by Lexy Timms
“You cannot let her in here!” The voice came out in a hiss, desperate. Horace tried to push himself up, and staggered.
“Don’t try to move,” Jasper begged. He was at his friend’s side, and he drew in his breath sharply when Jasper hauled him close. The man’s eyes were wide and staring, feverish. Deranged.
“She cannot come in here, do you understand me?” His voice was a hiss. “Send her away.”
“She went to get medicine for you.” Jasper tried to unclench his friend’s hands from his shirt and could not. “Horace...”
“Send her away.” His teeth were bared in a grimace. “Do it, Jasper. You have no idea what’s at stake.”
“I have a very good idea what’s at stake!” Jasper hissed back. “You’re dying, and I won’t let you. I’ve worked down in those fields for a week to keep food in our bellies and your wound clean. I knew the risks I was taking, believe me.”
“Not this one.” Horace released him at last, half throwing him away. “Tell her nothing, do you understand me? If you have any loyalty me at all, Jasper, I beg you. Send her away.”
Jasper’s heart twisted.
“I’ll kill myself, I swear it.” His friend’s blue eyes were steady on his.
“You will do no such thing.” Jasper’s voice was dangerous.
“I will,” Horace said after a pause.
“Fine.” Jasper pushed himself to his feet and strode out of the cabin.
Clara was barely a few steps away, and he suppressed an exclamation at the sight of her. Her eyes were red with tears, and the red gown that had so accentuated her fair skin a day ago now showed only how pale and drawn she had become.
“Clara?” He stepped forward, and she came to a halt.
“He’s....” Her voice broke. “He’s dead, Jasper.”
“Your brother,” he guessed, cold dread sinking into his stomach, and her face crumpled.
“Yes.”
“Clara.” It would take an army to keep him from her now. He enfolded her in his arms and felt her body shudder with sobs.
Her voice was half whisper, half cry. “They’re all back except him. They never found him, and I have to go tell my mother that she can’t even bury him. I’ll never see him and...” Her voice trailed off in a sob. “I’ll never know what happened. If he died alone, if he cried out for help. Nothing.”
The cry broke his heart, and Jasper held her close, feeling tears welling in his own eyes. She was not a Yankee now. She was a young woman in pain. He had seen the faces of the families before he marched. They had turned out to watch the armies go, and in their eyes he had seen the cold knowledge that not all of them would come home again.
He had faced the breaking of his faith in the mangled bodies of his fellow soldiers, but never until now had he thought what became of the Union soldiers. Shame made his cheeks burn, and Jasper bent his head over Clara’s, holding her close. He would have killed her brother if they had met in battle. He...
It occurred to him now, for the first time, that he might have done so. He could not bear to ask where the man had been lost.
He wanted to wretch, wanted to get down on his knees and beg Clara’s forgiveness. For the first time, his rage at the Union was tumbled over, not just in his care for this woman but for everything she represented. He was losing himself on this hill, in this northern country, and he could no longer have said whether he was even sure what he was losing.
When she pulled away from him at last, her face pink with tears, he saw the package clenched in her hands. He wanted to turn away from her, run as far as his legs would take him. She stood before him with every reason to curse Horace and consign him to death, and she was holding out the medicine to save his life.
“I want to meet him,” she said, her face trembling. “Your friend.”
“I... You can’t.” Jasper swallowed.
“Why not?” The package came down slowly. She folded it in her arms and looked at him warily.
He paused to choose his words carefully. “He doesn’t approve of the risk I’ve taken,” he said at last.
“The risk?” she asked, and her cheeks flushed. “I’ve sheltered you both for weeks. I’ve gone to get him medicine, Jasper. We don’t have enough to pay the laborers next week, because of this.” She thrust the package at him once more, and snatched it away when he reached for it. “If anyone has risked anything, it is me. And you know I can be trusted.”
“I told him that,” Jasper pleaded with her.
“Then he should trust you.” She made to push past him.
Jasper caught her easily, holding her back, and he held her even when her eyes flared with anger.
“Let. Me. Go.”
“Clara...I promised him.”
“And you promised me you would never speak to me again,” she cried passionately. “You broke that promise, and your promise to him means nothing. I am no threat. I only want to meet the man whose life I’m saving. I want to know his face, Jasper. Can’t you understand that? My brother is gone and I would bring him back if I could, but I can’t. I can’t. All I have left is this man, do you see?”
“I’m sorry,” Jasper whispered. He met her eyes and flinched from the pain he saw there. “I wish...”
“You wish you were a different man,” she shot back. “A man who would have the least bit of courtesy to the woman who saved your miserable life. You’d have starved if it weren’t for me, Jasper Perry, you and your friend. Well, here. Take the medicine. Never trouble me again.” She turned and strode away, her head held high as her shoulders shook.
“Clara!”
She turned slowly, and her face was like a mask. “Never. Again.”
Then she was gone. As she reached the bottom of the hill, she broke into a run, and Jasper turned back to the cabin. The blood was beating in his ears. He strode back inside, and as his eyes acclimated to the darkness, he saw Horace curled in the back corner, his face turned to the wall, a hand over his eyes.
“Suppose you tell me,” Jasper said, “what that was about. Tell me now.”
A headshake was his only answer.
“She knows what we are.” He was almost shouting now. “You heard her.”
“Yes. I heard her.” Horace looked like he was going to be ill.
“She knows what we are. Why is my life worth risking, but not yours?”
“I can’t tell you.” Horace’s face was screwed up in misery. One hand was clenched so tightly that the flesh had turned white. “Jasper, I can’t. Anything else...my life...but not this. Not until we’re away.”
Jasper could not speak for rage. He pushed himself away from the cabin and strode into the forest, his breath coming short. It was time to decide, at long last, where his loyalties truly lay.
Chapter 12
She could not be still. She wanted to run until there was no breath in her lungs, but there was nowhere to go. Into the house where she had played hide and seek with Solomon, to the overlook where they had climbed together, to the river where they chased frogs and fish? The world was made of memories she could not forget.
Clara looked up at the blue sky above her and she wanted to scream her fury that the sun dared shine down on her. There should be clouds, there should be rain and storms that tore the heavens open. There should be nothing at all, darkness and a void of grief. The world could not go on, not now.
But it was, and she must go tell her mother what she had heard. Somewhere, she must find the courage to say it.
Her heart was crumbling to dust and she wanted nothing more than to curl into Jasper’s arms, feel his strong heartbeat beneath her fingers. She would hide away from her duty if she could and sit beneath the willow with her fingers twined in his and his soft words to distract her from the fact that the world was not right, would never be right again. That desire was a betrayal. She cursed her own foolishness even as she turned to stare up the hillside, yearning...
It was a kindness, she tried to tell herself, that he had shown himself now.
He might have ruined her and left her instead, preying on her weakness. Instead, he had shown where his honor lay: with his fellow soldiers above her.
What a fool she had been to expect anything more. How pathetic must she have looked to him, holding out the package and asking to see his comrade? A naïve little schoolgirl, who did not understand the first part of this war. A stab of shame hit her: perhaps he had never desired her at all and found her kisses repulsive. She wanted to melt into the ground at the thought.
When she remembered the press of his hips against her own, she could not believe that, but what difference did it make? He had turned her away anyway.
Her footsteps, halting and clumsy, led her to the farmhouse. She would go to bed, she thought, and claim she was ill. When she woke, she would put all of this foolishness behind her and she would tell her mother the truth—and all of them could begin to heal. She squared her shoulders, pushed open the door, and stopped dead.
“Cyrus.” She was so surprised that she could think of nothing to say. For a blessed moment, the pain receded.
“Clara?” Her mother was on her feet. “Child, what has happened? We saw the wagon home, but no one could find you...” She meant to be gentle, but the truth tumbled out despite her.
“Solomon is dead,” Clara heard herself say. Her chin trembled, and she gripped the doorframe to stay upright. “I saw Johnny Benson in town. They’re home. Without him.”
“Oh, Clara.” Millicent was moving to Clara’s side at once, her hands out. She enfolded Clara in an embrace. “Oh, my daughter.”
“You were right.” Clara could not feel her lips moving any longer.
Her mother said nothing, only held her close as the tears came in a rush.
“I thought...”
“I know,” her mother whispered into her hair. “I know, Clara.” Her voice broke. “You were right to hope.”
She thought she would die at the pain in her mother’s voice. No one should have to bury their child. She buried her face in her mother’s neck and sobbed, clinging desperately. She drowning in the grief.
“He promised,” she whispered, unable to hold the words back.
“What did you say?” Her mother smoothed her hair back. “Clara?”
“He promised,” Clara cried out. “He promised he was coming back safe. He lied, he lied...” She could not stop the sobs, and she could not hold the words back, no matter how childish. “He told me he was coming back, and he didn’t.”
“Oh, child.” Her mother’s arms tightened around her.
“Mother...?”
Cecelia’s voice stopped them all. Clara bit off a sob in a hiccup and lifted her head, pressing the back of her hand against her mouth. Cecelia stood in the doorway from the barn, her red dress backlit, her face grave. Millicent was staring over her shoulder, her face stricken, and Cyrus had frozen where he stood at the table.
“Cecelia.” Her mother did not seem to know what to say.
“Miss Dalton.” Cyrus was at her side quickly, his arm out. “Come sit.”
“What’s wrong?” Cecelia stared between them. Her face had gone pale.
“Here, sit.” Cyrus steered her into a chair.
At his appealing look, Millicent extricated herself gently from Clara’s arms and went to the table, Clara trailing behind her. She felt Cyrus’s arm come around her waist, and for the first time she could remember, she was comforted by his solid presence. She laid her head against his chest and grasped his hand, and he did not try to speak, only held her. His head bowed over hers.
“Dear, hold your heart.” Millicent knelt at Cecelia’s side. “We’ve had some news.”
“Solomon,” Cecelia whispered, and Clara squeezed her eyes shut at the pain in her sister’s voice. “It is, isn’t it? You’ve heard. They’re sure.”
“They never found him,” Clara said, her voice stronger than she would have guessed. Facts gave an eerie clarity. “They did not send word, because they wanted to be sure.”
“How could he just be lost?” Cecelia demanded. She looked between them. “Someone must know where he is.”
“Cee, hundreds have been lost. The battlefields—” Clara broke off at her mother’s headshake. “We don’t know how,” she finished softly.
“They just left him there, all alone on the battlefield? They didn’t even go to find his body?” Cecelia’s voice was rising.
“Cecelia—”
“They left him to die alone! How could they do that?” Cecelia pulled away from her mother’s embrace. “It isn’t right, you know it isn’t. How dare they come back without him?”
“You’re right.” Cyrus’s voice was deep, surprisingly forceful. His hands squeezed around Clara’s, and then he left her to go kneel with Millicent at Cecelia’s side. “Your brother deserved more than that, Cecelia. He deserved a burial here next to your father.”
“And he’s not even going to get a funeral.” Cecelia’s face screwed up.
“He will,” Cyrus promised her. “There’s nothing that will make this right, Cecelia, but we will give him a funeral.” He chafed her hands in his own. “Your love gave him great comfort, you know that.”
“It did?” Cecelia’s voice was small.
“It did,” Cyrus promised her. “Solomon was proud to have sisters so honorable and kind. He was proud to be a Dalton, and proud of your mother. He knew he might give his life when he marched, but he did it for love, do you see?”
“No,” Cecelia whispered. She looked lost. Clara put her hand over her own mouth to stifle the sobs. Cecelia should not have to bear this. None of them should. “It wasn’t worth his life.”
“No,” Clara agreed. “It wasn’t.” She made it to a chair before she collapsed, and Millicent’s hands came down on her shoulders.
The room swam in Clara’s vision. She did not know how they might go on. Only now, after months of furious resentment, did she realize the others had held out hope as well. She watched dully as Cyrus led Millicent to a chair and bent low to speak with her. Tears were tracing their way down the woman’s cheeks, and she grasped Cyrus’s hand as thought she might keep herself from drowning.
The world was going dark and too bright by turns. Clara bent her head and clenched her fingers in her lap. It was unreal that she could still be alive, and yet she was breathing and moving.
No. It wasn’t real. Solomon could not be dead. She remembered him lifting her into trees and running with her in the fields. There was the shy smile when he told her how he fancied one of his schoolmates, Eliza. She remembered him swinging a scythe, and saying prayers with her over their father’s grave. How could he be dead now?
“Clara.” Cyrus knelt at her side, and reached out to take her hand. “I have no wish to intrude. I’ll go now, but know that I am here.” His voice was low and warm. “If you wish, send one of the men for me, and I’ll come. Rest now.” He kissed her forehead.
“That’s very kind of you.” His smile was so kind, so familiar, that Clara felt something release deep in her chest. She smiled back at him, catching her breath on a half-sob when his thumb brushed a tear away from her cheek. “Why did you come today?”
“To see you,” he said gently. His fingers curled around hers. “There’s the Millers’ party, do you remember? I thought...” He shook his head. “It isn’t important. Clara, you need rest.” He drew away.
“No.” Her voice was soft, but it stopped him in his tracks. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.” The thought of sitting in her study by the light of a single candle, alone in the darkness with her grief, was too much to bear.
“Truly?” The leap of hope in his eyes nearly made her back away, but she shoved away her discomfort. Cyrus loved her, she told herself. He would never leave her. Had her mother not said that a kind man was worth more than gold? She was more correct than she knew.
“Truly.” She found a smile somewhere, and held his eyes. She swallowed. “I would like to go with you tonight.”
Chapter 13
&nbs
p; I wish... What had possessed him to say that? What had made him choose his friend’s foolish fear over Clara’s loyalty? In his mind’s eye, Jasper could still see the hurt in her face as she turned away. The shadows under her eyes spoke to more than simple tiredness. She was carrying the weight of the farm on those slim shoulders, and the burden of telling her mother of her brother’s death. Horace was one more burden, one Jasper had begged her to take on, only to push her away when she came to him wracked by grief.
He did not go back to the fields. He could not take the chance of seeing her. As the daylight faded, Jasper walked to the tumbled down wall a dozen times. He looked between the lazily waving trees to the glimpse of the red farmhouse and did not dare approach. What would he say? He had always known that he would need to move onwards when Horace recovered. There could be no future for a Confederate soldier and a Yankee woman, not while the war raged—and so there was no purpose to saying the pretty speech he was building up in his head, begging Clara to forgive him.
He leaned against the remains of the doorframe and watched as the first glimpses of golden light showed in the farmhouse windows. A lazy wind swept over the remains of the wheat, and Jasper felt bone weary to think of the work that must still be done.
Weary, and at the same time panicked to think how little was left. Three days of hard labor meant three days of employment. Only three days left in Clara’s company. Jasper sank his face into his hands with a groan; he should not be thinking this. He could not go speak to her. What would he say? He went back to their makeshift seats and turned his face resolutely from the fields, resting his forehead on his folded hands. For one of the first times in his life, he wanted to get blind drunk.
He thought he had resolved himself to stay quietly in the cottage, but when Horace slipped into a fitful sleep at last, Jasper could take it no more. He must at least make amends. He must tell this woman the truth: that no good could come of their friendship. He must tell her that he thought her the most admirable woman he had ever met, and he would bite his tongue not to tell her that he would remember her always.
