Saving savannah, p.1
Saving Savannah, page 1
SAVING SAVANNAH
WHISKEY SPRINGS SERIES
KATHRYN KALEIGH
To learn more about Kathryn Kaleigh, visit
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SAVING SAVANNAH
PREVIEW: CLAIMING CHARLIE
Copyright © 2022 by Kathryn Kaleigh
All rights reserved.
Written by Kathryn Kaleigh
Published by KST Publishing, Inc., 2022
Cover by Skyhouse24Media
www.kathrynkaleigh.com
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, or incidents are products of the author’s imagination and used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, places, of events is purely coincidental or fictionalized.
CHAPTER 1
New Orleans, Louisiana
July 1861
Excitement filled the air. It was so festive, if a person didn’t know better, they’d swear the south had already won the war.
They were even shooting sky-high fireworks over the river.
In the daytime.
Savannah LaFleur strolled along the crowded street near Jackson Square on the Mississippi River side, twirling her light blue parasol over her shoulder.
The parasol was more for fashion than for protection from the heat. Though truth be told, along with the breeze off the river, it did help to shield her delicate pale skin from the sun’s brutal rays.
Dodging a horse and buggy, she nearly ran headlong into one of the south’s finest soldiers.
“Excuse me, Miss,” the soldier said, taking off his cap.
Savannah kept walking, but spoke over her shoulder.
“You better watch where you’re going now,” she said, in her sweetest southern drawl. “You wouldn’t want to step on a lady’s toes.”
“Oh no, ma’am,” the soldier said.
Savannah laughed to herself as Beatrice tapped the soldier on his wrist with her fan.
“You behave yourself,” Beatrice said. “And don’t you go looking at a lady like you’re just about to pounce on her like a big ole gator on an innocent little duck.”
Savannah started up the stone steps leading to the huge Cathedral doors.
Beatrice caught up in short order.
God help the man who underestimated the power of that little black woman.
Beatrice had been with the family since her mother was a child. No telling how old she really was. Beatrice was as much a part of the family as anyone born naturally into it and there was no way she’d ever let Savannah out of her sight. Celebration or no.
Savannah stepped inside the Cathedral doors into the cool shadows.
How the Cathedral stayed so cool, she’d never know. And inside, the noises of the celebration disappeared behind the thick stone walls.
Savannah made her way to her family’s pew and sat down, secure in the certainty that Beatrice would be waiting at the back of the church.
Savannah couldn’t remember a time when she’d ever been out in public without the protection of Beatrice’s watchful eyes.
She didn’t mind though. Beatrice never scolded her for anything. Firmly stating that it wasn’t her place.
Besides, Beatrice wasn’t one to sit in the house. Savannah secretly believed that the main reason Beatrice accompanied Savannah around town was to satisfy her own sense of adventure.
Savannah put her chin on her clasped fingers and closed her eyes.
Dear God. Please protect my brother. He’s never been in a fight. He’d rather read a good book than lift his hand against another.
There was so much more that she could say.
But she figured God already knew anything she could tell him. She just wanted to make sure God knew that Martin had at least one person who cared about his well-being.
Savannah had somehow become convinced that support and kindness were what held families together.
Her father had taught her that there was nothing that mattered more than family.
Not wealth. Not education. Not social standing.
All those things mattered, of course. But without family to share them with, they were nothing.
Having completed her errand, Savannah prepared to leave the Cathedral.
“Miss Savannah,” someone called from the back of the church.
Beatrice was on him like a spider on a fly.
“Keep your voice down,” Beatrice said. “Can’t you see Miss Savannah is praying?”
The soldier lowered his voice and removed his cap.
It was Henry, one of the men who worked for her father.
It was odd seeing Henry wearing his shiny new butternut gray uniform.
“Don’t fret, Beatrice,” Savannah said. “I’ll step outside and talk to Henry.”
Beatrice kept her gaze pinned on Henry as Savannah followed him outside.
“I’m so sorry to bother you like this,” Henry said, when they were outside.
“It’s all right,” Savannah said. “Did my father send you?”
“Yes ma’am,” Henry said. “He said you need to come quick.”
CHAPTER 2
Savannah sat in her family’s parlor and waited. Fresh roses cut from her mother’s garden spilled prettily from a vase on a little table next to the sofa.
She picked up one of the fallen petals and ran it between her fingers. So soft. It was such a shame that they didn’t live long after they were cut.
When she had her own home, she decided, she wouldn’t cut flowers and bring them inside.
It was wasteful. Flowers lasted much longer outside. On the vines.
All one had to do was to walk outside into the courtyard to enjoy them.
Besides, outside, the flowers were visited by bees and butterflies. Also beautiful.
But then Savannah had always thought differently from the rest of her family.
Nonetheless, her mother had insisted that Savannah was an honestly born LaFleur.
The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed eleven times.
Almost Noon.
And it had already been a most eventful day.
Savannah was a little annoyed.
Although, she’d made it to the Cathedral and had gotten that done, she’d planned on stopping by one of the little shops downtown to see what new treasures had come in from France.
She ran her hands along the soft cotton of her lavender dress. It was one of her favorites.
But she’d already worn it to every social gathering she could.
It was quite the challenge really. Not wearing the same dress twice to a similar event.
She could get away with it a little. She could wear it to church. She could wear it to visit the elderly ladies when they had their sewing circle.
Not that she participated in the sewing, but she stopped in to greet them and to drop off materials.
Most recently, the ladies had tackled the project of making Confederate flags.
In fact, the ladies couldn’t produce enough flags no matter how fast they sewed.
Then Savannah could wear the dress to an afternoon tea with her mother’s friends.
And to an evening party. Sometimes two parties. It depended on who happened to be invited.
And sometimes she had trouble finding out who was on the guest list ahead of time.
But Savannah had her ways and hadn’t been caught wearing the same dress around the same people yet.
Still. It was just about time to retire this dress.
She could still wear it at home, of course, and out shopping like she’d done today.
Father’s voice, drifting from his study across the hall, was serious.
Father was so serious lately.
Especially since her brother Martin had joined the Confederate army and ridden off with his friends to the war.
It was almost like father had changed that day.
He’d begun meeting with other men behind closed doors.
Savannah shrugged and dismissed the thought.
Perhaps he’d been doing that all along, but she hadn’t noticed. Life was boring here without Martin and his steady stream of friends.
Savannah had practiced her charms on them.
Practiced until she’d honed her southern womanly wiles to a fine sharp point.
And now all the men were gone.
She consoled herself with the knowledge that they wouldn’t be gone long.
Southern boys, even those who lived in the city, grew up hunting and shooting.
Even the ones who worked at offices attended fox hunts at least once a month.
Those northern boys didn’t know what they’d done.
Why, already, the southerners sent them running at the Battle of Manassas.
Yet, the war wasn’t over yet.
When Father came to the door of the parlor, she immediately knew that something was wrong.
Very, very wrong.
CHAPTER 3
Savannah sat in the carriage as they traveled, much too quickly, over bumpy roads.
She was still wearing her lavender dress.
Father sat across from her, his face drawn. His eyes rid-rimmed as he stared out the window.
But, of course, real men didn’t cry.
A belief that was so ri diculous, it almost made Savannah laugh.
But she didn’t laugh.
She didn’t laugh and she didn’t cry.
Like her father, she kept her face flat and emotionless.
She did so, though, for a completely different reason.
She feared and firmly believed that if she so much as changed her facial expression, she would either laugh like a loon or cry like a baby.
And neither one of those responses was acceptable for a lady.
The irony of her thoughts was not lost on her.
So she and her father were somewhat alike in that way.
After another ten minutes had passed, however, she could no longer stand the silence.
“Father,” she asked. “Why can’t you tell me where you’re taking me?”
“Because I know you, my dear,” Father said with resignation. “I can’t have you jumping out of this carriage and breaking your limbs.”
She looked out the window again. They traveled along the Mississippi River. North. Or East. Depending on which way the road curved.
Her father was daft. There was no way she would even consider leaping from a moving carriage. It was a ridiculous thought.
“When do you think we’ll know?” she asked. “About Martin?”
Martin had been declared missing after the Battle of Manassas.
The letter had come today while Savannah was praying at the Cathedral. It was the reason Father had summoned her home so urgently.
The Battle of Manassas had been a week ago. It seemed to her that the army was a little late in reporting the fact that her brother was not accounted for.
On the positive side, though, missing was much better than being killed. She knew of at least three of Martin’s friends who had been killed at the battle.
Thomas. Stuart. Blake.
They were good men, too.
Gentlemen.
And excellent marksmen.
The fact that those boys had been killed, merely confirmed Savannah’s conviction that this war was a ridiculous folly that never should have happened.
They needed to have it over with and let everyone go home.
They could tuck their uniforms away in a trunk and pull them out to show their children and grandchildren.
They could write songs about their heroism.
That’s all war was about anyway.
“I don’t know,” Father said, finally answering her question.
Savannah’s mother had died three years ago of tuberculosis. Neither one of her parents had any siblings.
So it was just the three of them.
Father. Martin. And Savannah.
Without them, the LaFleur family line would cease to exist.
Savannah’s chest squeezed. Her father had tried to tell Martin that.
But Martin had insisted that Father worried overmuch and would be home soon.
No harm done.
Martin wasn’t a fighter. He was a tender-hearted man who loved his dog and his family.
But he firmly believed that if he didn’t go to war — to fight with his friends — he would be forever branded a coward. And to him that was worse than death.
So off he’d gone.
Savannah had locked herself in her room and allowed herself to cry for an hour.
But after that, she’d wiped her tears, lifted her chin, and decided to go on with her own life.
Her idiot brother could throw his life away if he wanted to. It didn’t mean she had to.
She sat up straighter in the carriage.
It was time for Father to tell her where he was taking her.
“Father,” she said, putting a smile on her lips. “You have to tell me eventually.”
Father sighed and pulled his own gaze from the window.
“I’ll tell you,” he said. “but you can wipe that trifling expression off your face.”
Savannah sobered her expression. “Fine,” she said. “But this is a most disconcerting trip.”
“You’ll be staying at the convent for a few days,” he said, his gaze shifting away from hers.
Savannah’s mouth dropped open.
“The con—” She was at a loss for words. “But…”
Father adjusted his dark gray cravat. How did he dress like this and manage to not perish from the heat?
The little fan she held in her lap did nothing to dispel the sweltering heat of the Louisiana summer.
She put a hand on her forehead. Her father was making no sense and her already battered mind struggled to make sense of what he was telling her, leaving her with nothing but random irrelevant thoughts.
But it made no sense. Savannah was a good Catholic girl, but she’d never said anything to suggest that she might be inclined to sequester herself away from men.
And as far as she could remember, she’d never acted in way to suggest that she didn’t want to get married.
She’d turned away some suitors. Had that suggested to her father that she wasn’t interested in being a wife? That she wanted to join a convent?
“Father…” she said, but she didn’t know what it was she wanted to say. What she could say.
Turning to face her, he looked her in the eye and put a hand over hers.
“You have to trust me,” Father said. “This is for your own good.”
Savannah’s chin trembled and her eyes welled with tears.
It was already all she could do to keep the tears at bay with Martin being missing, but now Father was saying things that made no sense. Things that tore at her heart. Asking her to trust him while saying he was about to lock her away.
“But why?” she whispered. Why would he lock her away from the world? From her life?
Father shook his head slightly and lowering his gaze, pulled his hand from hers.
“I can’t tell you,” he said.
“But…” she ran a hand over her cheeks. She was warm. About a hundred thoughts bounced aimlessly through her mind. But none of them connected.
“I don’t have anything to wear,” she said, grasping the only thing that came to mind. Father hadn’t even given her time to pack a trunk.
“The nuns have clothes you can wear,” Father said.
Savannah must have looked as stricken as she felt as she imagined having to wear the drab depressing black clothing of the nuns. She had nothing against nuns, by any means.
But she wasn’t inclined dress like one, much less to be one.
“I’ll have some things sent to you,” Father said. “But I have to get you settled first.”
“But—”
“We’ll talk no more of it,” Father said.
Father rarely used that stern tone with her.
For him to be using it now did not bode well.
She sat back and closed her eyes.
CHAPTER 4
July 1863
Lieutenant Jeb Wright pushed his horse up the steep incline that led to the top of the rolling Pennsylvania hill near Gettysburg.
The land was thick with underbrush and boulders, making it difficult to navigate. Besides that, the ground was muddy. His horse, Butternut, tossed little splashes of mud over Jeb’s blue trousers.
Butternut wasn’t butternut in color. He was actually a midnight black steed. But the horse’s mother (a stately butternut mare) had been his father’s favorite horse.
So that’s how Jeb had come to name his midnight colored horse Butternut.
He needed to get a better view of the area below before he sent his men into battle. He needed to get a lay of the land.
Jeb wasn’t inclined to send his men in blind.
He didn’t care what the orders were.
Orders were given by men.
And men were not infallible. Orders should always be questioned.
That’s what his teacher at West Point had taught him. And Jeb believed it. From the top of his blue wool cap to the soles of his fine leather boots.
Everyone had said the war was going to be over quick.
That the southerners were too stupid to withstand a quick battle with the northerners.
But Jeb knew differently.
Jeb had attended school at West Point and some of the smartest and most formidable men he’d called friends had been from the south.
His southern friends could outshoot, outride, and outstrategize most of the students coming from above the Mason Dixon line.
