Unwilling Warrior Read online

  Andrea Kuhn Boeshaar has done it again! This talented author captures readers’ attention on “Page One” and holds them spellbound right through to “The End.” Unwilling Warrior is a beautifully written story of triumph over tragedy and disappointment that will sometimes (literally!) leave you breathless. I’m adding this one to my “Keepers” shelf, and I think you will too.

  —Loree Lough

  Author of Love Finds You in North Pole, Alaska; Tales of the Heart; and Prevailing Love

  Andrea Kuhn Boeshaar has successfully entertained readers through the years with poignant stories that touch the heart and thrill the soul. Unwilling Warrior is one of those stories that the reader will not soon forget.

  —DiAnn Mills

  Author of Sworn to Protect and A Woman Called Sage

  Andrea Boeshaar is the real deal. From the hand of a master of the craft of writing, Unwilling Warrior is a must-read!

  —Kathleen Y’Barbo

  Author of The Confidential Life of Eugenia Cooper and Beloved Counterfeit

  In Unwilling Warrior, amidst a Civil War backdrop, you’ll witness two believers engaging in a fight to make right—against both friend and foe. From riches to ruin to real riches, you’ll enjoy Ben and Valerie’s journey.

  —Pamela Tracy

  RITA finalist and winner of the ACFW 2009 Book of the Year for short romantic suspense

  Andrea Boeshaar pens a compelling historical romance woven with believable characters who quickly draw the reader into their world. A tender romance laced with both uncertainty and intrigue that hooks you in the beginning and propels you on to the end. I highly recommend Unwilling Warrior to all lovers of romance. It won’t disappoint.

  —Miralee Ferrell

  Author of Finding Jeena and Love Finds You in Bridal Veil, Oregon

  Most Charisma House Book Group products are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchase for sales promotions, premiums, fund-raising, and educational needs. For details, write Charisma House Book Group, 600 Rinehart Road, Lake Mary, Florida 32746, or telephone (407) 333-0600.

  Unwilling Warrior by Andrea Kuhn Boeshaar

  Published by Realms

  Charisma Media/Charisma House Book Group

  600 Rinehart Road

  Lake Mary, Florida 32746

  www.charismahouse.com

  This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

  All Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  The characters portrayed in this book are fictitious unless they are historical figures explicitly named. Otherwise, any resemblance to actual people, whether living or dead, is coincidental.

  Cover design by Bill Johnson

  Copyright © 2010 by Andrea Kuhn Boeshaar

  All rights reserved

  Visit the author’s website at www.andreaboeshaar.com.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Boeshaar, Andrea.

  Unwilling warrior / by Andrea Kuhn Boeshaar.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-59979-985-8

  1. Marriage--Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3552.O4257U59 2010

  813’.54--dc22

  2010001453

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-59979-956-8

  First Edition

  10 11 12 13 14 — 987654321

  Printed in the United States of America

  ***

  In memory of my father, Roy L. Kuhn—a true Civil War buff.

  Also, to my husband, Daniel—who is an encourager to a high-maintenance me!

  Special thanks to my son Benjamin, who let me use his name.

  And a shout out to Bob Zeller, president of the Center for Civil War Photography, and his book, The Blue and Gray in Black and White: A History of Civil War Photography (Praeger, 2007).

  ***

  Cast thy burden upon the LORD, and he shall sustain thee.

  —Psalm 55:22

  One

  New Orleans, December 1861

  Raindrops splattered against the garden’s cobblestone walkway, forming puddles in low-lying areas. Above, the heavens seemed to mourn in tearful shades of gray. Staring out the floor-to-ceiling window, Valerie Fontaine realized she’d forgotten the dreariness of the season. She’d been back in New Orleans only a week, arriving Christmas Eve, but now she questioned her decision to leave Miss C. J. Hollingsworth’s Finishing School for Young Ladies, a year-round boarding school in Virginia where she’d studied for the last sixteen months. She let out a long, slow sigh. Life here at home was—well, worse than the weather.

  Closing the shutters, she stepped away and hugged her knitted shawl more tightly around her shoulders. She strolled from the solarium to the parlor, steeling herself against her father’s continuing tirade. But at least they were talking now. He hadn’t said more than six words to her since she’d been home. “You should have stayed at school.” She had thought Father would be glad to see her, given that it was their first Christmas without Mama.

  But such wasn’t the case. Instead of spending the holiday with her, he’d been at his gentlemen’s club almost continuously. His actions hurt Valerie deeply. Nevertheless, he was the only family she had left now.

  “You should have stayed at school,” Edward Fontaine muttered as he poured himself another scotch. His third.

  “Yes, so you’ve stated. But isn’t it obvious why I came home? I’m grieving, and I need the love and support of my father.” She gave him a once-over, from the tip of his polished shoes to his shiny, straight black hair. “And it might not seem like it, but I think you need me too.”

  “Need you? I should say not!” He teetered slightly but caught her reaction. “And don’t roll those pretty blue eyes at me either.”

  Valerie turned toward the roaring hearth so he wouldn’t see her exasperated expression.

  Holding out her hands, she warmed them by the fire. Although temperatures registered well above the freezing mark, the cold and dampness had a way of seeping into her bones. She shivered.

  “I told you, ma fille, your efforts, as you call them, aren’t needed.”

  She flicked him a glance. “I think perhaps they are.” She sensed her father mourned Mama’s death too. However, drowning himself in scotch would hardly help, and he’d lose his good standing in society if anyone found out about his . . . weakness. Did neighbors and friends already know?

  “Bah!”

  Valerie turned to watch as he seated himself in a floral-patterned, Louis XV wingback chair.

  “You were to stay in Virginia and complete your education.” Father gave a derisive snort. “I doubt Miss Hollingsworth will give me a refund on your tuition.”

  Valerie placed her hands on her hips. “How can you value money over my well-being?”

  “This is not a question of one or the other. These are dangerous times . . . there are plans that you know nothing of . . . ”

  “What plans?” Curious, Valerie tipped her head.

  Silence.

  “Father?”

  He lifted his gaze to hers, and she saw a flicker of something in his eyes—regret perhaps? Then his face hardened. “My plans were for you to stay in school and marry a young man from an established family.”

  Valerie groaned. Running her hands down the wide skirt of her black dress, she gathered the muslin in clenched fists of frustration. How could she make him understand? She simply had to follow her heart and come home. Otherwise, she surely would have stayed at Miss Hollingsworth’s, as many students did. On most ho
lidays, like this one, time constraints restricted travel. School let out the Friday before Christmas and began next week, on the sixth of January. However, Valerie didn’t plan on returning, and her reasons to leave boarding school ran deep.

  She lifted her fingertips to her temples as a headache formed. “Father, school proved too much for me after Mama’s untimely death. I tried to make it, stayed all last summer, but after the war broke out I had to come home.”

  “Silly girl. You risked your life traveling through that part of the country. Did you think I wanted to bury a daughter too?”

  “No, of course not. But I thought you would have wanted to see me at Christmastime.”

  He didn’t comment on her remark. “So, what am I going to do with you? I can’t very well send you back. It’s too dangerous.”

  “It’s not as if I need a nanny.” Indignation pulsed through Valerie’s veins. “I’m almost nineteen, and I can take care of myself—and manage the household for you too.”

  “I manage my own household.”

  Hardly! she quipped inwardly. Thankfully for him, Adalia, their precious and loyal maid, had seen to almost everything since Mama died.

  But Valerie wouldn’t tell her father that. She’d learned neither retorts nor reasoning did much good when he’d been imbibing—which was frequently of late.

  She watched as he swallowed the dark golden liquid, emptying the crystal tumbler in his hand. He made a sorrowful sight, to be sure. And yet Valerie knew her father was an honorable man, a capable man who owned and operated a large business. Her grandfather had started Fontaine Shipping when he had come from France. Father grew up near the docks and learned everything about ships and cargo, importing and exporting, and then he took over the business after he had finished his education at Harvard. Grandpapa had been so proud. And now Father secured his importance among the international shipping community as well as in New Orleans’s society.

  Or at least that’s the way she had remembered him.

  “I see I’ll have to marry you off myself.”

  “Oh, Father, I’ll marry when I’m good and ready. Right now I can’t think of a single man I’m even remotely interested in.”

  “And what of James Ladden?” Father asked

  “James is . . . a friend. That’s all.” Valerie moved to the burgundy-colored settee. Gathering her black hoop skirts, she sat down. Her fingers played across the rose-patterned, embroidered armrest. Her father’s gaze seemed troubled. She shifted. “Perhaps I should ask Chastean to bring you some coffee.”

  He gave her a blank look, as though she’d spoken in a foreign tongue.

  “Our cook . . . will bring you some coffee.”

  He held up his empty scotch glass and said, “I’m fine with this.”

  Valerie sighed when he rose to pour another drink. His fourth. How she wished she could hide that scotch bottle!

  “We’re having a houseguest tonight,” he said.

  “What?” Her jaw slacked at the surprising news.

  “You heard me.” He eyed the amber potion glistening in his glass. “A houseguest.”

  “Who is it?”

  He lifted his slim shoulders and wagged his dark head. “Last name’s McCabe. Don’t know his first. He’s the son of an acquaintance.” He looked her way. “I extended the invitation before I knew you would burst in from school unannounced.”

  Valerie chose to ignore the slight. “Where did you meet him, or rather, his father?”

  Father’s gaze met hers. His brown bloodshot eyes watered slightly, and his Adam’s apple bobbed several times as if he were struggling to contain his emotions. “I met him,” he continued in a pinched voice, “just after your mother passed away.”

  Valerie swallowed an anguished lump of her own. He’d so rarely spoken of Mama since her death.

  Her mind drifted back to that terrible day she’d received the news. She’d been at school, getting ready to paint with the other girls when a telegram had been delivered. The weighty sorrow that descended then returned now as she recalled the words: Your mother took ill with a fever on 23 June 1861 and has died. You have our sympathies and our prayers. The telegram was signed Mrs. Vincent Dupont, the doctor’s wife.

  Upon returning home, Valerie learned that a tropical storm had detained the family physician when her mother had taken ill. He hadn’t been able to reach Mama in time to help her.

  Valerie had never gotten a chance to say good-bye or even attend Mama’s funeral.

  “I miss her too.” Valerie whispered the admission, hoping this time it wouldn’t fall on deaf ears.

  But Father drained his glass and poured another. Number five.

  “Our guest will be arriving sometime tonight. I’ll be out. I’ve left instructions with Adalia.”

  “You won’t be here to greet him?” Valerie swiped away an errant tear and squared her shoulders.

  “Not tonight.” He suddenly hollered for his coat, hat, and walking stick.

  “Where are you going?” Stunned, Valerie strode toward him.

  “The club. For supper.”

  “Again? But I had so hoped you’d come to the Donahues’ tonight and celebrate the coming of the New Year with me.”

  “You should know right now, ma fille, that hope is a useless word in the English vocabulary. All of mine died with your mother.”

  Valerie’s breath caught at the admission, tears obscuring her vision as the portly British maid, who’d been part of the family ever since Valerie could recall, entered the room carrying Father’s belongings. He donned his winter coat.

  “I hadn’t planned to stay home to entertain a houseguest.”

  “I don’t expect you to.” He moved into the foyer and adjusted his black top hat. “Adalia will show him to his room, and you can go to your party.”

  “But—”

  He swung open the front door and disappeared, closing it behind him before Valerie could speak again. All she could do was stand there, stunned.

  At last she exhaled, her lower lip extended so the puff of air soared upward and wafted over the strands on her forehead. “Oh, this is a fine mess.” She folded her arms.

  “You needn’t worry. I’ll be sure to tidy the gentleman’s room.”

  “I know you will.” Valerie smiled at the good-natured woman. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, dearie. But here now—” Adalia bustled across the room and slipped one arm around Valerie’s shoulders. “Don’t look so glum.”

  “I can’t help it.” Valerie’s bottom lip quivered as she peered into the maid’s bright green eyes. “My father has no room in his life for me, Adalia. I’m a burden to him.” She paused. “Maybe I always have been, but I never noticed because of Mama.”

  Adalia patted her shoulder.

  When the moment passed, Valerie straightened. “Well, Father said I can go to the party. I’ve been looking forward to it.”

  “Go. I’ll take care of Mr. McCabe. Now you’d best be getting yourself ready.”

  Valerie gazed down at her dark skirts. “And another thing. I’m tired of this dreary mourning garb. It’s been six months.”

  “That it has, and you’ve fulfilled your societal obligations and behaved as any good daughter would.” Holding her by the shoulders, she turned Valerie so they stood face-to-face. “I don’t think I’m out of place to say that y’ mother’d want each of us to go on with our living. So go and have fun tonight. As for y’ father’s guest, he can occupy himself in the library. Plenty o’ books in there.”

  Valerie sighed, remembering some of Father’s former houseguests. “He’s probably some eccentric old geezer who’ll just want to read and go to sleep anyway.”

  Adalia snorted. Her eyes twinkled with amusement. “We’ve seen our share of those over the years, now haven’t we?”

  “Yes.” A smile crept across Valerie’s face. “We certainly have at that.”

  ***

  Beneath the bright glow from her bedroom’s wall sconces, Valerie st
udied her reflection. She selected a sapphire-blue silk gown with satin trim around its off-the-shoulder neckline. The flouncy creation matched the color of her eyes and complemented her pale complexion. Adalia had expertly swept up Valerie’s dark brown hair into a becoming chignon, although several tendrils rebelliously escaped and curled around her face.

  “Pretty as a princess, y’ are. Just like y’ mother.” Adalia stood back to admire her. “You look just like her.”

  “Thank you.” Valerie took the compliment as high praise. “But do you think I seem a bit pale?” She pinched her cheeks until they turned a rosy pink.

  “Not anymore.” Adalia placed her hands on her hips. Valerie smiled, then chuckled. Adalia turned and folded an article of clothing on Valerie’s four-poster bed. “Now, you be sure to catch the latest gossip, dearie. Chastean and I are dependin’ on you.”

  Valerie whirled from the full-length mirror in a swish of silk. “Why, Adalia, I don’t listen to gossip.”

  “’Tis such a pity. We’ll be needin’ something to talk about while we stir our soap.”

  “Mama’s soap.” Valerie’s grin faded as wistfulness set in. She’d almost forgotten how she and Mama used to create the specially scented soaps from garden herbs and the essential oils that Father had shipped in from around the world. The practice had started with a church bazaar for which Mama had to bring something she’d made, something unique.

  She called her little square bars “Psalm 55 Soap” after her favorite passage of Scripture. Mama gave them to friends or left them near the basin in the guest room with a handwritten portion of that psalm. Feeling a sudden deep determination to hang on to the memory, Valerie decided to somehow keep her mother’s custom alive.

  “We’ll make a new batch soon,” she said.

  “Good, ’cause we’re down to the last few bars of the lavender rose.”

  One of Valerie’s favorites. “They’re from the last batch Mama made?”

  Adalia replied with a remorseful bob of her gray-blonde head.

  That weighty sorrow descended again. Valerie’s shoulders sagged.

  Several long, reverent seconds ticked by, and finally Adalia picked up where she’d left off. “I’m particularly interested in hearing if Mrs. Field’s wayward daughter married that sailor she ran away with.” She fidgeted with Valerie’s dress. “So listen up.”