Down Home Dixie. Pamela BrowningЧитать онлайн книгу.
where I got shot. Fake blood to make it more authentic for the audience.”
“That’s disgusting, making a game out of war.”
“Oh, I don’t think so.”
“I suppose the Union always wins,” she said before she could help herself. Immediately, she regretted her snarkiness. But it was too late though to take it back now.
His eyes crinkled when he smiled. “Not at all,” he said. “I recently took part in a reenactment at Manassas, Virginia, where Johnny Reb trounced us big-time.”
“What happens after these battles? Everybody picks up their guns and goes home?”
“More or less.”
“As opposed to the real thing, where a lot of good men died.” She couldn’t help it. She’d been a participant in too many Confederate Memorial Day ceremonies. Twice, she’d been chosen to lay the wreath on the monument in Memorial Park where the names of several of her forebears were inscribed. And moreover, she’d lost two friends to snipers in Afghanistan, great guys that she would mourn forever. She couldn’t comprehend why reenactors liked to play at war.
It took Kyle a few seconds to answer. When he did, his voice was respectful. “Good men were lost on both sides. And that’s why we reenactors do what we do—to educate people about the hardships of war, one of which is dying. And to commemorate the men who gave up their lives in the conflict.”
His gaze was steady, and she found herself mesmerized by his deep voice. “You see, Dixie, when we reenactors return to where the battle took place, we live the same way as the soldiers who fought. We sleep in tents, shiver in the rain and cook our food over sputtering campfires. We wear the same kind of clothes as they did, constructed out of the same type of fabric. We endure insects and lack of refrigeration. At night, when we miss home and family, we sing their songs. We try to be them, for a few days or even a week.
“Even so, we can’t imagine what it was really like. We’re not going to die out there of dysentery or be captured and sent to a prison and we’re not going to take a musket ball in the gut when the charge is rushing over the hill. At the end of the battle, we’ll go home to a warm bed and decent food and people who love us, as many of those who really fought that battle never could. Why do we do what we do? To remember. To keep them alive in our hearts.”
Dixie had always regarded reenactors as little boys indulging in pointless games. But what Kyle Sherman had described to her bore solemn witness to the lives and deaths of men caught up in the horrible war that had torn the nation asunder, a wrenching conflict that still had a direct bearing on the way many Southerners lived their lives today.
Kyle had captured her imagination, which was altogether too taxing at the moment. She was ready to rush out the door and back to the house. Her hand rested on the doorknob, then she turned back toward him. There was one thing she had to know.
“Your name,” she blurted. “Kyle Sherman. It was General Sherman who earned the hatred of Southerners for all time. His foragers destroyed and pillaged, leaving people in their path, mostly wives and children, with no place to live and nothing to eat.” She paused, trying to figure out if his blank stare meant that he was merely surprised or if it presaged something more severe—anger.
Kyle raised himself on one elbow as Dixie drew a deep breath. “Are you related to General Sherman in any way?” she asked all in a rush.
“Yes,” he said gently. “He was my great-great-great-grandfather.”
She nodded. He was more attractive than she had first discerned, and other than the sharp nose and large ears, he bore little resemblance to those pictures of General William Tecumseh Sherman in the history books. The tiny lamp by the bed illuminated his high cheekbones, dusted his lashes with gold.
She didn’t say any more. Nothing else seemed relevant. She was deeply attracted to this man, to the sheer physicality of him and the soft reasoning way in which he spoke.
As she walked through the night back to the house, she pondered not only what Kyle had revealed about his heritage, which was startling enough to a girl who was Southern-born and –bred, but how he honored the soldiers who had fought and fallen in that long-ago war, and what it meant to him to do so.
Maybe the local United Daughters of the Confederacy chapter would have a hard time understanding how she could shelter a descendant of General William T. Sherman, yet for herself, it was time to let bygones be bygones. She had captured a Yankee, and she was determined to encourage him to stay around as long as he liked.
That decided, the only thing she had to figure out was whether to fix meat loaf or hamburgers for dinner.
Chapter Two
When Kyle Sherman woke up the next morning, he had the impression that he’d fallen down a rabbit hole. He recognized nothing about his charmingly rustic surroundings—not the teeny-tiny green-painted table decoupaged with pictures of kittens, not the tray sitting on the midget kitchen counter and certainly not the woman who was swinging down the path toward the little house.
She was gorgeous. Despite her well-rounded body parts, she was all glide and no jiggle. Her hair bounced around her shoulders, pale blond and gleaming as if spun from sunshine. Her face was a perfect oval, makeup tastefully applied, and she wore a pink dress, the hem of which was caught up at intervals with white ribbons, the better to show off shapely calves. Kyle used to be a boob man; nowadays he was strictly into legs, and this woman’s were spectacular. He’d noticed them right off in the parking lot yesterday.
The memory reminded him how he happened to be here. The battle reenactment at Rivervale Bridge, his toothache, the subsequent root canal and the anesthetic knocking him for a loop. Then, and by far the most pleasant thing about that miserable day, the sweet angel of mercy who had gallantly came to his rescue and who right now was knocking on the quaint door to this Hobbity cottage where he lay naked beneath a quilt pieced of pastel calico.
“Come in,” he said, wishing he’d had time to get dressed. His uniform was neatly spread over two of the teeny-tiny chairs, and he didn’t recall putting it there. Maybe the woman had. He suddenly recalled that her name was Dixie, a perfect appellation for a perfect Southern belle.
“How are you feeling?” she asked, giving the impression that she really cared.
“Better.”
“I’m going to church. When I get back, I’ll take you to get your truck.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe what happened yesterday. I felt as if I was spinning off the end of the world when I was standing there in the parking lot. Thanks for helping me out.”
“Like I said, I was glad to do it. I fixed scrambled eggs, grits and bacon for breakfast. I, um, suppose you’re hungry?”
Because of his overwhelming urge to sleep, he’d barely sampled the meat loaf last night. “I could eat something,” he allowed.
“I’ll bring it out,” she said, though her gaze fell doubtfully on the little table. He glanced out the window where a picnic table stood near the dock extending into the lake.
“How about if I eat outside? It’s such a nice spring morning.” He was in awe of the gorgeous reds of the azaleas, the dogwoods with their ethereal pink and white blossoms, the pale flowers of the ornamental Bradford pear trees trembling gently in the breeze.
As Dixie turned to go, he made a point of glancing at her left hand, though he didn’t usually check. The third finger was ringless, which made him unexpectedly glad. He’d been in an off-and-on relationship with a woman named Andrea for a long time, but it was definitely off at present. Well, make that probably off, considering that she’d been leaving voice messages on his cell phone for the past three days. Not that he could have returned them even if he had the urge. His cell-phone service had been spotty ever since he’d crossed the state line into South Carolina.
He wasn’t on the prowl for a new interest.