Riverrun

by Andrews, Felicia

There was no sense of urgency, no sense of time; time had stopped, and there was only the wind and the cold light of the stars.

  “Geoffrey,” she whispered as she lay back and felt the dew, chilly on her back and legs. She warmed rapidly as his lips and hands moved slowly, tenderly over her breasts that ached and strained and pressed upward; then to her stomach where the muscles jumped at his touch. She could sense his smile. She squirmed, wondering when he would be done with his exploring, knowing that his eyes were memorizing every inch of her flesh, each mark, each curve that enticed him. Her own hands reached out then, and brushed across his chest, downward until he gasped, then snaked around to his back and pulled him to her, slowly, without haste.

  The only sound was their breathing as it lost its calm measure and became more and more hurried, deeper, rasping, held for an eternal moment when his hands reached the juncture of her thighs and parted them, probing…Then he lifted himself over her. She stopped him with a touch of her nails, wanting to taste the moment and savor it, feeling his strong chest on hers, his flat and muscled stomach poised over her. A soft, warm breath wafted across her ear and she smiled, wanted to laugh as she directed him down and in, and they merged with stifled cries of delirium.

  For hours it seemed, they writhed and twisted, slowly, then rapidly, slowly again and rapidly again, until she could stand no longer. The breath caught in her lungs, the feeling of pressure that threatened to tear her apart unless she could scream. Her nails drew thin lines of blood along his spine and buttocks, and she knew that the grasp he had on her shoulders would bring bruises out before the night was done. But she did not care for anything at all but the intense fire of pleasure he drove into her again and again until, finally, they became one in a comet that sparked across the heavens, became a soft drifting cloud that lowered them back to earth and they were lying side by side, his hands still moving over her breasts, toying, kneading softly, brushing at her stomach, then lower, stroking until she grabbed him fiercely. This time there was nothing gentle in their love, only the hot-breathed grunts of coupling that again drove them to the edge of a scream … and over.

  When it was done, not speaking, they kissed as they dressed, rose, and moved on toward the road. A great sense of loss engulfed her then, and tears welled like bitter rain as she gnawed her lower lip. And when, finally, he swung into his saddle, he leaned over and snaked an arm around her waist, pulled her from the ground and kissed her again, softly now, like a promise.

  “When it’s over,” he said, and lowered her again, threw her a gallant salute, and rode swiftly eastward. She stood by the false well for several minutes, listening to Falcon’s hoofbeats join with a rising storm wind that had begun to rip savagely through the trees above her. Her hair fell loose from its prim bun and whipped over her shoulders. Thunder rolled faintly over the hills, but she remained, watching, waiting, half praying that Geoff would wheel about and return to her, to continue what he had started, to satiate the growing appetite she felt churning beneath the hands she kept clasped to her stomach.

  She had not dared to dream he would return dressed in blood.

  Once through the gate, Cass cried out for her parents, so close to weeping that her vision blurred and she stumbled over dust. Geoff’s unconscious form slipped then, and though she tried to bear the awkward weight and keep Falcon from bolting away at the same time, he shifted out of her grasp and fell heavily to the ground. Instantly she was on her knees, his head cradled in her lap. Blood flowed freshly red from a torn wound at his shoulder. His skin had turned an ugly, waxen yellow. Not daring to believe the worst, she placed a finger lightly at his throat and felt, though only barely, the pulse … and the cold.

  “What in heaven’s name are you screaming about, child?” her father demanded as he rounded the corner of the house. “You’d think those damned—” He stopped abruptly when he saw her and Geoff, and shouted through the open kitchen window for his wife to start a pot of boiling water. Without breaking stride, he continued on and stood by Cass’s side only long enough to assay the damage before effortlessly lifting the Union officer into his arms and carrying him directly inside. Cass followed anxiously, watching almost hypnotically the play of muscles across her father’s back. He was a huge man, Aaron Bowsmith. The work of the farm had hardened his muscles; his torso was massive from shoulder to waist. Cass looked down at her hands, twisting nervously in front of her, back to her father, and shook her head. Since Rafe and Gregory had joined the army, there were only the two of them to do all the work. That, she knew, had cost her dearly in terms of looking like a woman should. Her hair had become brittle instead of gleaming with a black so dark it was almost blue, her hands were calloused, and her arms thin but extraordinarily strong. She had been forced through necessity to learn riding and shooting, to do most of a man’s work without flinching at the sight of blood, including her own. Her mother Ella despaired because she had hoped to send Cass off to Philadelphia and her sister, where there would be formal training to be a teacher or a governess while wealthy young men courted her.

  The slam of the door brought her back, and she blinked until her eyes grew accustomed to the dim light of the kitchen.

  The wide-planked table had been cleared away and a clean sheet draped over it. Ella fussed noisily at the fireplace, boiling water and rags and arranging bits of herbs in a smaller pot for a poultice she would have to prepare once the operation was done. Cass folded a cloth that she placed under Geoff’s head when he was laid on the table, then proceeded, without needing to be told, to cut away at his grimy tunic. Once he was stripped to the waist, she gasped at the purple and black wound at his shoulder, and she bit down on a knuckle to steady her nerves.

  “Come on, girl!” Aaron said. “You’ve seen worse. Remember old Greg’s foot when he caught it in that damned trap all those winters ago? What was it, four years? A damn sight sorrier than this little scratch.”

  He stood by the kettle, holding a cutting knife over the tall flames. The sharp, thin blade glowed after a time, glowed as she carefully swabbed dried blood from Geoff’s chest and around the puckering hole in his flesh. She could see, now that the blood had been cleared, that he had been extremely lucky in the placement of the shot. The ball had not exited, so he must have been a fair distance away when hit. But she shuddered nonetheless, remembering the stories of what an Enfield ball could do to a man, the holes like fists, the bones smashed beyond repair, the victim often bleeding to death before help could arrive.

  “Ella!” Aaron snapped to his wife. “You take the boy’s legs now. Cass, his shoulder … no, his arms. Don’t worry about hurtin’ him none, y’hear? He’s gonna buck, and hard. Don’t want the knife to take out more than the ball.”

  “But he’s already unconscious, Aaron,” Ella protested. Bowsmith’s grin was crooked as he stepped up to the table, looked gently down at the fallen soldier, and suddenly slammed a fist across his jaw. The head rocked violently and a dollop of blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth. Cass cried out in anger, but did not move. “It’s quicker than whiskey,” her father explained, “and good insurance to be sure he stays the way he is.” He bent low over the shoulder, holding the knife high and away from him as he examined the wound.

  Cass felt the tension settling over the room, heard the flames crackling in the fireplace and the water bubbling furiously in its pot. It was one thing, she thought, to treat one of her brothers for an injury as bloody as this, but she wanted no part of the carving of Geoff Hawkins. I won’t do it, she told herself suddenly, turned to flee the room, and was stopped by her father’s command.

  “All right,” he said grimly. “Now!”

  Cass moved instinctively, and pressed down on his arms while her mother gripped his ankles so tightly her knuckles grew white. A log snapped, and Cass looked at Geoff’s closed eyes, wishing she could somehow break through this darkness with her mind to give him some comfort.

  The knife descended. Cass looked away, her chin tucked into her shoulder unt
il she felt a sharp jerk under her hands. Ella grunted as the captain tried to kick, a low, long moan escaping from his throat. Cass pressed down even harder, and thought that if it didn’t end soon she would shove him clear through the table to the floor below.

  Fortunately, it was over in a few brief seconds. One moment she winced at the sickening grind of the blade scraping against bone, the next she jumped at the dull thunk of the ball being dropped into a nearby bowl. Quickly, then, before she had to be told, she washed the blood off the cold flesh and stood aside while her mother expertly applied the poultice and dressing. Aaron then carried him up to Gregory’s room at the back of the house, gently placed him on the bed, and stripped off his boots and trousers, covering him to the waist with a light quilt Ella carried in from the cedar chest in her closet.

  Cass, after hovering uncertainly for a moment, grabbed a stool and sat by the mattress, her hand reaching out fearfully to touch at his chest, his arm, the curve of his jaw. His face was suddenly hot, but she was pleased to see there was color there at last. She knew it was a good sign, that the fever marked the body’s fight against the loss of blood and possible infection. Ella left, to return a moment later with a bowl and a spoon. Cass tried to give him some broth to aid him in his struggle, but he only choked on it and she set it aside on the floor. For later, she promised him silently; you’ll soon be well enough to eat a dozen such bowls of broth.

  The light dimmed and she was only vaguely aware that her mother had brought a lantern into the room.

  She found that a piece of bread had been shoved into her hand, and she nibbled at it absently.

  Geoff groaned several times in his sleep, but not once did he open his eyes. Yet still she sat by his side, holding his hand, folding a moist cloth over his forehead, and bathing the perspiration and dust from his face and chest. She was grateful that neither of her parents told her she was behaving foolishly, that Geoff would be up and gone, back to his regiment, as soon as he was able. She was eighteen years old, and working harder to survive these impossible times than any three men she could think of. That this had detracted from whatever had been feminine about her (as her mother claimed) did not bother her, as long as Geoff saw through the person she had become to the woman she now wanted to be.

  Finally, when it was evident that his sleep had become peacefully deep, carrying him beyond pain, she allowed her mother to take her back to her own room. She stood with her back against the door and sighed deeply, stumbled across the floor, and fell fully clothed onto the bed. Emotionally drained, physically exhausted, she closed her eyes and waited for sleep to take her, to pass the night quickly so she could return to Geoff at dawn. But she waited in vain, and frowned until she realized that something was different.

  The guns.

  The guns were silent.

  For three nightmarish days they had grumbled beyond the horizon like primeval behemoths uprooting and dismembering their prey. Every so often, in the dead of night, a team of horses would swoop down the road, lugging a great cannon behind them as though it were a mere feather. None went the other way. All vanished madly in the direction of Gettysburg.

  Tonight, however, there was nothing; and it was the silence that kept her awake.

  She rolled over and moved apprehensively to the single window overlooking the fields, holding the stiff muslin curtains aside with one hand. Lee had indeed come, and the might of the Union army had been there to greet him. Panic had sprung up full-blown in the nearby villages, and many families had taken to the high roads, fleeing the conflict with little more than the clothes on their backs. Washington, some had supposed, would be the next to fall—unless, in fact, it had already been taken—and there were already rumors that Lee and Jackson had set up shop on Mr. Lincoln’s front lawn. Her father had scoffed at it all, and Cass had agreed with him, though she had never been able to shake off the hints of fear that thing tenaciously to the edge of her reason.

  But now the guns were silent.

  She put a finger to her mouth, chewed the nail, and brushed her hand nervously through her hair. Had Geoffrey’s return meant that the Union army was in full retreat? Or had he been wounded in victory, now seeking solace from the one family he knew would care for him as if he were their own? Perhaps, during the fighting, he had had some word of her brothers; he had promised her several times to search them out, but until now his efforts had been totally unsuccessful.

  Maybe, she thought with a hesitant hope, the war was finally over. Maybe now she was a citizen of the Confederacy.

  A pair of bats darted past the window, and an owl questioned the darkness.

  Her mind was weary from so many unanswered questions. She felt slightly dizzy and gripped the windowsill tightly until the sensation passed. Then she stripped off her clothes and stood in front of the mirror beside the bureau. She brushed back a few wisps of hair from her temples and stared critically at her full young breasts, her flat stomach and trim waist, the slight and provocative flare of her hips. With a sly grin of delighted malice, she realized a lot of city women would give a fortune to be as trim as the farm had made her. But, she thought, I’m certainly not boyish, no matter how Father treats me. She checked herself from all angles, and wondered if Geoff would approve if he could see her. She laughed, then, at the sudden blush that colored her cheeks, pirouetted and flung herself still naked under the sheets.

  Geoff had seen her naked before, she thought with a giggle, and one hand ran absently over her breasts as she remembered his touch, his lips, the thrusting of his loins.

  The thought came to her that Geoff might only be using her. A lonely farm girl needing a man, a lonely captain needing a woman; it was possible, something warned her, but she shrugged off the betraying feeling instantly.

  And the only fear she still had concerned the guns—was their silence a good omen, or bad? Had it all finally ended, or would the horror continue to bring her family anguish?

  Chapter Two

  Cass did not realize that she had fallen asleep until the sun broke over the hills and warmed her face into wakefulness. Disoriented and confused, she blinked rapidly until the events of the previous day snapped sharply back into focus, and she remembered Geoffrey lying in the next room. Hurriedly she sprang from the bed and dressed, then stood in front of the mirror and pinned up her hair with fingers that fought her mind’s every command. She splashed a quick dash of water from the pitcher into her face and raced down the short hall into the sickroom, only to be stopped just over the threshold by her mother.

  “Turn right around, girl,” she admonished as she grabbed Cass’s shoulders and suited action to words. “You’ll do no one any good at all, least of all him, if you keep hangin’ around here like some poor starvin’ hawk. Go downstairs and eat! Your father needs you outside, in case you’ve forgotten. Work goes on, you know, girl.”

  Cass tried to look over her shoulder, but Ella was adamant and finally, reluctantly, she submitted. “When he wakes up, you’ll call me?”

  Ella nodded sternly, but Cass caught the smile breaking through the finely chiseled wrinkles in her face. She grinned back, kissed her mother quickly on the cheek, and dashed down into the kitchen. She’s right, Cass thought as she ate a hasty breakfast, she’s always right. If I do nothing but sit the day’ll drag by slower than August heat.

  With a prayerful glance toward the ceiling, she left the house and hurried into the barn to care for the three horses and scattering of chickens the army had left them. After that was done, she looked for her father and saw his dark figure wandering at the back of the cornfield. Shaking her head and wondering how he could stand the suspense, she kept herself hovering about the vegetables, knowing they needed little work, but knowing that staying at that part of the farm would keep her close enough to the house to hear her mother’s yell.

  In spite of her working, her daydreams kept intruding, of ballroom dances with a handsomely bemedaled captain, of moonlight strolls along the lanes, along the road. The hours dragged m
addeningly, through the rest of the morning, through a lunch that tasted of sawdust, and on into the afternoon. For the hundredth time, she walked slowly to the well in the middle of the back yard and drew a bucket of cool water. The dipper moved slowly to her lips while her eyes stared at the window directly over the kitchen door. Suddenly Aaron’s head appeared and he called for her impatiently. She dropped the dipper, and broke into a headlong run. Twice she nearly tripped over her skirts until she grabbed them angrily into a fist to free her slender legs. Then she fairly kicked open the kitchen door and flew past Ella, who laughed shrilly at her eagerness. Up the stairs two at a time, just as her brothers had done seemingly centuries ago, as her heart pounded heavily against her chest and the warm air burst in and out of her lungs. There had been no announcement in Aaron’s call, no hint of Geoff’s recovery or … she shook her head vigorously to dispel the morbid thought and skidded into the bedroom.

  She would have thrown herself unashamedly into Geoff’s arms the moment she realized he had regained consciousness, but something of a shadow had cast itself into the room and she stopped, gripping the doorframe tightly, her hand to her breast, as she tried to calm both heart and lungs.

  Geoff was sitting up in the bed, his arm in a makeshift sling, the dressing a clean, unstained white. Several pillows had been propped behind his back to give him support, and though someone had attempted to comb his hair into a semblance of neatness, it still hung in an unruly fashion down over his brow. Aaron was standing silently by the window with his back to the light, and his hands were clasped behind him. His face was bleak; Geoff’s was grim. Neither of them smiled as Cass tried to break through the puzzling tension by fluttering her hand over her chest to prove how out of breath she was.

  “What is it?” she demanded. “Geoff, what’s the matter?”

  “Cass,” he said, his voice strained and weak. “Cass, I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry?” She looked to her father, who only stiffened and gazed fixedly at the low ceiling. A moment later his eyes began to blink rapidly. “Sorry?” she repeated. “Sorry for what? What’s going on?”