Another day in which he had to wake, rise eventually, and face this.
He blew out a breath and blinked. The soughing of Mr. Thorsson’s breathing was ordinarily deep and even enough to soothe him back to sleep, but his thoughts were noisy this morning. Just as the house would be in less than an hour.
The minister’s visit the night before was upsetting, to say the least. The way the man had thought to gloat over them, and in their very presence—Josh had met better treatment while actually being taken prisoner. Even the men he’d fought against weren’t without simple compassion for his wounded state.
But the way Mr. MacFarlane had turned it right back on the good reverend—completely inadvertently—and the almost palpable amusement flowing from his daughter, across the table … Josh was sure they’d both nearly disgraced themselves in the moment.
He grinned, despite himself. It was disrespect to a man of God, perhaps, but did the preacher’s own words not convict him?
The words were convicting enough to Josh, especially here in the dusk before dawn.
He wrenched his thoughts away and turned instead to how he might gain word of the armies’ movements—how things fared with his regiment and Old Rosey’s plans so far. He knew enough of the way things went that if the two armies didn’t reengage sometime soon, there might be talk of parole, or prisoner exchange—or if time allowed, he’d just be sent to Richmond.
The prospect of the former held less appeal than it might have a day or two ago.
How on earth did that happen?
Not his concern, he told himself firmly, the fate of one Confederate family. And his place was with the army—and country—he’d sworn to uphold and fight for.
The creak of footsteps across the floorboards above his bed announced that Miss MacFarlane was awake and up.
He sighed. Nothing for it but to manfully face the day.
He’d faced battle, after all. This should be easy.
The first order of Pearl’s day, of course, was breakfast. From the provisions Portius had brought, she was happy to have salt pork to fry alongside the morning’s corn mush. It wasn’t what she wished she had to offer, but it was something. Although Travis better be supplying her with more if he expected her to house more wounded.
Others have it much worse. She was tired of thinking about it.
Outside, a steady rain fell. No laundry would be done today, unless she could set up her washtub in the kitchen and hang things to dry upstairs. Yes, that would work, at least for her own clothing. Blankets might be another thing entirely. She’d had Clem take them outside after the men had all dressed again yesterday and give them a good beating on the line, even as the first rain shower started. Even so, several were past needing attention.
Clem was actually up, bringing in an armful of split wood for the stove. Portius was helping Pa to his chair in the sitting room, and Mr. Wheeler was over assisting Mr. Jackson and Mr. Shaw to an upright position in their beds.
She nodded to herself and commenced to dishing the food.
After breakfast, she set Clem to bringing in buckets of water to heat on the stove and started in on the task of washing the blankets. It took all morning, since she could only do one or two at a time, but Portius built a fire in the hearth to keep the men warm while their wraps were taken away. The satisfaction of seeing the dirt and filth float away in the soapy water carried her through the nagging ache creeping across her shoulders and the pain of her increasingly chapped hands.
At one point, she heard the stove door being opened just behind her, and thinking it Clem, she turned to snap something at him. The words died on her tongue. Mr. Wheeler knelt there, door opened, reaching for a stick of wood from the box beside the stove. The reflection of the fire inside the stove cast a ruddy glow across his face and lit his hair and beard to a vivid hue. Teeth bared in a grimace, he moved slowly and deliberately but with an admirable air of capability, keeping the elbow of his wounded arm anchored firmly against his upraised knee while he poked the stick about and finally settled it into the fire.
She should not stare. It was unspeakably rude.
As he swung the door shut and turned the handle to latch it, she finally tore her gaze away and returned to scrubbing. He rose, but hesitated, so she chanced another glance upward. “Thank you.”
A quick nod and he moved away.
“Wait.”
Another hesitation, as she rocked back on her heels and rose. Wiping her hands on her apron, she nodded toward the dark stain at the end of his bandage. “You’ve not been resting enough?”
He tucked the limb against his belly. “Thumped it on the wall last night in my sleep, is all.”
She gave him a hard look. “You’ve quite a way to full recovery, yet. Don’t feel like you have to be busy every minute.”
The look was suddenly returned with equal weight.
“You still need to rest,” she added, stubbornly.
“I will,” he said and, turning, walked away.
She huffed and went back to the washing.
Josh watched her, scrubbing blanket after blanket, tirelessly. Sending Clem out into the rain for more water as needed, her back going ramrod straight during the times her brother dared give her guff about doing so, then sending him to the fire to warm up and dry off when he’d return from the errand.
And each blanket, after she’d wrung it out—a task he didn’t dare offer to help with yet, with only one good hand—she carried upstairs.
Was there room enough to lay them all out, up there?
Once she was done with those, she carried her small washtub up the stairs, while heating yet one more pot of water on the stove, then followed with the hot water and a bucket of cold. The door shut behind her, and that was all he saw of her for a while.
Doing her own laundry now, or …?
Not his concern. Though before he could stop it, he had the image of that wayward dark hair all tumbling loose down her back …
The rumble of a wagon in the yard, the sound carrying even over the rain, drew everyone’s attention. Josh peered out a window. Bledsoe, if he didn’t miss his guess, with another load of wounded prisoners. At least they’d covered the wagon this time.
Portius, already standing at the door, turned and made a long, slow perusal of the room, then gave a nod to no one in particular and headed out. Bledsoe and the driver were getting down.
Though still barefoot, Josh went out to stand on the porch. Out in the rain, Portius conferred with Bledsoe then glanced back. “Three this time, more to come. Let’s put these in the house, and we’ll begin preparing the barn for more.”
Speaking of the barn … Clem emerged, looking none too happy at that news.
Josh did what he could to assist preparing the two empty beds, which they hadn’t gotten around to taking down yet. “We’ll put the third on the floor for now,” Portius said, as he and Bledsoe carried one man in on a stretcher.
They all looked up in surprise when Miss MacFarlane came pattering down the stairs, dressed in fresh clothing and—yes, dark hair down, but her fingers flew, binding the mass in a sober braid.
Josh caught a glimpse of bare feet peeking out beneath the skirt of blue calico, despite the obvious addition of a stiffened petticoat or modest set of hoops.
She hadn’t time to say a word before Bledsoe said, “I told you I’d need to bring more.”
Her mouth hardened, but she remained silent, producing a ribbon from somewhere and tying off the end of the braid. From the corner of his eye, Josh saw Bledsoe watching her as intently as—well, as Josh himself was.
He couldn’t blame the man—the blue of her dress brought a fetching flush to her cheeks and heightened the green sparkle of her eyes. Her trim waist just begged for a man’s arm around it. But that niggling desire to box Bledsoe’s ears crept under his skin again.
“What in the world did you do to these poor souls?” she said at last. “They look absolutely wretched.”
“These men have la
in on the field all week,” Bledsoe said. “We’ve worked as quickly as we could, and still it hasn’t been enough.”
Her face paled, and cold settled deep in Josh’s own gut.
That could have been him.
Thank You, merciful God.
Miss MacFarlane whisked off to make her own preparations. Josh did what he could to assist getting the three additions settled, and once that was done, Bledsoe beckoned him out onto the porch and to the far corner. “You’re recovering remarkably well.”
Josh didn’t know whether or not to admit how weary he truly felt.
Bledsoe sucked his cheek for a moment. “We’re making some prisoner exchanges for wounded, if you still need time in hospital. Recovery for losing a limb is about two months, as I recall. Or I could leave you here, on parole.”
He should rightfully prefer an exchange, return to his regiment. How were his companions there faring? His mind skipped over the faces he often saw around the campfires—Ross, Thacker, Ainsley—good men who’d saved his neck more than once.
Had any of them fallen?
“What are the terms of parole?” he found himself asking.
The pale eyes flickered. “One, you’d not be allowed back north of Tennessee.”
“And just how far back has the Army of the Cumberland fallen?”
Another long moment of consideration. “At the moment, they’re holed up in Chattanooga.”
Josh thought fast. Old Rosey’s entire goal was to take and hold that town. But the Rebs would surely strike, and soon, and drive the Federals farther north. He might not have another opportunity to be exchanged back into his own lines.
Another opportunity to fight again, despite the loss of a hand. Others had been known to continue under such circumstances.
He shifted his weight from one foot to another. “I’d like to stay here for now. Assist the MacFarlanes in any way I can.”
Bledsoe’s eyes narrowed. “And why would you feel the need to do that?”
He scrambled for an excuse. “There’s an obvious shortage of able-bodied men here. Miss MacFarlane can’t do it all alone, not with her pa failing.”
“You’re mighty concerned for her.”
“And you are not?”
Bledsoe’s mouth curved, a thin but cool smile. “Since I’ve asked Miss MacFarlane to consider becoming my wife, I think I’ve more right to concern than you.”
So that was it. His thoughts flashed back to Miss MacFarlane’s complete discomposure after reentering the house two days ago. The verbal sparring between the two that Josh couldn’t help but overhear.
Could it be that she wasn’t altogether welcoming of such a proposal?
“I should think that consider is the operative word here. If she chooses not to—”
Bledsoe spat an oath. “She’s best served by accepting it, and she knows it.”
Josh held the other man’s gaze, his resolve to stay hardening.
By all that was holy, he’d not flit off and leave Miss MacFarlane to her cousin’s determination. Not without knowing where she stood.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, slowly. “In the meantime, I can be of help. You are—busy elsewhere much of the time, unless I miss my guess. I can help her nurse the other sick, and stay out of her way. Perhaps even keep an eye out and send you word if need be.”
Bledsoe gave a reluctant nod, some of the tightness leaving his face. “I would—be most appreciative of that.”
Josh was going to regret this, he just knew.
Travis did indeed bring more. Wagon after wagon, until not just the house was filled but the barn too, both the main floor and the hayloft. The only space reserved for Pearl was her attic bedroom, stolen from Clem.
After a couple of days’ relief from the terrible resentment, she found herself indignant all over again that it was when she’d dared take an hour to wash up herself, and put on her best dress complete with corded petticoat and a nice collar, while her other clothing dried, that Travis came. And these poor wretches were indeed covered with all manner of battlefield filth. The house stank, and no amount of vinegar or lye soap or lavender simmered on the stove, so carefully hoarded until now, completely alleviated it.
Nothing for it but to braid back her still-wet hair, discard her petticoat, tie her least-soiled apron over the dress, and plunge into the work.
Pa thankfully sat still, near the hearth, occasionally making conversation with those around him, while she and Portius and Clem—and Mr. Wheeler too, though she watched him carefully for signs of weariness—bustled about, offering water, washing wounds, and rebandaging where necessary, laying aside soiled garments for borrowed blankets only slightly less so.
Travis did also bring provisions. Yankee supplies left behind after the battle, he said.
Pa recovered enough to hold the Bible on his lap and read, this time from Psalms. Pearl wondered whether it was simply that the volume of scripture most naturally fell open in the middle, to this book of prayer, or if there were other reasons.
“ ‘This is my infirmity: but I will remember the years of the right hand of the most High.’ ”
Dusk came early, as the rain continued. Portius lit a lamp and set it near Pa so he could keep reading, and Pearl did not argue the use of precious kerosene. It was a comfort for all of them to hear it.
Supper was finished at last, and a modicum of settlement accomplished with all their charges. Pearl couldn’t bring herself to count yet. The sounds of whimpering and moaning echoed through the house, and she knew the barn was the same. Portius and Clem retired there, promising to tend that portion of their guests so Pearl would have no need to cross the yard in the rainy dark. By unspoken agreement, Mr. Wheeler lingered to help Pearl make sure everyone was made reasonably comfortable, and even shepherded Pa to bed once night had fully fallen.
Pearl could not help but be grateful.
At last the house was moderately quiet, and when at last Mr. Wheeler turned for his own bed, Pearl made him sit at the kitchen table so she could tend his bandage. She felt his eyes upon her while she gathered lamp and washbasin. From the pocket of her dress she pulled a jar of ointment—Mama’s recipe, like other things hoarded until now—and a length of clean cloth she’d saved back during the day’s ministrations.
“I thought we’d used everything up,” he murmured.
She angled him a tight smile.
“Not giving me special treatment, are you?”
Confound the blasted Yankee. She bit back the grin tugging at her mouth. “No. I simply refuse to let you lapse back into infection after expending so much effort upon you already.”
“Good. Because I’d hate to have to explain that to your fiancé.”
Heart, breath, and motion stopped.
Mr. Wheeler’s eyes were like deep wells, all expectation and question.
Of course. Travis.
“He is not my fiancé,” she snapped, barely above a whisper.
“He seems to think himself so.”
She struggled to pull air into her lungs. “He—I—” She huffed. “He is my cousin.”
Mr. Wheeler sat, completely undeterred. “Cousins marry sometimes.” A half shrug. “I’ve one who my mama has pestered me to consider sparking.”
Her head wagged. “Travis isn’t like that. Not to me. He’s … more like a brother.” Another breath, this one deep and clean. “Despite what he thinks. Or might have told you.”
She forced herself back into motion, reaching toward his wounded arm. Mr. Wheeler extended the limb, rolling his blouse sleeve up above the elbow and then bracing it on the tabletop.
“What did he tell you?” Her fingers struggled to free the tied ends of the bandage.
“That he’d asked you to consider becoming his wife,” Mr. Wheeler murmured. “I thought it telling that he didn’t simply say asked you to be his wife.”
Heat swept her body. Suddenly the Yankee was just too close, but she had to finish this task. The stubborn knot came free at
last.
“Are you considering it?” he pressed.
The limb half-unwrapped, she stopped again. Met his too-knowing gaze. Half-a-dozen pert replies came to mind, but finally she settled for a simple, “No.”
The bandage unwound easily to the very end, where the bleeding had seeped through and dried. With cupped hand, she scooped water onto the spot, as Portius had taught her, and worked it loose.
“Why, do you think I should?” What was it about this man that made her own tongue so loose?
“I know neither of you well enough to be able to make that recommendation,” he said, all mildness, and the end of the bandage lifted free at last.
He turned the limb this way and that, examining it along with her. The wound itself appeared less raw and angry, despite the bleeding from earlier, and what was left of the forearm, less swollen. Deep bruising still marred the flesh to the elbow and a little above, but the color bespoke healing.
Without thinking, she laid the backs of her fingers against his forearm, to feel for fever there, a telltale sign of infection. He flinched.
“Does that hurt?”
The dark eyes were wide, startled, this time. “No.” He cleared his throat, and she took her hand away.
“Hm, it’s a wonder if not. Your arm’s a little warm, I’m guessing because you’ve been up and about so much today.” Feeling foolish, she touched his forehead this time, brushing aside his hair to do so. “No fever overall, though. That’s good.”
She’d swear she was the one with a fever.
He made no comment as she went briskly back to work, dipping out ointment with her littlest finger and gently applying it to the amputation wound, then rewrapping it with the clean bandage. After, he rolled the sleeve back down and tucked in the end. “Thank you,” he said at last.
“Of course.” She still couldn’t meet his gaze. “You should get to bed now.”
He made no move to get up, and finally she did look directly at him. The lamplight drew fire from his hair and beard but underscored the shadows beneath his eyes. “I could take the first turn sitting up,” he said.
The Rebel Bride Page 12
