Christmas Angel
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Synopsis
Previously appeared in No Place Like Home Dear Readers, This story was inspired by a trip to Savannah. I visited one of the area’s Civil War forts and became fascinated by the discovery that General Sherman and his men had arrived in a conquered Savannah on Christmas Eve. What sort of Christmas could they have had? From there, my imagination took over . . . Despite having been on opposite sides of the war, Yankee doctor Josh Coltrane is unprepared for the continued bitterness of his long-lost love, Angel Summers. Can these two former sweethearts learn to forgive and forget the past? I hope you enjoy reading Josh and Angel’s story as much I enjoyed writing it. Kat Martin PRAISE FOR KAT MARTIN AND HER NOVELS “Martin’s fans and newcomers alike will enjoy every moment of this thrill ride.” — Publishers Weekly, Starred Review on Beyond Reason “A high-octane mix of high stakes and high passion.” —Bookpage on Into the Whirlwind “A robust tale of suspense that’s full of romance and intrigue.” —Heroes & Heartbreakers on Into the Fury
Release date: October 30, 2018
Publisher: Zebra Books
Print pages: 96
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Christmas Angel
Kat Martin
December, 1865
Yankees. More damn blue-belly Yanks. Angel Summers’s lips went thin just to look at them. She swept back her skirts to let one of them pass, then glared at his blue-coated back with all the venom that had built inside her these four long years.
Just thinking of the Federal troops who had occupied Savannah for almost twelve months made a bad taste surface in her mouth. She swallowed to chase it away, but the bitter taste of defeat remained. She wondered if it would ever completely fade.
Lifting her chin, determined to ignore the soldiers making their way along the boardwalk, a new batch that had arrived three days ago on the military train from Atlanta, Angel stepped into the open door of Whistler’s Dry Goods store.
“Mornin’, Miz Summers.” The balding merchant stood behind the counter, a green leather apron tied around his ample girth.
“Good mornin’, Mr. Whistler.” She asked about his wife and daughter’s health, and he asked about her little brother, the only member of her family left since the war. “Willie’s just fine. Growin’ like a weed. He’s gonna be even taller than our daddy.”
She didn’t like to think of their father, killed in the fighting at Shiloh, or her mother, who had taken to her bed not long after and died of a broken heart. Instead she thanked God for sparing little Willie. William Summers, Jr., blond and blue-eyed, just as she was. Seven-year-old Willie, who was now her whole world.
“The boy is surely full of mischief,” she said with a smile, “but he’s smart as a whip. He loves to read, and already he can cipher faster than I can.” She didn’t say he was also desperately lonely, that he ached for his parents, for the loving home they’d all shared before the war.
She didn’t say that she ached for them, too. That she missed the days of grandeur when she was the belle of Summers End, her family’s cotton plantation, and every young man in Savannah was out to capture her hand.
She tried not to think of those days anymore. It hurt too much when she looked down at her threadbare clothes, at the white pique cuffs on her blue wool dress that were frayed but finely mended, at the worn, pill-sized balls in the palms of her white cotton gloves, the mended holes in her stockings.
Four years ago, wearing such clothing would have been unheard of. She had dressed in silks and satins then, worn hoops so large they barely fit through the huge, carved front door. Now her hoops were discarded for more practical clothes, like the ones she had on.
And she was lucky to have those.
“What can I get you, Miz Summers?” The merchant scratched his balding head. “Whatever it is, it’s likely we’ll be out of it.” The shelves of the store were nearly stripped bare. Only remnants remained, mostly bags of dried fruit, a few kegs of salt pork, some salted cod, a crate of sugar cones, and a few meager sacks of flour. A half-empty barrel of pickles sat in the corner. The cracker barrel was empty and covered with dust.
Supplies were a luxury, the shortages even worse since the Yankees had occupied the city.
“I just need a can of baking powder, Mr. Whistler. Christmas is coming. I was hoping to do some special cooking for the holidays, but it looks like it won’t be much. I’m afraid the cow’s gone dry.”
The merchant simply nodded. Nothing was easy these days.
She paid for the baking powder and Mr. Whistler put it into her basket.
“There was one new shipment that come in,” he said. “Yard goods from down to the mill near Charleston. Some of it’s real purty.” His glance ran over her mended dress. “You might want to have a look.”
Ignoring the wash of color that rose into her cheeks, Angel headed toward the wall where he pointed, then stood staring at the beautiful lengths of cloth. A green plaid tartan wool, a calico cotton, some plain black bombazine for mourning. She hadn’t dressed in mourning for over a year. She vowed that in the streets of Savannah, she had seen so much black she would never wear the hideous color again.
She ran a finger lovingly over a length of rich plum velvet. The cloth was so fine it made her ache inside just to touch it. It had been years since she’d worn anything so lovely—not since her girlhood, not since the days before the war when the future had stretched so shiny bright in front of her. When her life had been filled with joy and she had been so very much in love.
She eyed the fabrics a little while longer, enjoying the starchy smells and luxurious feel, escaping from thoughts that only brought pain. Then heavy footfalls caught her attention, swinging her mind in a different direction. She felt his presence even before he spoke and for an instant she wondered if her thoughts had somehow conjured him.
“Good morning . . . Angel. . . .”
The words whispered past her ear and her breath caught inside her. She didn’t need to turn to recognize the man who stood so near. The man she hadn’t seen in over four years.
She pivoted slowly to face him, her heart thumping a maddening tattoo. He was taller than she remembered, his skin a burnished, suntanned hue nearly as dark as his thick chestnut hair. His shoulders were wider, layered with muscle, his eyes a darker brown than she recalled.
“Joshua . . .” With his winsome smile, dark eyes, and finely arched brows, he’d been the handsomest boy in Chatham County. Now Josh Coltrane was a man, and the creases beside his eyes and the hard line of his jaw only made him more attractive.
“I saw you walk in,” he said. “It’s good to see you, Angel.”
Dear God, Josh was here. A flesh-and-blood man standing right in front of her. Memories rushed in. The first time they had danced, the first time he had kissed her beneath the mistletoe at Christmas just this time of year. The ache returned, stronger than before, a pain she had dealt with, she thought. Josh was alive. She hadn’t known for sure, hadn’t allowed herself to care one way or the other. She took a deep breath, forcing a stiffness into her spine and courage into her suddenly weakened limbs.
“My name is Angela. I wish I could say it was good to see you, Josh, but it isn’t. I can’t believe you would have the nerve to come back here.”
The smile on his beautiful mouth slid away. “The war’s over—in case you haven’t noticed. I’m still in the army, which means I go wherever they send me. I’m assigned to the hospital at Fort James Jackson.”
His dark blue uniform fit him perfectly, stretching across his broad shoulders, tapering to a narrow waist, the color a glaring reminder of why they had parted. A stripe ran the length of his long, lean legs, and high black boots rose to his knees. She pulled her gaze back to his face, tried to ignore the shivery feeling inside her.
“That’s right,” she said. “How could I have forgotten? It’s Dr. Coltrane now.” She studied the gold bars on his shoulders—he was a captain, but also a Union doctor.
“Funny . . .” His eyes ran over her from head to foot, unreadable as they assessed her. “I haven’t forgotten a single thing about you, Angel.”
Her pulse went faster. She forced her chin up a notch. “I told you my name is—”
“Sorry, sweeting, I don’t take orders from you. I never did, if you recall.” A corner of his mouth curved faintly. “There was a time that was something you liked about me.”
“There was a time you weren’t a traitor—a dirty, blue-belly Yank.”
His jaw went tight. “My mother was born in Pennsylvania. I went to medical school there. I was as much a Northerner as I was from the South. I had to follow my conscience. I told you that the day I left.”
“Yes, you did. And I told you that if you joined the Union, as far as I was concerned you were dead. I meant what I said. Now if you’ll excuse me, Captain Coltrane, I have better things to do than waste my time talking to a good for nothin’ Yank.”
She started toward the door, her heart still thudding in a way she wished it wouldn’t, when the bell above the church at the end of the street began to clang. This time of day, the frantic ringing of iron could only mean trouble, and an unwelcome shiver ran down her spine.
“What’s going on?” Josh asked, coming up beside her just as she opened the door.
“I—I don’t know. Everybody’s running toward the train station.”
He glanced off toward the tracks that had been repaired and put back into service . . .
Yankees. More damn blue-belly Yanks. Angel Summers’s lips went thin just to look at them. She swept back her skirts to let one of them pass, then glared at his blue-coated back with all the venom that had built inside her these four long years.
Just thinking of the Federal troops who had occupied Savannah for almost twelve months made a bad taste surface in her mouth. She swallowed to chase it away, but the bitter taste of defeat remained. She wondered if it would ever completely fade.
Lifting her chin, determined to ignore the soldiers making their way along the boardwalk, a new batch that had arrived three days ago on the military train from Atlanta, Angel stepped into the open door of Whistler’s Dry Goods store.
“Mornin’, Miz Summers.” The balding merchant stood behind the counter, a green leather apron tied around his ample girth.
“Good mornin’, Mr. Whistler.” She asked about his wife and daughter’s health, and he asked about her little brother, the only member of her family left since the war. “Willie’s just fine. Growin’ like a weed. He’s gonna be even taller than our daddy.”
She didn’t like to think of their father, killed in the fighting at Shiloh, or her mother, who had taken to her bed not long after and died of a broken heart. Instead she thanked God for sparing little Willie. William Summers, Jr., blond and blue-eyed, just as she was. Seven-year-old Willie, who was now her whole world.
“The boy is surely full of mischief,” she said with a smile, “but he’s smart as a whip. He loves to read, and already he can cipher faster than I can.” She didn’t say he was also desperately lonely, that he ached for his parents, for the loving home they’d all shared before the war.
She didn’t say that she ached for them, too. That she missed the days of grandeur when she was the belle of Summers End, her family’s cotton plantation, and every young man in Savannah was out to capture her hand.
She tried not to think of those days anymore. It hurt too much when she looked down at her threadbare clothes, at the white pique cuffs on her blue wool dress that were frayed but finely mended, at the worn, pill-sized balls in the palms of her white cotton gloves, the mended holes in her stockings.
Four years ago, wearing such clothing would have been unheard of. She had dressed in silks and satins then, worn hoops so large they barely fit through the huge, carved front door. Now her hoops were discarded for more practical clothes, like the ones she had on.
And she was lucky to have those.
“What can I get you, Miz Summers?” The merchant scratched his balding head. “Whatever it is, it’s likely we’ll be out of it.” The shelves of the store were nearly stripped bare. Only remnants remained, mostly bags of dried fruit, a few kegs of salt pork, some salted cod, a crate of sugar cones, and a few meager sacks of flour. A half-empty barrel of pickles sat in the corner. The cracker barrel was empty and covered with dust.
Supplies were a luxury, the shortages even worse since the Yankees had occupied the city.
“I just need a can of baking powder, Mr. Whistler. Christmas is coming. I was hoping to do some special cooking for the holidays, but it looks like it won’t be much. I’m afraid the cow’s gone dry.”
The merchant simply nodded. Nothing was easy these days.
She paid for the baking powder and Mr. Whistler put it into her basket.
“There was one new shipment that come in,” he said. “Yard goods from down to the mill near Charleston. Some of it’s real purty.” His glance ran over her mended dress. “You might want to have a look.”
Ignoring the wash of color that rose into her cheeks, Angel headed toward the wall where he pointed, then stood staring at the beautiful lengths of cloth. A green plaid tartan wool, a calico cotton, some plain black bombazine for mourning. She hadn’t dressed in mourning for over a year. She vowed that in the streets of Savannah, she had seen so much black she would never wear the hideous color again.
She ran a finger lovingly over a length of rich plum velvet. The cloth was so fine it made her ache inside just to touch it. It had been years since she’d worn anything so lovely—not since her girlhood, not since the days before the war when the future had stretched so shiny bright in front of her. When her life had been filled with joy and she had been so very much in love.
She eyed the fabrics a little while longer, enjoying the starchy smells and luxurious feel, escaping from thoughts that only brought pain. Then heavy footfalls caught her attention, swinging her mind in a different direction. She felt his presence even before he spoke and for an instant she wondered if her thoughts had somehow conjured him.
“Good morning . . . Angel. . . .”
The words whispered past her ear and her breath caught inside her. She didn’t need to turn to recognize the man who stood so near. The man she hadn’t seen in over four years.
She pivoted slowly to face him, her heart thumping a maddening tattoo. He was taller than she remembered, his skin a burnished, suntanned hue nearly as dark as his thick chestnut hair. His shoulders were wider, layered with muscle, his eyes a darker brown than she recalled.
“Joshua . . .” With his winsome smile, dark eyes, and finely arched brows, he’d been the handsomest boy in Chatham County. Now Josh Coltrane was a man, and the creases beside his eyes and the hard line of his jaw only made him more attractive.
“I saw you walk in,” he said. “It’s good to see you, Angel.”
Dear God, Josh was here. A flesh-and-blood man standing right in front of her. Memories rushed in. The first time they had danced, the first time he had kissed her beneath the mistletoe at Christmas just this time of year. The ache returned, stronger than before, a pain she had dealt with, she thought. Josh was alive. She hadn’t known for sure, hadn’t allowed herself to care one way or the other. She took a deep breath, forcing a stiffness into her spine and courage into her suddenly weakened limbs.
“My name is Angela. I wish I could say it was good to see you, Josh, but it isn’t. I can’t believe you would have the nerve to come back here.”
The smile on his beautiful mouth slid away. “The war’s over—in case you haven’t noticed. I’m still in the army, which means I go wherever they send me. I’m assigned to the hospital at Fort James Jackson.”
His dark blue uniform fit him perfectly, stretching across his broad shoulders, tapering to a narrow waist, the color a glaring reminder of why they had parted. A stripe ran the length of his long, lean legs, and high black boots rose to his knees. She pulled her gaze back to his face, tried to ignore the shivery feeling inside her.
“That’s right,” she said. “How could I have forgotten? It’s Dr. Coltrane now.” She studied the gold bars on his shoulders—he was a captain, but also a Union doctor.
“Funny . . .” His eyes ran over her from head to foot, unreadable as they assessed her. “I haven’t forgotten a single thing about you, Angel.”
Her pulse went faster. She forced her chin up a notch. “I told you my name is—”
“Sorry, sweeting, I don’t take orders from you. I never did, if you recall.” A corner of his mouth curved faintly. “There was a time that was something you liked about me.”
“There was a time you weren’t a traitor—a dirty, blue-belly Yank.”
His jaw went tight. “My mother was born in Pennsylvania. I went to medical school there. I was as much a Northerner as I was from the South. I had to follow my conscience. I told you that the day I left.”
“Yes, you did. And I told you that if you joined the Union, as far as I was concerned you were dead. I meant what I said. Now if you’ll excuse me, Captain Coltrane, I have better things to do than waste my time talking to a good for nothin’ Yank.”
She started toward the door, her heart still thudding in a way she wished it wouldn’t, when the bell above the church at the end of the street began to clang. This time of day, the frantic ringing of iron could only mean trouble, and an unwelcome shiver ran down her spine.
“What’s going on?” Josh asked, coming up beside her just as she opened the door.
“I—I don’t know. Everybody’s running toward the train station.”
He glanced off toward the tracks that had been repaired and put back into service . . .
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