments. Another sigh heralded the resumption of his patience. "Abby darlin', I wish you'd forget him. What's a boy like Peter goin' to want with a girl like yourself? We're not of his class, Abby. We're poor."
          Abigail's chin notched upward defiantly. "Peter doesn't care about that." Or did he?
          "Oh, ho, ho, ho! And that's just where you're wrong, my girl. Do you really think Alfred Gallagher would let his one and only son court a girl like you?"
          "Papa—"
          Her father turned to her and shook a gnarled finger. "Peter Gallagher wants only one thing from you, Abigail Margaret O'Connor, and once he gets that he'll be through with you. You mark my words."
          "Peter Gallagher is a gentleman, Papa, and not given to trifling with young women. He has declared that he loves me, and he is not the sort to so falsely swear. I believe him, and once he has confronted his mother we will be married. You'll see!"
          Abigail folded her arms across her chest. At one time her assertion would have been rendered without reservation, but now...One of the wheels hit a rut, forcing her to grab for the seat rail to keep from sliding off, and she breathed a curse under her breath.
          "Ah, Abby, love, I do know what I'm talkin' about. You can't marry above your station in life. You'll never be accepted."
          Abigail detected the sad note in her father's voice, but she continued to stare straight ahead. Was he speaking of his marriage to her mother? She'd heard the story often enough, of how he had charmed her mother into a marriage her family did not want. A marriage to a poor, Irish immigrant. Then her family had disowned her.
          But Peter's situation was different. His parents would never disown him if they were to marry. You're wrong this time, Papa. It's not like that for Peter and me.
          Or was it?
          The drive home was finished in silence. Except for the creaking and jingling of the harnesses and the rattle and groan of the old wagon, the only other sounds on this cool spring morning were the occasional twitter of birds and the clop of the horses' hooves.
          But the quiet suited Abigail. She didn't want to argue over Peter Gallagher. She would much rather think about him, and the fact that he was due to return in a few weeks. And nothing her father could say could dissuade her from seeing him, or loving him.
          Even though, she now had more doubts to add to those raised by her father.
          She understood her father's misgivings about Peter. Misgivings that so often teased her late at night when she lay unsleeping in her bed. The young man was handsome, intelligent and wealthy, and traditionally such men did not cast their lot with a young woman of simple means, but she had known Peter all her life, and she knew he was enchanted by her. They had grown up together, they had played together, and she could not imagine a life without him in it. What did it matter that she couldn't afford fancy clothes and fine boots? She didn't need those things. She'd quite captured Peter Gallagher's heart with her smiles, and a few flirtatious looks, though her father would have been appalled to know it.
          However, just now she was being haunted by another thought—recollections of the kisses she and Peter had secretly shared in her father's barn. Kisses she had enjoyed far too much. Kisses which had roused strange and frightening urges and made her wonder if perhaps she was wanton after all. Perhaps she was not fit to be married to anyone of Peter's social standing, and perhaps that was why he'd never actually promised her marriage...A chill wound its way through her veins though she tried to ignore it.
          Was it possible that those old biddies were right? Was it possible that Peter had promised himself to another girl without ever a thought of marrying her? No, it couldn't be! He had sworn to her that he loved her. In his last letter he'd sworn his undying love no matter what the future would bring.
          But the immediate future was bringing him home from his assignment in Pennsylvania. She would greet him in her new dress and hold him in her arms, and he would be quite charmed into begging for her hand—and that would still those wagging tongues in Fredericksburg.
          Effortlessly, she conjured a vision of Peter dressed in his Federal uniform, the deep blue contrasting with his golden hair and pale blue eyes. This time it was a thrill that caused her to shiver. Peter was incredibly dashing, and she loved to hear him talk of his army life, his comrades and commanders, and his adventures in camp.
          Her heart was still skipping to these thoughts when they reached the turn to the farm. The old wagon complained as it rounded the bend through the trees. They passed the tired old farmhouse and drove on toward the ancient barn.
          "Ho Atlas, ho Axel," her father crooned and the wagon creaked to a halt. "Abby girl, would you get the barn doors?"
          "Yes, Papa."
          She jumped down from the wagon and hauled open first one, and then the other, of the massive wooden doors. Her father drove the team into the barn. He set the brake, wound the reins around the whipstaff and climbed down from the wagon with a groan.
          "Ah these bones are gettin' too old."
          Abigail rounded the wagon to join her father. She noted the weariness on his face. The weariness that seemed to deepen more every day since her mother's passing. "Do you want me to help you unload the wagon, Papa?"
          "No, daughter, I'll send for Mr. Eagen's boy, Willie, to do it later. I'll just unhitch the team—"
          "I'll do it, Papa." Abigail touched his arm. "You go on in the house. I'll get the team settled and then I'll come up and make you something to eat."
          Her father gave her a tired smile and patted her hand. "You're a good daughter, Abby, my love, and I don't know what I'd do without you."
          Warmed by his words, Abigail watched her father shuffle out of the barn, then set herself to the task of unhitching the bigger of the two geldings, Atlas. When both horses were finally settled in their stalls with hay to tide them till the evening feeding, she turned to head for the house.
          "Abigail," a voice hissed through the darkness.
          Abigail spun back around. "Wh-who's there?"
          "It's me, Peter."
          "Peter?" Her heart leapt hard, crashing against her ribs. Anxiously, she searched the darkness, happiness and excitement flooding her, completely dispelling the gloom that had ridden her all the long way home.
          Then she spied him, stepping out from behind the stalls.
          "Peter!" She ran to him, throwing herself fully into his arms, knocking his hat from his head and nearly knocking him from his feet. "Peter, you are here."
          "Sh-h-h! Be quiet. You don't want your father to hear."
          He pushed her gently away, but Abigail insisted, clinging to his neck and bestowing an eager kiss on his lips. Peter hesitated only a moment, then encircled her with his arms, sliding his hands down to her lower back to pull her close, turning her chaste embrace into something bolder.
          This time it was Abigail who pulled back, unnerved by his brazen response. "Peter," she gasped, blushing. "Wh-what are you doing here? You're not due to arrive for another three weeks. And you're still in uniform." Her gaze swept the length of his blue wool uniform, and she suppressed a shiver. "You've not been home yet?"
          "No, my love, I came straight away to see you."
          She giggled. "But your mother will be so angry. You know how she lives to dote on you, her one and only son."
          Peter's golden brows lowered in a mock scowl. "Do you wish to discuss my mother? Or give me a proper greeting?"
          "A-A proper greeting?"
          "We can go up to the hayloft." A sinful grin stretched across his face.
          "That would hardly be proper."
          "Exactly," Peter said in a husky voice she barely recognized.
          Abigail blushed, recollections of the hateful slander she'd heard only that morning rekindling her uncertainty. She struggled to free herself from his hold, but Peter held her fast.
          "Abigail, since when have you given any care to propriety?"
          Abigail's blush deepened, underscored by the knowledge that he knew her too well. Never had she behaved as a proper young lady should—riding astride, hunting, fishing, allowing him to escort her about unchaperoned. Now she nearly winced at the hypocrisy searing her conscience.     "I don't want to ruin my reputation."
          His chuckle added to her chagrin, and his next words were more than a little patronizing. "Of course you don't, and I promise we'll keep our little reunion all to ourselves. No one will ever know I was here save you, me, and those two beasts in their stalls. Now don't be a goose. I want to spend some time with my girl." He grabbed her hand and began to tug her toward the loft ladder.
       His girl? Was he serious? Her heart skipped a beat before common sense won out. She had to know. She had to be certain. She planted her feet.
          Peter halted and looked back. "Now what?"
          Abigail noted with dismay that he didn't try to hide his exasperation, but she had to find out the truth. Now. Before she gave in to him. She bit her lower lip, trying to dredge up some courage. At the same time she tried mightily to convince herself she was being foolish. "Today in the mercantile, I heard some talk."
          "Abigail, I haven't much time—"
          "It was about you. Some ladies...they said—they said you're engaged to be married."
          Peter stared at her half an instant, then his lips curved upward in amusement. "Wh-What?" He chuckled, shaking his head. "You know you shouldn't listen to gossip."
          "How can I not, when they're talking about you?"
         "Abby—"
          "So, it's not true? It's just gossip?" Abigail stared into his pale blue eyes.
          Peter held her gaze for another moment, a much longer one this time, then he looked away, past her, before his gaze skittered down to the straw covered floor. He released her hand and thrust both of his through his thick golden mane. "Abigail..." Her name came out on a guilt- ridden sigh.
          And the breath left Abigail's lungs. Her hands began to tremble and she clutched fistfuls of her skirt to try to keep them still. "Peter, tell me—is it true?"
          He brought his gaze back to hers. His face was sober. "You have to understand—"
          "Understand?" she barely whispered. "What? That you never meant what you said? That all the times you said you loved me..." She sucked in a hard breath. "You never meant it?"
          "Abby, you're being unreasonable—"
          "Unreasonable? You never intended to marry me, did you?"
          Peter's eyes narrowed to slits. "You've known all along how my mother feels about you—"
          "So you—you lied to me?"
          "I never lied to you."
          "You said you loved me. You said you wanted to spend your life with me—"
          "And I do. But if you'll recall, I never said I'd marry you."
          Cold engulfed her, and Abigail shook her head, the shock of his words conflicting with her disbelief. Peter's face was blurring before her eyes, but she couldn't seem to stop the tears, and as hard as she blinked them away, they just came back, spilling down her cheeks against her will in two hot tracks.
          She tried to turn away. She wanted to run back to the house, but Peter wouldn't allow it. He grabbed her upper arms and spun her back around to face him.
          "Abby, don't be difficult. I came here to see you because I love you, and I want you. God knows how I want you, Abby. I have for a very long time."
          Abigail again shook her head, defying his words, but Peter did not permit her protest. One hand held tight around her midsection, the other grasped her chin and forced her to face him. Then his mouth crashed down on hers. Abigail slammed her fists into his shoulders, to no effect.
          Dear God, Peter was engaged. He was engaged and now he thought to—to defile her? She kicked hard into his shin, but connected only with his leather boot. Still she managed to twist her mouth away from his. "Let me go."
          "Damn you," he growled.
          He tried to kiss her again but Abigail turned her head, determined to evade his mouth. Peter would have none of it. Roughly thrusting his hand through her hair, he cradled the back of her head in a firm grip, then took her mouth again in a savage attack, rocking his hips hard against her.
          Shocked by his behavior, Abigail shoved the heels of her hands into his shoulders in a vain attempt to extricate herself from the sinful embrace. But Peter held her tightly and she could feel the weight of him...trying to pull her down.
       Cr-rack!
          The sound echoed through the still air of the barn, startling them both from their struggle. Peter jerked his head upward, staring past her toward the barn doors, his face suddenly pale. "Damn," he whispered.
          "What was that?" Abigail demanded, wriggling free of his weakened grip, but inwardly she feared she already knew.  Though muffled, the sound could not be mistaken. It was a gunshot. And it had been fired in the barnyard. Her heart pounding so violently she physically shook, Abigail clawed at his arm. "Who's out there?"
          Peter shook off her hand, ignoring her question. "Stay here!" he ordered. Then he stalked past her out the barn.
          Abigail spun around and stared after him a full moment before she started moving. It seemed to take an eternity to reach the barn doors, but when she did she halted, a cry seizing in her throat.
          Peter was standing beside a Federal soldier, arguing angrily, shaking his head. At their feet lay her father. Unmoving.
          "Papa!" Abigail shrieked, unmindful of the huge stranger by Peter's side. She saw only her father face down in the dirt. And she began to run.
          "Papa!" Tears blurred her vision and her skirts tripped her.
          The stranger looked up in surprise. Peter turned, but he never had a chance to call out to her. Abigail never really heard the second shot, but she felt it, if only for a second.  Searing pain ripped through her midsection. In shock she reached down—and brought up her hand covered in blood.
          "Abigail!"
          She looked up and saw Peter running toward her, but she couldn't wait for him to catch her. Her legs crumpled beneath her and she fell into the dirt. Pain shot through her limbs and darkened her vision.
          "Peter, help me," she begged, her voice scarcely more than a breath. She could see nothing but dirt and booted feet, and then her eyes fell heavily shut. But she felt hands on her arms. Warm hands against her growing chill. And then she heard Peter's voice.
          "Dear God, Abigail." And a moment later. "Why the hell did you shoot her?"
          The answer came from behind her. From a third man she hadn't seen, the man who had shot her. And they were the last words Abigail heard that day.
          "You know same as me, Gallagher. We cain't have no witnesses."