“After—” He cleared his throat and tried again. “Afternoon.”
“Do you need to get up?”
She started out of her chair, but he shook his head. “No. A drink would be appreciated, however.”
He worked his way to sitting up while she fetched the cup, her skirt swirling with her. He accepted it with thanks, to which she responded with that sober nod. She watched him while he drank. “I expect you’ll be needing something to eat soon.”
“Soon,” he murmured. For some reason, he was loath to get up the rest of the way.
Possibly because he didn’t want to repeat the earlier debacle of nearly falling on his face in front of her. And the throbbing ache of his left arm warned that such a thing might be all too likely.
Another nod, then she seated herself again at the other man’s bedside.
“All of us are prisoners of the recent battle?” Josh asked. In the meantime, it could not hurt to make inquiry on the full extent of his situation.
“Yes.”
“And—two died already.”
A slight hesitation, then, “Yes.” The flatness of her voice recalled once again to his memory the feeling, by contrast, of her imploring whisper during his own fever.
“I’m surprised there aren’t more of us here.”
She glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “All our neighbors are conscripted into caring for the wounded, I’m told. Most have many more, true.” She paused. “I’m not sure why we only have a handful, if things are as bad as described.”
“And we are not all from the same regiment.” None of the other men looked familiar, but one couldn’t be sure in a situation such as this.
She shook her head. “This one’s from … something Wisconsin. The other two are from Michigan and Indiana.” She slanted him a glance. “Before you ask, no, I do not know why you were brought here. I’ve asked myself the same question often enough.” Her hand went to the basin again to wring out the rag. “My cousin with the Army of Tennessee brought you.”
He mulled this over for a moment.
Another glance. “Don’t they send most of the prisoners to—Virginia, is it? Even the wounded ones?”
He combed his fingers through his hair, then his beard. “Yes. Libby Prison in Richmond. At least the officers go there. Enlisted I believe to Belle Isle. I can’t imagine that they ran out of room on the trains north, but—”
She gave a soft snort. “Maybe they did. I had the feeling they half expected y’all to die anyway.”
He watched the way her hand moved with gentle tenderness over the rugged features of the man across from him, despite the acerbic tone of her voice.
“Your cousin brought us,” he mused aloud. “And where do your sympathies lie, Miss MacFarlane?”
The chill sweeping through the room was a palpable thing, like frost racing across a windowpane. Her eyes glinted as she looked at him, gaze holding longer this time. “With my country, Mister Wheeler. And kindly do not forget it.”
He blew out a breath. “I will take care not to.” He hesitated. “But it was a fair question.”
“I suppose it is, at that,” she answered crisply.
Dropping the rag into her basin, she swooped it off the floor and swept from the room, grand as any queen.
Well, that was a rousing success.
Blasted Yankee. That one would be better without a tongue. She was sorry now that she’d wished him awake. The nerve of him, to immediately pry at her loyalty to the Confederacy.
She came to a halt outside the bedroom door, halfway between the kitchen and sitting room. A wave of weariness swept over her. For a moment all she wished was to climb the stairs and collapse on the bed, sleep for hours. Maybe days.
Mr. Jackson and Mr. Shaw appeared to be asleep. Pa was nowhere in sight. Heart dropping, she set the basin down on her worktable and went to peek inside his bedroom.
And—he was there. On his side, back to her, but she could see the rise and fall of his breathing.
She let out her own breath in a rush. Thank the good Lord above. She didn’t think her heart could take any more today.
After tossing the used water from her basin out the back door, she fetched the pail and went to the well for fresh. It would be time to think about starting supper again, here soon. She set her empty bucket on the stone wall encircling the well and sighed. With Pa sleeping off a spell and Clem out running the hills—could she even count on them for helping? She should get bandages changed before feeding everyone.
Another sigh, and she reached for the crank on the windlass that would lower the bucket they kept tied there to bring up water. She was just bringing it up again, full, when a call, barely audible over the creak of the windlass, drew her attention.
An officer in gray was just dismounting in the barnyard. What was Travis doing here, alone? He tethered the horse to a hitching post and sauntered over.
“How are you faring, Pearl?”
She drew herself up. A social call? After all this time? “Has Portius not reported back to you?”
He pulled off his hat and raked a hand through sandy-brown hair. “Yes, but I wanted to speak with you for myself.” The pale blue eyes searched hers. “I’m sorry for simply leaving these men with you as I did. I—some weren’t likely to survive, and I thought of you—it gave me a reason for coming and looking in on you.”
She pressed her lips tightly together for a minute. “Why would you bother?”
His gaze faltered, and he only shook his head, turning the hat around and around in his hands.
“Pa’s had another spell,” she said. “I found him wandering on the other side of the ridge this morning, when I needed to be doing the laundry. Clem’s—out wandering. Likely hunting, true, but I wonder for what. We’ve a few chickens left, but our horses and cows were taken weeks ago. I’ve another man in there who might not survive the night, and no one here able-bodied enough to help bury him. Another who’s decided that the kindness I dared show one dying man is owed him in another manner entirely. How do you suppose I’m faring, Travis?”
Her cousin’s shoulders squared. “I like this no better than you, but others have it much worse. Every one of the neighbors has their share of wounded—or will. Shoot, at the Clarks’ there wasn’t a bit of floor space either in the house or barn, and tents were being set up in the yard.”
“Clarks have more hands to help, as well.” Able-bodied women, at least.
“True, but—” He dragged a hand through his hair. “I’m trying to make this as easy as I can on you, but I’m afraid I’ll have to bring you more at some point. Would it help if I sent Portius back?”
She sighed. No use arguing with him if orders came from elsewhere—even she knew that. “It might.” She shot him her own speculating look. “Is he one of yours? I don’t recall any Negroes with his particular talents belonging to your family. Besides, I thought everyone’s slaves would have run off by now to join the Federals.”
His gaze flashed at her nettling. “He isn’t a slave. And you know as well as I do that the Proclamation only takes effect where the Federals occupy.”
She favored him with a stare.
“Look, I know our family and yours quarreled aplenty over that, in recent years. You and Uncle George have been all high-and-mighty because you managed to farm this place without using owned labor. Others weren’t so fortunate. But”—he softened again, inexplicably—“I found Portius up around Nashville. He’s a freedman, but some Yankee boys gave him a hard time. I saved his life. Guess he still feels beholden, though I told him he needn’t.”
Pearl searched her cousin’s face. “All right, then,” she said finally.
He gave a single, hard nod. “I also want to speak with the men who are left, if they’re able.”
“Three are.” She glanced down at the bucket, then at the bandages still drying on the line. “If you can stick around awhile, stay for supper, I’d appreciate the help.”
“I can do that,” h
e said and offered a smile.
She knew the lure of a meal would be too much for him to resist. But she’d take the extra hands right now, no matter whose they were.
Josh listened to the approach of the rider, and the rise and fall of the unfamiliar voice alongside Miss MacFarlane’s. His attentiveness and patience were rewarded with the booted footfalls crossing the house until the gray-coated man stood in the doorway. Three yellow chevrons marked his sleeves—a cavalry sergeant, then. Light brown hair and beard framed an angular face, young but weary—and wary—with pale eyes that looked barely a shade more blue than his dusty coat.
He glanced at the unconscious man in the other bed, then as Josh struggled to sit up, crossed the floor in one step. “Here, let me help.”
Josh did not protest. Gritting his teeth against the sharpened ache in his wounded arm, he caught his breath for a moment then asked, “Who do I have the pleasure of greeting today?”
The corner of the man’s mouth lifted in a way that reminded him much of Miss MacFarlane as he turned the chair around and seated himself. “I am Sergeant Travis Bledsoe, of the Fifth Tennessee Cavalry, Army of Tennessee. Partly responsible for your presence here.”
Josh dipped his chin in the approximation of a nod. The rank was as he’d guessed. “Sergeant Joshua Wheeler of the First Ohio Infantry. And how do you know Miss MacFarlane?”
A definite smile this time, however tight. “She is my cousin, so any concern I have for her is warranted.”
Josh tried to force a pleasant expression to his own face, though something in the man’s tone set his teeth on edge. “Fair enough, I suppose. So—why are we here and not, say, elsewhere?”
Bledsoe regarded him sidelong for a moment. “Full of questions, aren’t you? Do you want to be sent to Belle Isle?”
“Not particularly.”
“Well then. I’ve no objection to your remaining here as long as you give my cousin and her family no trouble.”
Josh did not waver. “I’ve no wish to give her trouble.”
“Good. We understand each other, then.”
He put out a hand then stopped. “At least one of the others might not.”
Bledsoe hesitated at that. “Pearl already warned me,” he admitted, then sat back. “Might I get you anything while she’s busy cooking supper?”
“I could use help to the privy. My coat’s hanging right there.”
Bledsoe assisted with both, first with the coat and then with walking him outside. Once Josh was done with the privy, he stopped before crossing the yard again. “I also would beg news of the Army of the Cumberland, if you please.”
A long, assessing look was Bledsoe’s only response at first. Finally he said, “For the most part, they’ve holed up in Chattanooga. The action is, of course, being hailed as a great victory for the Confederacy.” Bledsoe’s smile was brief and sharp. “Any more than that I can’t tell you. Word is, however, that Lincoln is none too happy with Rosecrans.”
Josh snorted. “Old Rosey. We like him well enough, but—”
Bledsoe leaned toward him a little. “But?”
He shook his head. “I can say no more.”
“Can, or should?”
Josh gave a rueful laugh and let Bledsoe escort him back to bed.
Pity the man wore gray and not blue. He’d a feeling they’d have been friends. Of course, there was his unaccountable tension where Miss MacFarlane was concerned …
And just what was behind that? Crossing the sitting room, Josh eyed her as she bustled about the kitchen, hesitating only slightly to watch his progress.
Travis saw Mr. Wheeler back to the bedroom, then reemerged a minute or two later to approach the two men bedded down in the sitting room. Quiet conversation ensued, which Pearl wished she could overhear, but—she likely didn’t need to.
These men were her concern as well, an inner voice argued.
And the less she knew about them, the less likely she was to find her sympathies improperly engaged, she told the voice firmly. They should get as well as they could, as quickly as they could, and continue on to wherever the Confederate army sent its prisoners.
Especially the one with the rudest manners. Just the look in his eyes chilled her.
In the middle of supper preparations, Clem returned and presented her with a pair of squirrels, already skinned and dressed. His shirt hung half-untucked and grimy, and he sported a fresh tear across the knee of his trousers. His feet, predictably, were bare and covered in dust.
Pearl set one fist on her hip and regarded him sternly. “All these hours gone, and you only have two squirrels to show for it?”
He had the good grace to look chastened. “I went over east, Pearl. No game on the ridge to speak of. You know this.”
She huffed. “Take those and wash them.”
“I did.”
To his credit, she saw now that his hands and forearms were indeed clean. Taking the scrawny carcasses from him, she carried them to the worktable and made quick work of cutting them in pieces. “I could have used your help today, with Portius gone and all.”
“Sorry,” he muttered.
She shot him a glance. “Pa wandered all the way up over the ridge. I liked to have a heart attack myself before finding him.”
Clem’s eyes went wide.
“And then one of our blasted bluebellies thought he’d get himself to the outhouse and back, alone, and fell.”
Her brother snorted at that. “So let ’im lay.”
She lowered her voice. “I very well couldn’t do that, and you know it. Yankee or not.”
“Why not?”
This time she favored him with a stare. “You know why. Isn’t right. Regardless of what they do.” When his eyes flashed defiance at her, she pressed harder. “No matter what, Harry Clement MacFarlane. You’re God’s child. You answer to Him. Do unto others as you’d have them do unto you, not as they’ve done.”
His mouth thinned and nostrils flared. “You haven’t seen what they’ve done.”
“I’ve seen enough,” she hissed. “I went over the hill to Lydia’s. It was—it was unspeakable, yes. But that doesn’t make us animals. We can choose to do better. And right now, doing better means taking care of them what might hate us, just for the soil on which we were born.”
He stared back at her, scowling, then turned on his heel and stalked away.
“Go wash up!” she called after him.
He barely gave her a wave as he left the house.
“Fine, be that way,” she muttered, and went to toss the bits of meat in the already-boiling pot of beans. A poor enough meal it would be, but hungry men might not notice the difference.
Travis came back in from tending his horse, carrying an armload of bandages. “What did you do to Clem?”
“Told him the truth.”
Travis dumped the bandages on the table and pulled one out of the heap. “About?”
“Why we don’t just let these men die.”
He stopped, his face softening. “And that, Pearl MacFarlane, is why I love you.”
Her heartbeat chugged to a halt. “Don’t—you—be speaking to me about love.”
The bandage fell from his fingers, and he stepped toward her. “I do, you know.”
She put up a hand to fend him off—as if it would—and backed away. He blew out a breath and held his ground, watching her as her heart began to pound again.
“Still, Pearl? After all this time?”
“It’s been two years.” Although it could have been twenty, and it wouldn’t have made a difference.
“And I was a fool for allowing it to slip by without writing.”
“I—you—”
A crash from one of the side rooms brought them both around. Pearl was past Travis in a moment. A glance inside her former bedroom revealed nothing out of the ordinary there, so she dashed on to Pa’s room, and there she found him sprawled on the floor.
“Pa! What—”
He groped toward her. “Pearl?�
��
Travis was there beside her, and together they raised him—but with difficulty—and seated him at the edge of the bed.
“Pearl—” Pa’s hand came up to cup her cheek, shaking. “Pearl.”
It seemed to be all he could say, and she couldn’t seem to get a single sensible word out, either.
Josh lay, wide awake, wishing he were asleep. First the quiet but heated discussion between Miss MacFarlane and her brother, then between her cousin and herself, only to be followed by the muted desperation in the bedchamber next door. Was the woman’s father ailing as well? What had her cousin been thinking, adding to her burden?
He was more determined than ever to recover his strength as quickly as he could and not be any more trouble than necessary.
He listened while they got the older man back to his bed and tucked in. Their footsteps brought them back to his room. He shut his eyes, pretending to be asleep, as they went about the work of tending the man in the other bed.
“That’s a nasty set of wounds,” Bledsoe said, examining the man, who was still unconscious. “I’m surprised they let him keep the leg.”
“I thought so, as well,” Miss MacFarlane said. “I’ve no wish for him to lose it, but—I’ve less wish for him to die. From my conversation with him, he seems a good man.”
Silence, then, “What, from you, Pearl?”
She hissed at her cousin. “Pa keeps reminding me they are men, as any others. Sons, brothers, fathers.” She hesitated. “Mister Thorsson told me he has a sweetheart waiting for him at home.”
“And you claim not to be sentimental,” her cousin chided her.
“I never claimed any such thing.”
He chuckled, but it seemed without humor. “Only where I’m concerned.”
Silence again. Josh peeked and saw them wrapping the other soldier’s leg in fresh bandages.
“Pearl—”
“Not here,” she snapped.
Josh gritted his teeth and wished he could shake Bledsoe by his scruff.
He expected them to leave the room right away, but she turned to him and said, “Are you awake, Mister Wheeler? I’d like to change your dressing as well.”
The Rebel Bride Page 8
