Amelia removed her fingers from her mouth and furrowed her brows in such a way Daniel almost chuckled. “Mama’s name is Mama.”
Chandler entered the room. “Her real name is Rosemarie. Rosemarie Wilson.” He held up a worn petticoat. “Mama’s skirt is all I could find to make bandages.”
“That’s fine. See if you can tear it into strips for me.”
Daniel poured a portion of the heated water into a large bowl next to the sink. He scooped out soft soap from the container next to the water pump, and using the bowl of hot water and soap, scrubbed his hands, then rinsed them with cool water from the pump.
He turned, shaking his wet hands. Three young faces all stared at him, wide-eyed and terrified.
Dear God. She’s their only parent.
Taking a deep breath, he smiled at Amelia. “Stay here with your brother. And remember to say some prayers while we’re gone.”
She ran to Daniel and clutched his leg. “I’m scared. I don’t want Mama to die.” Then she burst into tears.
He reached down and lifted her in his arms. “Remember when we talked about you being really brave for your brother?”
She nodded and wiped the tears from her cheeks with the heels of her hands.
“Now is when you have to do that. All right?”
Amelia bit her lower lip and ducked her head. He set her back on her feet and nudged her toward the parlor. “Take Jace in there. We’ll call you when we’re done, and you can come see your mama.”
The little girl stiffened her slender shoulders and took her brother by the hand. “Come on, Jace. We’ll say prayers like Mama taught us.”
Daniel returned to the sink and again washed his hands. Then picking up the supplies, he handed a few to a very pale Chandler. “Let’s go.”
Chapter Two
Time spent as a prison medic, viewing limbs cut off, and men dying miserable deaths had not prepared Daniel for bending over Mrs. Wilson’s bed as she writhed in agony while he worked on her leg.
Chandler left the room twice to empty his stomach, and again Daniel regretted the need to have the child in the room, watching his mother in such pain. Several times his own stomach rebelled to such a degree he almost joined the boy outside.
What in heaven’s name would he do if the woman died? He couldn’t walk away from three small orphans. On the other hand, Union soldiers were mostly likely searching for him right now. He pushed that thought from his mind and concentrated on his patient.
If he had some chloroform, he could spare her the torture of cutting away dead skin and dousing the cut with whiskey. She refused the liquor he wanted her to drink, but snapped in two a piece of wood he gave her to hold between her teeth. Rosemarie Wilson was one damn strong woman. Mercifully, she passed out as he put in the first stitch.
Once the wound was sewn up and Mrs. Wilson comfortable as possible under the circumstances, Daniel left the stuffy room and headed to the front door. He ran his sleeve over his forehead and lowered his aching body to the porch. His lungs expanded, taking in large gulps of fresh air, his nostrils breathing in the scent of Indiana dirt in winter. A fresh and clean odor, mixed with the scent of manure and hay.
Goose bumps rose on his skin as cold air blew against his sweat-soaked shirt. He shivered, but kept his place on the porch. The refreshing air wafting over him took away some of the sour smell still surrounding him.
Indiana air, the sharpness so different from the sultry breezes of Virginia. A place he wasn’t entirely sure he’d ever live in again. Where he was born and raised, planned to stay his whole life, working his horse farm, and eventually passing it down to his son. Then the war came and everything changed.
Soon the cold sent him back into the scant warmth of the house.
Amelia and Jace lay curled together on the cold floor, like a couple of kittens. Chandler chose to stay with his mama, but even before Daniel had left the room, the boy’s soft snores brought a smile to his lips. Daniel rested his hands at his waist and regarded the two younger Wilson children. They would freeze before morning.
Wandering around a stranger’s house felt a bit odd. He found the children’s bedroom, with one bed and a small cot pushed against opposite walls. Apparently, the boys shared the bed, and Amelia slept in the cot. He returned to the parlor and lifted the little girl. She opened one sleepy eye and yawned, then stuck her fingers into her mouth. Her soft, warm body rolled toward him and she rubbed her face against his shirt. He placed her in the cot and removed her shoes, then drew up the plaid quilt over the little body now coiled into a ball. Then he returned to the parlor and did the same for Jace.
As tired as he was, he had to see to Mrs. Wilson. Her dry skin had burned with fever when he’d left her a short while ago. Returning to the kitchen, he splashed cool water into a pan, grabbed the last of the torn petticoat, and entered the bedroom. Chandler had fallen over, his thin body, all spindly arms and legs, splayed over the chair. Daniel gathered him in his arms, and carried him across the hall, then placed him in the bed with Jace before returning to Rosemarie’s bedroom.
Moonlight cast the room in silver shadows. The woman slept in a fitful, fever-induced slumber. Every once in a while she would moan, her brow furrowed. He drew the sheet down, exposing the pale skin above her chemise and below her drawers. With her leg now wrapped in clean cloths, no evidence of fresh blood or pus stained the makeshift bandage. Tomorrow, he would remove the dirty sheet she lay on and replace it with a fresh one.
Tomorrow?
No. He’d done his duty. When the sun rose, he would instruct Chandler on how to take care of his mama and be on his way. Daniel took a big risk sticking around.
As he bathed her soft skin with the cool water, he considered this woman’s predicament. Alone with three children, with no one to help her work the farm, how would she keep them all from starving? His gut clenched, but he shoved the picture from his mind. The family would be fine. A lot of women in both the North and South were keeping home and hearth together while their men folk fought.
How many of them are laid up with a seriously injured leg?
“Hans?” The raspy whisper jarred him from his thoughts.
“No.”
A lone tear leaked from her eye and slid down her flushed cheek. “Leg hurts.” She thrashed on the bed, tossing her head back and forth. “So hot.”
Daniel reached for the glass of cold water on the small table next to the bed, and raising her head, held the liquid to her parched lips. “Drink.”
She took a few sips, then turned her head away. He settled her back on the pillow and her eyes opened. Glazed with fever and pain, she studied him. “Who are you?”
“A friend.”
Her body tensed and her eyes widened. “My children?”
“Sound asleep in their beds. You need to rest.”
Her gaze roamed from his face to his dirty, torn uniform. “You a Reb?” Her lips curled as she spit out the words.
“Yes, but I’m not going to hurt you or your family. I want to help.”
Two more tears tracked down her cheeks, then she closed her eyes and returned to sleep as he continued to wipe her down with the cool water.
• • •
Daniel waved his hand in front of his face to chase away the insect tickling him. As it returned, he waved once more. This insect must have been huge because it began to shake his shoulder.
“Mister, why are you sleeping in my mama’s bed?”
His eyes popped open and met the gaze of two pale blue eyes surrounded by thick black lashes. He sat up, and ran his hand down his face. Amelia stood in front of him, holding Jace’s hand. And Daniel was, indeed, in Rosemarie Wilson’s bed.
The pan with the water he’d been cooling her with sat on the floor. He must have set it there before he fell asleep, but had no memory of it. Neve
r in his life had he been so tired he didn’t remember his movements.
“Good morning, Miss Amelia,” he said.
“Is my mama all better now?” With the trust of a child, she climbed onto the bed and settled on his lap. Jace imitated his sister and sat alongside him.
“Not yet, but I think maybe later today she’ll start to feel a bit better.”
“How’s Ma?” Chandler stood in the open doorway, rubbing his eyes.
“She’s sleeping right now.” He laid his palm on her forehead. “Her fever seems a little lower, and that’s good.”
Jace pulled on his shirt sleeve. “I’m hungwy.”
Three sets of blue eyes gazed at him, the only adult in the room not unconscious. “Well, let’s go into the kitchen and have some breakfast.”
“I can fix breakfast.” Chandler’s eyes narrowed. The boy had recovered his distrust of the stranger in his ma’s room.
“No, Chandler.” Amelia turned to Daniel. “All he cooks is oatmeal. I hate oatmeal.”
His experience with children pretty much non-existent, Daniel drew on childhood battles with his brother, Stephen, to attempt a compromise. “Maybe Chandler can make oatmeal, and we’ll find something to go with it.” He stood and lifted Jace off the bed. “I think we should leave your ma to rest.”
Amelia placed her small hand in his large one as they walked to the kitchen. Her hand felt so light and delicate, it tickled his palm. A few days ago, he’d used these large hands to dig his way out of prison, and today he played nursemaid.
He hadn’t paid much attention to the house last night. In addition to the darkness, his concern for the woman blocked everything else from his mind. Now as he looked around the room, his stomach dropped. After only a few days with their mama laid up, the place was a mess.
Dirty dishes accumulated dangerously alongside the sink where he’d placed them when he pumped water. More dishes sat on the table, with crusting oatmeal in the bottom and sides of the bowls. Milk had splashed and dried on the floor, and a river of molasses flowed across the table.
“I tried to clean up, but Amelia and Jace kept crying and trying to get to Ma.” Chandler’s face flushed, his stance belligerent.
“It’s all right, son. If we all work together, the kitchen will be clean in no time, then we’ll have breakfast.”
“But not oatmeal.” Amelia stuck her fingers in her mouth and shook her head.
Daniel brought in the last of the wood from the woodbox behind the house. He started a fire in the stove to provide warmth to the small house.
With all of them contributing — although Jace caused more problems than help — they got the room in order. Daniel found a few eggs in a bowl on the near-empty pantry shelf, scrambled them up and added that to the breakfast of oatmeal. Then he sliced the last of a loaf of bread and slapped a jar of honey alongside it.
So much for his plans to leave at first light. Food supplies were low, the woman in the next room could still die, and three children all sat looking at him expectantly. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers, as his other hand slipped into his pocket where he fingered the ring, its inner rim etched with the words Honorem et Officium — Honor and Duty. The motto of the McCoy family, drilled into his head since childhood.
The ring had been in his family for generations. Passed from father to son, Daniel had received it from his papa on his deathbed. Honor in dealings with others, and duty to those in need. And the Wilsons were definitely in need.
“Chandler, can you and Amelia clean up from breakfast while I look around? I’d like to see what food supplies your mama has.”
“Everything’s gone,” Amelia piped up. “Damn Rebels took ’em all.”
Daniel bit the inside of his cheek to keep from bursting out with laughter. Apparently the little girl mimicked her mama.
“Ma said no cussin’, Amelia.” Chandler poked his sister in the arm.
“Ouch.” Her eyes filled with tears and her chin trembled as she rubbed her arm. “That hurt.”
Time for a diversion.
Daniel clapped his hands. “Amelia, instead of helping Chandler, I’m going to give you a job to help your mama.”
“You will?” Her eyes grew big as she climbed from her chair.
“Yes. Come with me.”
“Me, too.” Jace joined his sister as they walked the short hallway, then entered Mrs. Wilson’s bedroom.
Daniel retrieved the pan from the floor, then returned to the kitchen to fill it with water.
In his absence, the two children had climbed on their mama’s bed. Jace rubbed his chubby hand up and down Mrs. Wilson’s arm, and Amelia patted her head. The woman slept on.
Daniel checked her forehead. The fever had risen again. “Amelia, I want you to carefully wring out this cloth.” He held up the piece of petticoat from the night before. “Then run it over your mama’s face and arms. Can you do that?”
She slipped her fingers into her mouth and nodded.
“Me, too.” Jace countered.
“You need to be very careful about her sore. Don’t touch it, or wet her leg, okay?”
The bed would probably be soaked when he returned, but he needed to change the sheet anyway. Daniel watched for a few minutes as Amelia cooled her mama’s body, amazed at how carefully the little girl dealt with the water. Very little actually dripped from the cloth. Jace watched his sister’s every move.
Satisfied the little ones would be occupied for a time, Daniel grabbed a large heavy coat on a hook by the back door and headed out.
The weathered barn he’d hoped to sleep in — and be on his way — stood empty. With the number of stalls Mr. Wilson had built, there must have been three or four horses at one time. And most likely a milk cow. Now the entire building remained vacant, dust motes rising in the air as his boots kicked up the hay scattered on the floor.
The smokehouse also held nothing, but two fat hens occupied the chicken coop. They must’ve been hidden in the woods when the damn Rebs took everything. He smiled. Even he had started to think of his comrades that way. He’d been on raids before his capture, but never would he leave a family with nothing.
Mrs. Wilson would have picked the garden clean ahead of the winter frost. Hopefully, she’d been a thrifty housewife and put up the vegetables before the raid. A grove of apple trees, their bare branches outlined by the blue sky, led to a cluster of pear trees. The farm had been healthy and productive at one time.
He wandered toward a large elm tree to where a wooden cross had been stuck in the ground.
Hans Wilson, b. May 22, 1821, d. November 11, 1864.
The head of the family had died a little over three months ago. When had the raid taken place? He’d heard rumors in prison that General Lee and his army had been holed up near the Virginia railroad station of Petersburg for over two hundred days. Would he have sent raiders this far north for supplies? As soon as he was able to leave, Daniel would make his way south, and join Lee’s army. This could very well be the final push of the war. A war that had dragged on far too long.
He stopped and stared over the barren countryside. The fighting couldn’t continue much longer. The Confederates had been the underdog from the start. Daniel didn’t remember seeing a single factory producing guns or ammunition anywhere in the South. Additionally, the southern railroads were small and not interconnected. But the main detriment was the South’s reliance on tobacco and cotton, producing very little food to supply an entire army.
Daniel sighed and returned to the problem at hand. One thing for certain, if he left now, the Wilson family could starve. As dangerous as his presence here continued to be, honor demanded he stay until assured of their well-being.
The first order of business remained food, followed by enough wood to keep the family warm for the rest of the winter. He headed
to the back of the house to check the root cellar, which he’d heard all northern farmhouses had. A thorough search revealed a heavy wooden door built into the side of a small hill a short distance from the house.
The wood creaked and groaned as he pried the door open. A small oil lamp sat on the floor at the entrance, but he had no flint to light it. By opening the door all the way, the scant light from outdoors allowed him to at least peer into the small room. Shelves lined the hard-packed dirt walls.
Praise the Lord, something the damn Rebs had missed.
Jars of fruits and vegetables sat in all their tempting glory. Daniel moved into the center of the room, his hands on his hips, as he surveyed his find. Corn, peas, green beans, tomatoes, applesauce, and pears. Baskets on the floor held potatoes, carrots, squash, and dried apples. Onions and various herbs hung from hooks in the ceiling. This bounty must be how the family had survived since the husband died.
He emptied the contents of a half-filled basket of potatoes, and placed a jar of applesauce and a few potatoes, carrots, and an onion in it. One good shove with his shoulder, and the door closed. Juggling the jar and vegetables, he carried them to the kitchen.
Chandler sat at the wooden table cleaning the shotgun so recently pointed at Daniel’s chest.
“How would you like to go hunting with me?” Daniel set the food down, keeping his eye on the gun, and the boy’s movements.
Chandler shrugged.
“We could get some fresh meat for the family.” He pulled out a chair and sat next to him. “You know, Chandler, as the man of the family now, it’s your job to make sure the family eats.”
“I know that,” he groused.
“Any luck?”
Chandler shook his head. Then he looked up at Daniel, the hostility gone, replaced by a child’s fear. “Things were easier when Pa was here. I wanted him to teach me to hunt, but he always said, ‘next year.’”
Daniel's Desire Page 2
