Free Confederates Don't Wear Couture by Stephanie Kate Strohm

battlefield. Check out all the other soldiers in different units and spot the gays. It’s probably best not to dip one’s nib in the office ink, anyway. Or the unit ink, as it were.”
    â€œDefinitely best,” I agreed, as Dev checked out his reflection and picked up a white broad-brimmed hat.
    â€œYou like?” He struck three model poses. “Jeff Davis had one just like it.”
    â€œYou and the former president of the Confederate States of America are on a nickname basis?” I asked.
    â€œâ€˜Jefferson’ is just too stuffy,” he said with a smirk. “Here.” He handed me a wide-brimmed straw hat trimmed with a taffeta plaid ribbon that matched my skirt. “Seashore hat, Godey’s, 1861. Gotta protect that porcelain complexion.”
    â€œMmm.”
    Once the few things we’d brought with us were back in our trunks, we headed out of the tent, and I was certainly glad I had that hat. The Alabama sun was beating down brutally. Dev and I sat on some rocks at the edge of the camp and watched as the soldiers swarmed around, breaking down the camp. I popped up and offered to help at one point, but was firmly escorted back to my seat by a group of men who informed me that a pretty little thing like me had no business lifting a finger, and they weren’t gonna stand by and let a lady work in the hot sun. So Dev and I waited and chatted in the sunshine, until, much later, all of the tents were dismantled and packed into modern cars and trucks. Once everything was settled, Beau came to collect us, Willie padding along in his wake.
    â€œSorry that took so long,” Beau said. He reached out his hand and helped me up. “My truck’s right this way.” He held out his arm to escort me, and although I was surprised at the gesture, I wasn’t altogether displeased. There was something to this whole chivalry thing, after all. I took his arm, and we walked to the parking lot, Dev trailing grumpily behind like an unwilling third wheel.
    We stopped at the passenger side of an old red pickup truck. Beau opened the door for me and helped me up. I folded my hoops into the seat. Once Beau saw that I was safely in, he crossed around to the driver’s seat.
    â€œAh, a classic. The 1993 Dodge Dakota,” Dev said quietly. “You sure don’t choose your men for their rides.”
    I kicked him with a dainty booted heel as he scrambled into the cab of the truck. With Beau plus the two of us, and me in my hoop skirt, it was pretty close quarters. Willie sat patiently in the driveway, looking up at us.
    â€œIs that beast coming in?” Dev asked, appalled. “I’m wearing a
white suit!
He better not sit on me. This outfit is not supposed to come with a fur coat. You’re terribly out of season, ducky,” he addressed the dog.
    â€œHe can sit on me. Here, Willie!” I patted my lap, and Willie clambered up and over Dev—who moaned with dismay—finally settling on my lap. He was so big it was smothering but nice. Willie’s tail wagged happily, smacking Dev repeatedly in the nose.
    Packed nice and tightly, we set off.
    â€œAre we there yet?” Dev whined the minute we passed the sign thanking us for visiting Confederate Memorial Park.
    â€œNot quite,” Beau said, as we barreled down the road. Tammy was right—he did drive fast—and with breezy, one-handed confidence. “It’s a little less than two hours to Tuscaloosa.”
    â€œI thought we were going somewhere called Tannehill?” I asked.
    â€œWe are.” Beau sped by and passed another car. “Tannehill Ironworks Historical State Park. It’s about halfway between Birmingham and Tuscaloosa. There’s more than fifteen hundred acres for us to set up and fight on, which is good, since we got more than five hundred reenactors last year.”
    â€œExcellent,” Dev said, rubbing his hands together. “‘The best things in