Oh God, help us.
What was Travis even thinking, dragging these men here? Wouldn’t it have served just as well to load them on a train and send them to Richmond, to prison?
She should insist he take them back. Even offer to go help nurse the wounded elsewhere, in exchange.
But … she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Pa with just Clem to care for him. And she couldn’t just take Pa along.
Daylight poured through the window, stabbing Josh’s eyelids with a ferocity that rivaled the ache in his arm. He lifted the limb to block the sun’s assault and was instantly sorry, as he thumped it against the wall and sent waves of agony echoing throughout his body.
Groaning, he rolled to the side and found himself at the edge of the bed.
A narrow bed, but a bed nevertheless. In a house owned by Rebels. Where he was prisoner.
But a house here and not Richmond. Not Libby Prison or any other. He had to remember that.
Prying his eyes open, he drew a deep breath. Opposite him, a mere pace or two away, the other man still lay, asleep again—or was that asleep still? Concern stirred, but the overwhelming throb in his arm silenced nearly all else.
Need pulsed through him as well—the need to be up, on his own feet, and out of the bed, more than anything else. He swung his legs over the edge, pushing himself up with his good elbow. Sat for a moment, simply drawing the air in and out of his lungs.
He shivered and glanced about. Where was his shirt—a coat—anything? There—a pair of blue coats, one short and one long, hung on pegs where he thought he remembered a woman’s dress before. No shirt in sight, though two knapsacks lay on the floor beneath the coats, but the coat would do, for now. He hadn’t the patience to rummage through a knapsack.
Getting to his feet was less difficult than before, and the dizziness passed in moments. Josh shuffled over to the wall and reached for the coat hanging nearest to his bed, the long one with two blue chevrons adorning each sleeve. Whoever put them there must have puzzled out whose was whose—
His gaze snagged on the bloodstained, tattered remains of the left sleeve. Oh. A shock went through him, as if he were back on the battlefield, among the noise and screams, and hit afresh.
Oh God. Why would You allow this?
Driven once again by bodily need, he gingerly tugged the garment around his shoulders.
A low murmur reached his ears from the other room. He stepped through the doorway and stopped, one hand on the lintel. The conversation came from the two men in the beds across the sitting room. “Didn’t want no darky looking after us anyway,” said one.
“Ah, they’re all right, I reckon. Leastways this one was.” To which the response was a snort.
No one else was in sight. Josh started across the floor, and both men looked up with surprise and interest. “Well, lookee! Good morning to ya,” said the second man.
“Morning,” Josh answered, then cleared his throat. He kept moving.
“Headed to the necessary? Lucky you, goin’ outside.”
Josh offered a nod. He’d stop for pleasantries on the way back.
One foot in front of the other. He gained the door and stepped out, where the severity of sunlight was lessened by the porch roof.
A pretty little farmyard greeted his sight, with a modest barn across the way and three or four elegant trees shading both the house and a hitching rail. A split-rail fence marked off a pen or paddock, and to the right stood a stone-encircled well. A bit beyond that, half-a-dozen fruit trees—apple, if he didn’t miss his guess, although they were all picked clean.
The outhouse would be away to the left, as he recalled.
He went down the steps and across the yard, more slowly now. Beyond the barn lay a stretch of field and a mountain ridge rising above, the forest lit by the midmorning sun behind him. Turning, he stood for a moment scanning the steep hillside, still green except for the occasional tree turning red or yellow. All was quiet except for a rhythmic pounding interspersed with splashing, coming from the direction of the outhouse. He continued his amble in that direction.
Miss MacFarlane knelt in the tree-edged backyard near a clothesline strung between two tall posts, scrubbing a wad of cloth over a washtub and board. Josh made a beeline for the outhouse. No need to disturb her, yet.
He stepped inside and secured the latch, then hung his coat on a hook placed helpfully on the wall. Seeing to things took far longer than he expected even under the circumstances, and refastening his trousers was a painful and frustrating ordeal. By the time Josh finished, he was sweating, swearing under his breath, and entirely too shaky for comfort.
But now he had to make it back to the house.
He unlatched the door, reached for his coat, and in the process of trying to sling the garment back around his shoulders and step outside, slammed his confounded arm—no, stump—against the doorway of the outhouse. A strangled cry broke from his throat, and the agony buckled his knees. He only barely caught himself from pitching on his face.
“Mister Wheeler!”
The feminine voice, breathless with shock, and the sound of rustling skirts and running footsteps filled his ears.
“What on earth are you doing out here, alone?” she murmured, and small but capable hands took hold of his shoulders. “Come, let me help you up.”
Heat swept through him, causing the sweat to break out afresh. He’d be doggoned if he needed a slip of a woman to assist him from the privy. “I—can manage it.”
“Of course you can,” she said, a slight edge to her voice. “But I’d rather not have to drag you back into the house by your suspenders, if you please. Not that you’re wearing any,” she added in a mutter.
“Very well,” he gasped. “Give me—a moment.”
He focused on taking the next breath, and another, until the throb in his arm eased enough for him to think clearly. The girl’s hand remained on his shoulder.
At last he straightened, still swaying a little on his knees. He peeked at the girl and found her startlingly close, mouth pressed firm but green eyes wide.
Plain she might be, but she was still young and female and—oh, how he needed a good scrubbing.
“I might be able to get up, now,” he muttered.
She shifted back and stood, then reached a hand out to brace him while he did the same. The strength of her grip surprised him, as did her lack of hesitation in setting her shoulder beneath his and an arm around his waist, before leading him toward the house.
“Can’t blame you for trying, I suppose,” she said as they went. “Portius returned to camp this morning, and I’m a bit shorthanded. My pa isn’t able to help, not in this way at least, and my brother Clem is always running off.”
“I’d rather not be a bother, regardless,” Josh said.
They’d made it nearly back to the front steps, and he was only slightly out of breath. A true achievement.
“Like I said,” Miss MacFarlane said evenly, “I’d rather not be dragging you back inside.”
They gained the porch, and she stopped to let him rest a moment.
“Speaking of suspenders,” he said. “Do I still have such a thing as a shirt?”
Her lips curved a little. “I’ve wondered that myself.”
The chatter in the sitting room fell to silence as they entered, and then a low whistle came from one of the beds. Miss MacFarlane stiffened against his side but would apparently have kept going. Josh’s feet stumbled to a halt, and his head came up.
The man in the leftmost bed wore a look of chagrin, slanting glances between Josh and the man in the other bed, but that one only gazed back at Josh with a smug expression.
For several long, painful heartbeats, Josh held his eyes until the man’s smile flagged and he looked away. Only then did he let Miss MacFarlane urge him across the room and to his own bed.
Before Pearl could help any further, Mr. Wheeler shucked his coat at the bedside and collapsed on its edge. Shadows rimmed his eyes even more deeply th
an before, and his pale forehead and cheeks glistened with the effort he’d just expended, the freckles standing out in relief.
Without asking, she poured another cup of water and handed it to him, then a second once he drained that. “Thank you,” he gasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
She nodded soberly then turned to check on Mr. Thorsson while Mr. Wheeler settled himself. He moved slightly but didn’t wake when she laid her hand across his scorching forehead.
An ache gripped her throat. Not another. Not again.
Yet these men were the enemy. What did she care if they perished here or on the battlefield somewhere?
Because they had been placed under her care, her conscience was quick to retort. Whether by chance or no, they were here, and it was her duty to feed them.
“If thine enemy thirst …”
She gritted her teeth and went to fetch her basin. But then she remembered she’d left laundry in the side yard. A snicker interrupted her thoughts as she crossed the sitting room. She spared the obnoxious one not a glance but hurried back out to finish the one task so she could see to another.
It was a kind attempt on Mr. Wheeler’s part to even think to stop and confront that other man, but what could he have done?
For that matter, what was she going to do if the man’s harassment became worse?
In the side yard, she plunged her hands back into the water, not caring that she splashed her apron and skirt, and seized the entire wad of bandages she’d been scrubbing. Bandages she needed in order to dress the wounds of the men inside her house, again.
She collapsed against the side of the washtub, breast heaving, throat clogged with sobs she dared not give vent to—but could not deny. Three brothers in the grave because of men like the ones inside her house. And Pa half-insensible at times because of the strain and worry of it all.
Where was Pa, anyway?
She shoved upright, glancing around, her lungs working like a bellows and heart pounding for a completely different reason now. But perhaps there was no reason to panic. Pa had been known to sleep overlong before or wander a bit far on a walk.
But the urgency thudding through her veins demanded action.
She scrambled to her feet and ran back into the house. Mr. Shaw and Mr. Jackson perked up when she skidded to a stop in the sitting room. “Have either of you seen my pa?”
Hopeful looks faded to confusion and blankness. “Nah,” Mr. Shaw said.
“I ain’t seen him since breakfast,” Mr. Jackson chimed.
She ran the rest of the way across to Pa’s room, but he wasn’t there.
Of course.
Flying through the rest of the house—even the upstairs although there was no rational way he could have gotten up the steps—did not uncover his whereabouts. Thankfully, both the men in her bedroom were asleep, which gave her a bit more time before she’d be needed again.
But where—where?—could Pa have gotten off to? Out through the back door, turning in circles to scan the yard and fields as far as she could see. The privy stood open, so—not there. Around to the barn and inside. The few chickens they still managed to keep scattered, squawking, then trailed her, hoping for a few scraps or choice grains.
“Pa?” Her voice echoed in the empty barn. Only the chickens answered.
Her breaths came tight and fast once more. She could not give in to the weeping, here. She had no time to waste if he was out there wandering.
And obviously he was out there wandering if he could not be found around the house or outbuildings.
“God,” she panted, “oh God, please help me!”
Outside, she strode to the fence and turned again in a slow circle, scanning every bit of exposed pasture, field, or hillside. Down the road. Nothing. She made a circuit of the barnyard, looking for footprints accompanied by the telltale marks of Pa’s walking stick. Still nothing.
Lord God. I am begging. Please help.
She closed her eyes, drew a long, deep breath. Held it. Let it out again.
“I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills …”
She did just that, setting her gaze on the ridge overlooking their farm, which she’d traversed just two days before on her way to Lydia’s. A compulsion she could not explain drew her around, through the gate, and across the field, up the slope.
Halfway up, she stopped and called out again. And again, only silence. She kept going.
She crested the ridge, headed down toward the cleared region that had become a battlefield. And there—in the middle of the field, occasionally tamping his stick, turning this way and that, staring about himself—was Pa.
Heedless of the damage or debris, she ran, crying out for him. He responded but slowly, at last pivoting toward her and raising his head.
As she drew closer, the frown creasing his weathered features, and the moisture swimming in his eyes, became more visible. His gaze fixed on her but a moment then wandered again across the landscape.
“Jewel. What have they done to my mountain?”
Pearl’s heart squeezed. He’d called her by Mama’s name only a handful of times, mostly when his spells were the worst. She slowed and trotted to a halt at his side. Her lungs burned and her side ached. “I know, Pa. Isn’t it dreadful?”
“I—I can’t find my mountain.” His voice was plaintive, like a child’s. “They’ve torn it all to pieces.”
Oh Pa. She took his good arm. “Come. Let’s go back to the house.”
He hiccupped, almost a sob, then sighed. “But—my mountain.”
“It–it’ll be back,” she murmured. “I need you, though. Clem needs you. Come back home.”
“Home.” He sighed, once more. “Is supper ready, Jewel?”
Pearl suppressed a wince. “Not yet. But you can help me get it started.”
She tugged again at his arm, and with another tap, tap of his stick, he took a few steps in the desired direction. “You know I don’t help with the cooking. That’s why I married you.”
A long breath escaped her as they made their way back toward the timbered ridge. “Pa. I’m not Jewel. I’m Pearl.”
He snorted. “Of course you are.” Then, “Hmm. ‘Pearl of great price …’ ”
She smiled. It was his favorite scripture reference, where her name was concerned. “Fine. If you won’t help cook, you can read the Bible to our houseguests while I prepare the meal.”
A decisive nod was his response, and he stepped more firmly now. “That I can most certainly do. ‘Preach the word; be instant in season, out of season.’ ”
A bubble of laughter escaped her, a little more high pitched than usual, at the quote from 2 Timothy. She swallowed past the lump in her throat—Pa was found, no need to cry now—and continued guiding him up the hill.
Back at the house, she installed Pa in a chair with the Bible in his lap—much less mischief he could get into that way—made the rounds, and promised those who were awake that she’d return after finishing the washing. She winced over Mr. Thorsson, still burning with fever and a little restless, lingered a moment too long over the slumbering Mr. Wheeler because of his eerie stillness, and whisked back outdoors to attend the laundry. Clem was nowhere in sight, nor did he respond when she called. Likely enough he’d been the one to go up over the hill first, and Pa had seen him and thought to follow but had been left behind. She sniffed. She’d best keep a closer eye on him.
It was a distressing thought that Pa was becoming more childlike, or that his mind was dwelling further in the past—and for longer.
What was she to do with him if he continued to fail? Or rather when, since that was probably closer to the truth of what was to come.
Once again she gripped the edge of the washtub and set her forehead on her hands.
Oh Lord God …
She wasn’t sure she had any prayers left. Not at the moment. Even though God had apparently answered one in a mighty way, allowing her to find Pa.
And I do thank You for that. Oh, and for keeping Mis
ter Wheeler from dying. Now please, Lord, don’t let that Mister Thorsson die. Help me continue looking after Papa. And keep Clem safe wherever he is.
It might not hurt if You could bring Portius back, as well. Or at least give me enough strength and wit to deal with all these menfolk You’ve entrusted to my care.
Apparently she had prayers left, after all. Wearily, she finished the washing and hung the bandages to dry. Next to fetch fresh water and inside.
Pa still sat in his chair, not reading at the moment, but just staring at the open pages of the Bible in his lap. Both men in the bed were asleep, or pretending to be. She’d bet the latter, especially in the case of Mr. Shaw, but she’d take the quiet and not complain.
Except that Pa didn’t even look up when she passed through the sitting room.
The sound of intermittently trickling water was what pulled him out of slumber this time, and a soft sigh that might have been a prayer.
Although she wasn’t yet murmuring, Please don’t die.
Another catch of breath did sound like weeping. Josh cracked an eyelid and turned his head slowly enough to not make a sound, and sure enough, there she was, sitting at the other man’s bedside this time, bent toward him as she bathed his face and neck.
Just as she had for him, by Portius’s account.
From this angle, the graceful lines of her back and arms, clothed in that same gray calico she’d worn for days, were almost mesmerizing in their slow, steady movement. Wisps of dark hair, escaping messily from her chignon, trailed across her shoulders. Her breaths came deep, uneven, with a telltale heave and sniffle.
Despite his determination to be quiet and unnoticed, she turned to wring out her rag in the basin at her feet and caught a glimpse of him awake. In a blink or two, she’d composed her expression and met his gaze more fully for a moment. “Good afternoon.”
The Rebel Bride Page 7
