The Rebel The Men of Pride County

THE REBEL : The Men of Pride County

Rosalyn West
Avon / November 1998/ $5.99
ISBN: 0-380-80301-1
(click on the ISBN to order online at Amazon.com books)

Here's what The Literary Times says about ...

THE REBEL (Historical)
Backlist: The Outcast, The Outsider
(Third in The Men of Pride County series)

Noble Banning has a choice - he can spend the duration of the war in a Union prison or follow his enemy to New Mexico territory and fight for a common cause. For Noble, it is a matter of honor. His men are fighting men and he can't stand to watch them waste away and die in prison. But his motivation is two-fold. Noble knows someone in his command betrayed them. He intends to find out who it was and mete out his own brand of justice.

Juliet Crowley is used to following the drum wherever her father's duty takes him. She can make a home anywhere she goes, she is self-reliant and intelligent. But the one thing Juliet wants is the one thing she has no knowledge of - love. The last person she can imagine falling in love with is that insufferable Southerner, Noble Banning. Brought together by fate, Noble and Juliet's very different worlds collide and the result is explosive.

The talented Rosalyn West takes us back to The Men of Pride County series with The Rebel. Ms. West has flawlessly woven the lives of many characters together as this series progresses. I can't wait to see what she has in store for her next book in this series, The Deceiver.
"Rosalyn West is a remarkable storyteller!"
"The Men of Pride County is an entertaining series about several of the hottest southern hunks to come along in awhile! Rosalyn West turns back time and turns up the heat!"
"Rosalyn West brings emotion and heart to her stories! A true gem of the genre!"
-Kristina Wright, The Literary Times

Here's the excerpt for THE REBEL :

PROLOGUE

    Almost time . . .
    A lone rider stared down upon the tracks below. The tip of his cockaded
hat provided little protection from the chill sleet lashing weary features.
He made a single move, to check his pocket watch, clearing away the fog
from the crystal with his sleeve.
    7:58.
    Almost time, if time was something one could count on in these
interminable days of war.
    As if in answer, the forlorn wail of the train's whistle sounded in the
distance.
    The mounted man's attention was drawn away from the stretch of track by
movement beside him.
    "Right on time. Must be a sign that things are going our way."
    Major Noble Banning didn't answer. Though he wasn't particularly
superstitious, a part of him didn't want to jinx their mission with words
of false confidence.
    "Are the men ready?"
    "Ready and anxious to bite some Yankee butt . . . sir."
    "Tell 'em to look sharp and stay alert. We'll move on my signal."
    The slicker-shrouded figure faded back into the mist as he continued to
watch. To wait.
    He'd planned this attack on the Union rail for weeks, using coded snippets
gleaned by their network of telegraph spies to discover where the supplies
would be shipped and when. If their information was right, the train
appearing in the next few minutes would be loaded down with enough food and
powder to further the Confederate effort through the long winter months
ahead. If it was wrong, it would still give his men a chance to work off
some dangerous tension. It was always worse when the holidays grew near.
His men wanted to be home with family. Hell, so did he. This would be his
third year away . . .
    He shook off the moment of melancholy to focus on the immediate goal. A
success on this miserable morning would go far toward boosting their
wavering morale. And it would prolong the costly confrontation perhaps
through another Christmas.
    Then it crossed his mind unbidden, a brief, traitorous thought.
    Was he crazy to want to do such a thing?
    Another year of hardship and death with loneliness and fear as a constant
companion. If they all were just to lay down their arms and go home now . . .
    The train appeared at the bend in the track, clearing his mind of all but
the immediate objective. He and his men had a job to do. Union flags
fluttered boldly on the laboring engine. The incline would slow it just
enough to give them the opportunity they'd need to--
    "Ambush!"
    Minie balls chopped through the thicket like an axe through kindling,
sending branches flying. For a moment, Noble was disoriented, stunned that
the bullets were coming from behind him. Federal troops poured out of the
dense woods, ringing his men with a deadly gun fire. In the confusion that
followed, one thought came agonizing clarity.
    How could it be? How had the enemy known to be there?
    Grabbing up his reins, Noble brought his mount around as he reached for
his side arm and sought a target. He never had the chance to fire for he
was already in an infantryman's sites.
    He heard his brave horse's scream of pain and at first, didn't realize
that the ball had passed through his own leg before plowing into the
animal's lung. The stallion went down, him with it, rolling, toppling down
the embankment toward the train that would continue on to its final
destination.

CHAPTER ONE

    "Major Banning, you got a visitor."
    Clutching the threadbare blanket about his shoulders as if it could keep
the penetrating cold of the blistering Maryland winter from rattling
through his bone, Noble shuffled to the door of his tent. Until last week,
he'd shared the meager quarters with a planter from Alabama. After they'd
carried the man's wasted corpse away, he'd had the place to himself. But
with the way Point Lookout was overflowing with his fellow Southerners, he
knew the privacy wouldn't last long. Perhaps this was to be his new tent mate.
    He paused for a moment at the closed flap. Drawing a deep breath that
made it feel as if ice coated the lining of his lungs, he forced his
stiffened form to straighten into a proud military bearing. As a defiant
gesture, he tossed the blanket to the cot behind him and took a moment to
align his ragged uniform. Only then did he throw back the canvas flap.
    The Union officer waiting in the cold gave him a quick once over glance,
unable to stop the pity from stealing through his expression. Then his
manner became crisp.
    "Major Banning?"
    "Sir?"
    "I'm Lieutenant Horvath. Might I have a word with you?"
    Noble stepped back. "Come in, Lieutenant. I'm afraid I can't offer you
much in the way of hospitality except to cut the wind a little."
    His drawling sarcasm drew a wince from the other officer who entered then
waved for his aide to wait in the cold.
    "What can I do for you, Lieutenant?"
    "I'll get right to it."
    "I'd appreciate that. I'd like to get back to my Dickens before the pages
freeze together."
    Another grimace quickly concealed. Noble understood the man's situation.
One couldn't afford to show empathy for one's enemy. Even when that enemy
was humbled in defeat.
    "Major, do you know a Colonel Crowley?"
    His features hardened but his tone remained cooly civil. "By reputation,
sir." By more than that. Crowley was responsible for his incarceration in
the Union prison along with the men who'd managed to survive.
    "Colonel Crowley speaks highly of you, sir. So highly, in fact, that he
asked me to put forward his request."
    Noble turned and made his way back to the cots, his gait hindered by a
slow healing wound. He lowered himself gingerly atop one. "If the Colonel
would like an invitation to dinner, he's welcome as long as he brings the
meal and is prepared for delousing afterwards. Lice seem to be the only
things that thrive in this place." Lice and despair.
    "The Colonel would like to offer you the means to leave these-surroundings."
    Leave? Noble's interest leapt but his manner remained purposefully
indolent. "Really? Is he proposing to surrender to me, then?"
    The lieutenant caught his grin with some difficulty. "I don't think so,
sir."
    "Then what does he have in mind?" Refusing to act too eager, he began to
wind a loose threat from his fraying jacket cuff about his forefinger. He
glanced up idly for an answer.
    "The Colonel is on his way to a frontier post. He was impressed enough
with you and your men to specifically ask that you be allowed to accompany
him."
    "Accompany him?" Unable to retain the pretense of disinterest, Noble's
demand slashed saber-sharp. "Accompany him as what?"
    "As part of his troop."
    "As part of the Union army?" The question was posed incredulously.
    "Yes, sir. You are undoubtedly aware of the parole program-"
    "Sir, my men and I were never part of the regular Union army and we've no
plans to change our alliance now."
    "Major Banning, your men are dying here. I would think that you, as their
commander would be willing to do just about anything to spare them another
day in this-this hellhole."
    Noble said nothing. His glare emitted frost.
    The lieutenant's tone softened. "You lost two more of them just this
morning."
    "Who?"
    "Burns and Cable."
    For a moment, the prideful disdain crumpled. Noble's head bowed, his eyes
closed as he fought for the strength to find some reply, some words to make
sense of the senseless loss. "The fortunes of war," he said at last.
    "It doesn't have to be yours, sir."
    The man's angry claim brought Noble's attention back to him. "What does
the Colonel offer?" he asked wearily but with no less wariness.
    "That you and your men serve under him on the western frontier for the
duration of this-this damned conflict. Then you will be free to return
home with honor."
    Home . . . The temptation of it nearly made him tremble.
    "What kind of honor is there is betraying one's homeland?" he asked quietly.
    "What kind of honor is there in a useless sacrifice to a lost cause?"
    "It's our cause, sir. One we held highly enough to be brought into
your-care."
    "You wouldn't be fighting against your fellow Southerners, so how can you
see it as betrayal? It's survival, that's all. And none of you are going
to survive if you stay here. Is that your definition of honor? If it is,
it's a poor one."
    Noble rose, rubbing absently at his thigh before striding to the tent flap
and flinging it open. He needed air to clear his head from the seditious
whispers. Home . . . Bitter cold rushed in along with the bitter sight of
what lay around him.
    Unlike most Northern prisoner of war camps, Point Lookout had no permanent
barracks. Prisoners were housed in tents and died daily from sickness on
half rations of beef and hardtack. Those who had the questionable good
fortune of surviving, lacked wood and clothing and suffered brutally from
the cold. He'd heard the death tole was close to thirty percent, though
prison officials denied it.
    Burns and Cable. That made eleven. Eleven good, brave men who'd sworn to
fight an enemy they could see, not one that drained away their vitality day
by miserable day.
    Noble sighed, his breath pluming. How many of his remaining men would
last through spring, some sleeping on the ground without blankets? They
were still his responsibility and he suffered for the knowledge of their
hardships even as he suffered beside them.
    He was being offered a chance to save them.
    Then, his stare narrowed as his mind latched onto another truth. He was
being offered a chance to save them, as well as something else, something
extra that tempted him even more than the thought of freedom.
    Justice.
    "I would like to speak to my men first."
    "Of course, Major. I'll have them gathered for you."
    For a long while after the lieutenant had gone, Noble stood in that
opening, not feeling the cold, not considering what he'd say to his men.
    He was lost to thoughts of retribution.
    To the unexpected opportunity of discovering who among his own men had
betrayed them to their enemy.

    "What you're asking is treasonous, sir."
    "No, sir. We can get along just fine on these bastards' hospitality."
    "I say we stick it out here. Why should we do them any favors."
    "I ain't serving under no Yankee, even if it means freezing for another
winter."
    "Even if it means none of us seeing another winter?" Noble put forth softly.
    His men muttered, but agitation and fear trickled under their resentment,
a cold sweat as they huddled together in scarecrow-like tatters. All of
them were afraid what he said was true. That they'd never leave Point
Lookout alive. That they'd never see their families, their homes again.
    "I'd rather die here for what we believe in than die out there for them."
    Captain Donald Bartholomew's sentiments were echoed by the others. Noble
focused his argument on his second in command, knowing that in swaying him,
he'd turn the others.
    "Donald, I don't like this either, but I don't want to die here. That's
not going to do a damn thing for the Confederate Cause. They don't need
more statistics. They're going to need men to rebuild after this thing is
over. If we all die here, who's going to do that back home? Who's going
to take care of our families? Our vanity? Our nobility?" He shook his
head. "What difference does it make if we sit out the war here in this
deathtrap or as free men out in the west? Neither is going to make a bit
of difference to the outcome of this war. We're not going to see battle
again. The only thing we can hope for now, is to see a future once this is
over."
    "He's right."
    Red-headed, George Allen was the unit's chaplain. His words cut through
the mumbling, through the grumbles.
    "Staying here proves nothing. But by surviving out in the western
territories, we can bring honor to ourselves and return home free men. Men
with nothing to be ashamed of."
    "As cowards, you mean," Bartholomew snarled.
    "Cowards would choose to sit out the war shivering in tents, being fed
like dogs," Noble told them. "Brave men would seize their own future
standing on their hind legs with pride."
    No one said anything for a long moment, considering both sides. Until a
lowly private spoke what they all were thinking.
    "I don't want to die here and be buried on Northern soil without ever
seeing my mama again. I guess that means I'll follow you, Major Banning.
I mean, we already done followed you into hell, why not back out again?"
    A couple of men laughed halfheartedly.
    Noble looked to Donald Bartholomew. "Don? Are you with me, too? I want
your word as a gentleman that you'll serve and serve honorably."
    Bartholomew scowled. Finally he muttered, "Ah, hell, Noble. I'd rather
be straddling a horse than one of these frozen latrines for another year.
I'm with you."
    Even as he shook each man's hand, Noble could sense their confusion and
divided loyalties. But he knew his men and knew once they'd given their
word, they'd stand by it. They'd follow him even if it went against
everything they held sacred. Because none of them believed dying
helplessly of cold and scurry could earn them any glory.
    He'd asked for their allegiance to an enemy they loathed. He asked and he
got it, and he hated himself for having to do it. But one thing got him
through it, one thing convinced him that what he was doing was right in
selling out their loyalty to save their lives.
    In serving under Crowley, he would find out who among his men betrayed
them all--not for survival but for money.
    He'd find out. And if that man still lived, justice would be done, sure
and swift, for the eighteen who'd fallen in the field. For the eleven who
lay interred in frozen Northern graves. For the sake of his own tormented
soul, a soul that cried out nightly for those twenty-nine men who'd trusted
him and put their lives in his hands.

    "You're going to lead Southern troops? Papa are you mad?"
    "I've been accused of being crazy as a fox. Is that the same thing?"
    Juliet Crowley ignored her father's teasing, unwilling to be sidetracked
from what she considered his sudden lunacy. "You're taking enemy soldiers
with you to Fort Blair."
    "Not enemies, Jules. Just soldiers. Some of the best soldiers I've ever
seen. Wait until you see them on horseback. Why, half our men sit a
saddle like clothespins, falling off at every unplanned turn. We need
men-riders-who can match the hostiles on their own terms. Men like these.
Then maybe we'll have a chance."
    "But who's the more dangerous? The Indians or the men who'll be in your
own command? I prefer to trust an enemy I can see, not one that poses as
my friend."
    "Jules-"
    "Et tu Brute?"
    John Crowley shook his head. ""Tis my own fault for providing you with an
education so you can best me in an argument."
    Juliet brightened. "Does that mean you see my point?"
    "Of course, I do, my dear. But that doesn't mean I'll surrender to it."
    "Oh, Papa, you are so vexing!"
    Then her father flanked her with an attack for which she had no defense:
"If you are so against it, perhaps it would be better if you stayed here in
the east."
    Juliet shut her mouth with a snap. Her glare decried an unfair advantage
taken but when she spoke, her tone was demure.
    "My place is with you, Papa. Whether I think you are foolish or not, does
not matter."
    Crowley smiled. "So like your mama. Even in your concessions, you act
the victor. What am I to do with you, child?"
    "Take me with you."
    "I would not have it otherwise, Jules. If I've never said so before, I
depend upon you for your strength and counsel. I've missed you sorely while
on the field of this civil war. I look forward to returning to the west
where we know, even if we don't understand, our enemies."
    Pleased by his words, Juliet embraced her father but her misgivings didn't
lessen. "At least I'll be there to watch your back, should any of your own
men try to stick something in it."
    She could feel his grin. "I am comforted in that knowledge."
    Later, Juliet paced her Maryland hotel room, fretting over the situation.
Not her own, of course. She was a born camp follower, taking up where her
mother had left off. She knew no other life than the hard one she led,
accompanying her father to isolated posts on the frontier. She wouldn't
think to complain over the loneliness, the difficulties or the continual
danger. She considered those a part of daily living. What worried her was
the men her father would command for the next year or two, men he'd faced
in battle and had secured in a Northern prison. Men her father would have
to trust to follow his instructions and not dessert at the earliest
opportunity.
    She had no fondness for Southerners. There had been in few in her
father's last command in Texas before the war began. She thought them vain
and arrogant and more than a little lazy, used to lackeys doing their work
and to women who'd fawn and faint at their whims. Pompous fools, all of
them, severing the union for their own selfish purposes at the cost of
innocent soldier's lives.
    Forcing her to spend three long years in a prison of her own while her
father was pulled from her life to fight in the Western Theater.
    She'd hoped to put all that behind her when her father was reassigned to
Fort Blair in the New Mexico territory. She had more tolerance for savages
defending their land than beau gallants defending their ideals. How could
her father trust such shallow aristocrats to cover his flank when under
hostile fire?
    She had a very bad feeling about the whole thing.
    That feeling only worsened when she got her first glimpse of the
recalcitrant troops.
    They formed a ragged line just inside the gates of Point Lookout prison,
where they stood, shivering with cold in their thin uniforms with scarcely
more than skin to cover their bones. Mere skeletons, she thought at first
until she could see their eyes. Those eyes burnt with a fever of pride and
indomitable will.
    Her father was going to have his hands full.
    And it didn't take more than a second to figure out who was going to cause
the most grief.
    He wore the insignia of major but even without it, there could be no
mistaking him as the Confederates' leader. Even weakened by the harsh
conditions of the camp, he braced the blustery weather with a posture as
stiff as a Stars and Bars bearing flagpole. His ice blue stare fixed upon
her father with an unblinking intensity, his look not one of arrogance or
hostility as it was with many others, but with a wary gauging, a careful
studying. This man was no soft Southern fop. She read intelligence in
those unswerving eyes and confidence in his rigid stance. And authority in
the way the other deferred to him as her father spoke.
    "I am Colonel John Crowley. From what you know of me, I'm sure it's a
name you've cursed since your incarceration in this-facility. From what I
know of you, you are men deserving of more respect then this place allows
you. A respect you have already earned by your cunning and valor in the
field. It's my wish to put you upon that field again, not here in this
theater of brother against brother, but in the west where we can all rally
together against a common foe."
    He scanned the impassive troop, looking for a reaction, finding none.
Juliet wondered if he'd expected any from these hard and hostile men.
    "I don't expect you to thank me. In fact, I am certain you'll have even
more cause to curse me. A US soldier on western duty has little to be
grateful for. I have heard it said that where we are going, everything
that grows pricks and everything that breathes bites. You will be facing
an enemy tougher and more ferocious than you can imagine, and if you are
foolish enough to contemptuously think them simple savages who are no match
for our military acumen, they will be wearing your hair on their lances.
The danger is ever-present. The pay is rotten, a miserly $16 a month for
most of you and you'll earn every nickel of it ten times over. So don't
thank me for taking you out of this hell-hole. You haven't seen hell yet.
But you will. You will."
    Juliet held to her smile. A rousing speech sure to win these sullen
troops over. Her father was not one to sugar-coat any given situation. He
was forcing them to swallow a bitter pill while saying it was for their own
good as they choked on it. She found herself studying the rebel major,
watching for any sign of response. His whiskered features might well have
been slashed from stone with a saber blade. This time she did smile,
because he thought, just as his men thought, that they'd endured the worse
life could offer. How quickly they'd discover they were wrong.
    As if he felt her interest, the major's steely gaze cut over to where she
sat, bundled in a rented hack. Though protected from the weather, she felt
vulnerable to the sudden penetrating cold of his stare. A tremor raced
through her, but instead of bringing a chill, she was suffused by heat, a
confusing warmth of response and unbidden reaction. Confusing because she
wasn't one to be intimidated by a man. She'd grown up in the Army and
considered herself the mental and, in many cases, the physical equal of any
man in uniform. Not understanding her own emotions, she looked away,
embarrassed, then back, angered that she should feel guilty. But she no
longer had his attention. It was riveted back to her father. A strange
shiver rattled her sensibilities. The man unsettled her. And for that
reason, she disliked the Confederate officer before they'd exchanged a
single word.
    "I've told you what you have to look forward to," her father said with his
typical brusqueness. "Now, there's something I want from each of you. I
would have you swear your allegiance to our United States of America and
would take your word as gentlemen that you will do nothing to raise your
hand against her for the duration of this war. That you will uphold the
duties placed upon you by our Federal government for which, in return, you
will be paroled from this prison."
    Juliet expected the Southerners to balk and they did. Rebellion,
resentment and open defiance flared, in their hollowed eyes, in the tight
flexing of their stubbled jaws, in the fisting of their hands. Her father
ignored the signs of approaching mutiny with a calm demand.
    "Major Banning, I would have an oath from you and your fellow officers,
then you may turn the task over to your sergeant to relay to the rest of
your men."
    He wasn't going to do it. Juliet read refusal in the prideful narrowing
of his glare and knew a moment of relief.
    "Major?"
    At her father's prompting, she watched other emotions play over the lean
and dangerously set features. Strong emotions, ones that challenged and
humbled an inherent arrogance. She saw in that raw moment, the cost of
bowing to her father's command. A sacrifice of conscience, the crushing of
loyalty and honor beneath the heel of desperate circumstance. The bending
of an independent will for the good of many. And for just that instant,
she felt sympathy for the proud soldiers and their conviction-torn leader.
    "Major?" her father repeated.
    A tense pause was followed by the reluctant lift of Banning's right hand.
The gesture was repeated by his two captain's. Clearly, fiercely, they
mouthed the words binding themselves to the very nation they'd parted from
with bloodshed and bitterness. Then the same oath was spoken by the
enlisted men, their sentiments more apparent, their phrases more
begrudging. Juliet listened. And didn't believe a word.
    They were traitors. They would turn on their vows the first chance they
got.
    How on earth were they going to survive the trip to New Mexico?
    But her father appeared satisfied with the pledges of loyalty for he
turned to his aide and ordered, "Secure the release of these men from the
prison commandant. I want them bathed, clean shaven, issued uniforms and
fed all they can hold. Is that understood?"
    "Yes, sir, Colonel Crowley."
    Then, in a lower aside, the colonel said, "and don't take your eyes off
them for a minute."

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