Trace knew the woman was watching him. He'd felt her gaze on him ever since he'd stepped through the door of the mercantile. The hair on the back of his neck prickled up the way it had at Appomattox, when he'd realized the sniper was tracking his progress through the woods.

He stood for a moment just inside the store, brushing the rain from his slicker and pouring half a cup of water from the crown of his hat. Out of the corner of his eye, he studied the woman. She was young, with dark hair and a pretty, intelligent face -- the kind of woman who made a man think of polishing up his manners and his boots and getting to know her better. The way she was watching him, he might even have thought she'd welcome such attention; but then, he'd been fooled by beauty before.

As soon as he raised his head to look at her directly, she turned away, pretending to examine a bolt of cloth. But he hadn't missed the spark of real interest that sprang from her green eyes. The knowledge made him more uneasy than the open hostility from the three old coots gathered around the potbellied stove in the corner.

"Howdy, stranger." A gray-bearded man in a white apron rose from a chair in front of the stove. "Nasty weather out, ain't it?"

"Yes sir, it is that." A nudging at Trace's knees urged him further into the room. He glanced behind him and saw the boy, Josh. Ever since they'd crossed the Red River, Josh had refused to let Trace out of his sight, fearful of being scalped by Indians or lynched by angry Rebs.

Trace walked over to the stove, concentrating on moving with no hint of a limp. The leg only bothered him when he was tired; today he was bone weary. He stretched his hands out to the warmth while Josh hovered in his shadow. The two men still seated by the stove looked from him to the boy. If they thought it odd that a white man and black boy traveled together, they didn't air their opinions. But even the blazing stove couldn't melt the frost in their eyes as they watched him.

One man's leg was missing from the knee down. He propped his wooden peg on the stove fender, as if to warm the foot that was no longer there. The other man wore a patch over his eye, the rest of his face criss-crossed with scars. Trace followed the men's gaze to the faded yellow stripe that ran down the leg of his own Union uniform trousers. Ah -- that explained the chill in the air.

He turned his back on the old soldiers and addressed the storekeeper. "I need to buy a few supplies, and then I need directions to Hiram Fischer's place."

"Hiram ain't here." The man with the peg leg rose to confront Trace, glaring at him with bloodshot eyes. He huffed out a breath heavy with the smell of whiskey. "He ain't made it back yet from the fightin'."

Trace ran his thumb along the worn brim of his hat and nodded. "He won't be coming back either." He waited for questions, but none came. He didn't have to tell these men why Hiram wouldn't be returning; most likely they'd known the truth even if they hadn't been willing to admit it yet. How many other local sons and fathers had never 'made it back' from that awful war?

"So why do you need to know where his place is?" the one-eyed man asked. "Far as I know, Hiram didn't have no kin -- leastways not here."

"He deeded his property to me." He looked at each man in turn, letting them see their animosity meant little to him. He'd lived with worse before. "I plan on living there."

He let that sink in -- the idea that they'd have a Yankee soldier for a neighbor. The silence grew thick - - the only sound the crunch of a log falling to coals in the stove, and the whisper of the woman's footsteps down the aisle.

In all this time, she hadn't stopped watching him. And he had never stopped being aware of her. Her gaze was like a physical caress that he both welcomed and resisted. He'd been alone a long time now, but he didn't need trouble. Like Eve in the garden, this woman with the bold eyes would be sure to vex him.

"Hiram's place is a fur piece from here." The storekeeper spoke up at last. "Too far to travel on a night like this. You're welcome to stay in the stables out back, get a fresh start in the morning."

"No thanks, I'll --" Josh sneezed, cutting off his words. It was one thing for him to push on to Hiram's place in the darkness and rain; he'd traveled in worse these last five years. It was another to expect a ten-year old boy to do the same. He nodded to the storekeeper. "Much obliged, sir. I'll do my shopping in the morning before I leave." With a nod to the three men, he turned to go, Josh shuffling in his wake.

"My name's Nate O'Connor," the storekeeper called after him. "If you need anything during the night, just knock on the back door."

He paused at the door and looked over his shoulder. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. O'Connor. I'm Trace Abernathy." He nodded to each man in turn, still pretending he hadn't noticed the woman, though every part of him was aware of her. Then he replaced his hat on his head and headed back out into the dark and the blowing rain.

Lucy O'Connor watched Trace Abernathy disappear behind a curtain of rain, the little black boy hurrying along behind him. She turned away from the window with an odd feeling of emptiness. It felt as if ten men had left instead of just one and a boy; there was that much more room in the store now.

"Just how do you think a Yankee soldier got ahold of the deed to old Hiram's place?" Bill Pollard sank back into his chair and propped his wooden leg on the stove fender again. He took his pipe from his pocket and began to fill it.

"Maybe he's not really a Yankee." Lucy crossed the room to stand beside Uncle Nate. "Maybe he took those clothes off a dead Yankee. Maybe he and Mr. Fischer were comrades in arms, and Mr. Abernathy took care of Mr. Fischer before he died."

"You've been lettin' that girl fill her head full of romance stories again, haven't you, Nate?" Zeke Early shaped his mouth into a grimace Lucy knew was meant to be a smile. "Sounds like your imagination run away with you, Lucy girl. Real life ain't like those stories you're always scribblin'."

She pinched her mouth shut, but said nothing. Mr. Early wouldn't be so quick to dismiss her writing as 'scribbling' when those eastern publishers started paying for her stories. "Mr. Abernathy didn't sound like a Yankee," she said, remembering the gentle drawl. He didn't sound like a Texan either -- his accent was softer, more refined.

"Maybe our Lucy's taken a fancy to that handsome stranger." Mr. Pollard took a long pull on his pipe and pretended to smile at her. She knew as soon as her uncle's back was turned, Pollard's smile would transform into a leer. She'd learned quick enough not to let herself be caught alone with old man Pollard.

"Good to see young men moving back to the county." Uncle Nate picked up a cloth and began polishing the counter. He didn't use adjectives like 'strong' and 'healthy' to describe their visitor, but Lucy added them in her head. Plenty of young men had come limping back to town after the war, missing parts of their bodies or spirits. Even the whole ones seemed old before their time, bent and gray as grandfathers.

Trace Abernathy, with his broad shoulders and coal black hair, radiated strength and health. In that brief moment when his brilliant blue eyes met hers, she'd felt a shiver run through her, as if she'd been awakened from a trance by a bucket of ice water. And then, when she'd turned away, she'd felt his eyes still on her, warming her through.

"Did you see that colored boy with him?" Pollard asked. "The kid was sure light skinned. Reckon that's one from the wrong side of the blanket?"

"Now, Bill." Uncle Nate gave Pollard a warning look and cut his eyes toward Lucy. She flushed and looked away.

"Lucy, why don't you take some of that good stew you made out to our guests?"

Uncle Nate's request surprised her. "Are you sure? I mean. . . what if he is a Yankee?" Her heart fluttered nervously. Despite his courtly manners, Trace Abernathy had a dangerous air about him.

"The war's over, child. Remember your Christian charity." He nodded toward the back door, and the stable beyond. "Leave the door open when you step out. I'll hear if there's any trouble."

Heart pounding, she walked to the kitchen in the living quarters behind the store. How could Mr. Abernathy mean anything but trouble? He hadn't been in town half an hour and already he'd stirred up the old men by the stove more than anything since Lee's surrender at Appomattox. She fumbled with the ladle as she filled a crockery bowl with stew. He'd stirred something in her, too -- a restlessness and longing for excitement outside her familiar, never-changing small town world. Pushing aside that thought, she inverted a plate over the bowl and dashed across the yard to the stable door. Rain beat on her back and splashed on her skirts, but she shielded Mr. Abernathy's dinner with her body to keep it dry. She arrived at the stable damp and breathless.

Sheltering under the eaves, she pounded on the rough wood. "Mr. Abernathy! I've brought you some supper!"

"I'll be right there."

A moment later he opened the door, still buttoning his shirt with a free hand. "Come in."

She stepped past him, into the feeble glow of a lantern hanging from a beam. In one glance she took in the basin of water, bar of yellow soap, sacking towel, and the damp triangle of hair showing at the open neck of Trace Abernathy's shirt. The subtle perfume of the sandalwood soap hung in the air. She'd caught their visitor at his bath. The knowledge made her grateful for the deep shadows which hid her blush.

"I brought you some stew." She offered the dish.

He took the bowl, gaze locked on her as he lifted the plate. "Smells good. Did you make it?"

She nodded. His bold stare made her uncomfortable. There was a hunger in that look for something besides the stew. She scanned the stable for something else on which to focus, and spotted the boy. "What's your name?" she asked him.

He ducked his head and addressed the stable floor. "Josh."

"Hello, Josh. I'm Lucy O'Connor."

"The storekeeper is your father?" Trace spooned half the stew onto the plate and handed the bowl to Josh. The boy took the dish and disappeared into the shadows.

"He's my uncle." She knew she should go now; she had no business standing here alone in this stable, talking to a man who might have recently been her enemy. But her feet seemed rooted to the floor.

"Ahh. Are you just visiting, or do you live with him?" His voice had a caressing quality, like velvet.

She hugged her arms across her breasts, as if to fend off the softness of that voice, to protect herself from the wild emotions this man kindled in her just by speaking. "I live here." She forced herself to look at him, ignoring the way her heart sped up when their eyes met. She'd never known a man with eyes so blue -- bright Federal blue, the color the enemy wore. But they weren't enemies anymore, where they? "My father died when I was six. My mother passed on three years ago."

"I'm sorry for your loss."

She'd heard the stock phrase enough times in the last three years; Trace Abernathy actually sounded like he meant it. The knowledge that this Yankee soldier might feel sympathy for her rankled. "You've been asking all the questions -- I ought to ask you some." She gave him a challenging look.

He leaned against the ladder leading up to the hayloft and scooped up a spoonful of stew. "Ask. Although I might not necessarily answer." He sounded amused, which made her all the more indignant.

"Why are you wearing that Yankee uniform?"

"A man wears the clothes he can afford."

She frowned. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means, just because the war's over, doesn't mean I should throw out a good pair of pants."

"You don't talk like a Yankee."

"I'm from Virginia."

"If you're from Virginia, how could you --"

"How could I fight for the Union?" He shrugged. "I did what I thought was right."

"How could betraying your own home state be right? How could --"

He straightened and set the plate aside. "I won't refight the war with you. It's a battle no one can win." The corners of his mouth lifted in the beginnings of a smile. "Besides, I'd hate to spoil the chance for future conversations."

"You, sir, are impertinent."

"Yes, ma'am." He chuckled, and she felt her face burn anew.

With a cry of disgust, she turned and ran from the barn, away from Trace Abernathy's laughter, and piercing blue eyes, away from the strange longings his presence stirred within her.

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