by Lori Austin
Sometimes when Ethan spoke like that, Mikey felt as if ghostly fingers had trailed across his neck. Other times, like now, it made him laugh.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “What could happen?”
• • •
When Annabeth reported for her shift the following morning, Mrs. Dimmity awaited her.
“You’re no longer a matron.”
Annabeth blinked at the woman, whose usually placid face had gone frighteningly florid. “I . . . uh . . . What?”
“You helped the pretty doctor, didn’t you?”
Mrs. Dimmity didn’t have to explain which doctor she meant. There was none so lovely as Ethan Walsh.
“He told me to,” she said simply. She’d do the same again. How could she peer into the man’s pleading gray gaze and walk away?
But what if her behavior was cause for dismissal? At Chimborazo, women were maids and cooks, letter writers and hand holders. Nothing more. The idea of spending her days as she’d spent them before she’d come here—alone on the farm, waiting for the army—blue or gray, what did it matter?—to confiscate her remaining half bag of flour and the last scrawny chicken, if deserters didn’t first do worse—terrified her.
She had a gun; she even had a few bullets, and she’d learned to shoot, ride, and hunt along with her brothers. But Annabeth was still a woman alone, and it was only a matter of time until something horrible happened.
She drew a breath. “I’ll leave straightaway.”
“You will not!”
“But—”
“You’ll report to Dr. Walsh. You’ve been reassigned as his personal nurse.”
Annabeth frowned at the woman’s tone, which left no doubt what she thought Annabeth would truly be doing. She opened her mouth to deny the unvoiced accusation, then shut it again. Perhaps Mrs. Dimmity was right. They’d all seen women in Richmond who had once been ladies become something else in order to appease that annoying need to eat.
“We’ll have more casualties soon.” The older woman shooed her toward the door. “Another skirmish. Best be ready.”
Annabeth backed into the hall and had the door firmly shut in her face. She had the feeling there would be many doors shut the same in her future. Unless—
She threw back her shoulders. She hadn’t worked this hard to let some handsome Irish doctor ruin her. She would tell him no; then she would go home and do her best not to die.
Annabeth marched through the surgery ward, the infirmary, and the offices with no sight of her quarry. No one had seen the doctor since he’d left the night before. She could go to his quarters—if she knew where they were—however, that would serve only to prove to those who already cast her suspicious glances that the rumors about her and Dr. Walsh were true. Instead, she returned to the room where she’d met him. She did not have long to wait.
When he arrived, Ethan Walsh rushed to the bucket, washed his hands, face, and neck. He appeared a lot dirtier than he should be for a night spent resting. His dark trousers were damp, his once-white shirt sprinkled with dust.
His gaze lifted and he saw her. For an instant, she thought he might bolt—or maybe that was her—then he smiled and dried his hands on a clean cloth. “I’m glad yer here. We have wounded on the way.”
When she continued to stand where she was, his smile faded. “Is somethin’ amiss?”
“Everyone thinks I’m your whore.”
He blinked at her crudity, but she’d always found it best to say what she meant straightaway. She blamed the war that she was alone, but in truth, she probably would have remained a spinster regardless. She’d have been a dismal failure at dancing and prancing and spouting pretty lies like a lady.
“I . . .” he began. “What?”
“Where are you from that you don’t understand what a request like yours means?”
“Ireland,” he murmured absently, then rubbed under his eye, which twitched as if something lived and jumped beneath the skin.
“You’re tired,” she said.
“I’m”—he dropped his hand—“not.”
She nearly called him a liar, but she’d already insulted him enough. She could see from his confusion that he’d had no idea his request would be viewed as improper.
“How long have you been in this country?” She stepped closer and caught the scent of horse and dust. But if he’d been sleeping, then how—
Men poured into the room. They were so dirty, bloody, and rank with the smell of horse, she concluded she’d smelled them and not him. They carried a stretcher and they dumped an especially bloody, dirty, smelly soldier onto the table before leaving without a word. Really, what was there to say?
Annabeth stepped forward before the last man cleared the door. So intent was she on the fellow writhing on the table that she barely noticed the sting when she doused her hands in the bucket of more than water. By the time she’d dried those fingers, Dr. Walsh already had a scalpel in his.
“Where—” she began, and he slit the man’s trousers up the side, revealing a long, deep gash in his thigh.
As he dipped his hand and the instrument back into the water, he snapped, “Bullet in or out?”
“In,” the patient managed through clenched teeth.
A movement at the doorway caused all three of them to glance up as more soldiers entered with more wounded. The remainder of the day was drenched in blood and sweat. The sun went down; the moon rose. Annabeth’s back ached. Her fingers cramped. Her eyes burned. She had never felt so good.
When the last patient lay in the infirmary and no more rested on the floor, in the hall, or outside on the ground, Annabeth plunged her fingers into clear, fresh water and relished that, for a change, she hadn’t been the one bringing it.
She’d dug out bullets, stitched bayonet wounds, set broken bones. Most of the practices she had never performed before, yet with a few words from Ethan Walsh, she’d understood what was needed. She had saved lives, and her hands fairly shook with the wonder of it.
“I’ll have a word with Mrs. Dimmity.”
If she’d thought Dr. Walsh had looked tired that morning, she’d been wrong. Tired was how he looked now. Although something burned in his eyes that seemed to reflect the fiery sensation beneath her breast.
A sense of accomplishment? Of triumph? Or more?
“I didn’t think. I just wanted . . .” He paused, and she heard the next word as if he’d spoken it aloud.
You.
Annabeth swallowed and ducked her head so he wouldn’t see her flush. Unlike most women, when Annabeth’s face heated, she did not appear lovely; rather, she looked blotchy and ill.
“I’ll withdraw the request. Ye can go back to bein’—”
“No one,” she interrupted. “Doing nothing.”
If she hadn’t been here and seen what had occurred, she might think they slaughtered hogs on a daily basis in this room. But she had been here, and she’d not only seen what was done, she’d been the one doing it.
A peace such as Annabeth had never known settled over her. There was nowhere else she would rather be.
“You will not withdraw your request, Dr. Walsh.”
His eyebrows lifted, as did his lovely lips. She smiled in return as she realized something else.
There was no one else she’d rather be with.
CHAPTER 3
The intelligence on the Confederate Ranger Mosby led to Major Forbes being dispatched from Falls Church with one hundred and fifty Union men in pursuit of the partisans, which resulted in one hundred and six Union losses—twelve dead, thirty-seven wounded, and fifty-seven captured.
Mosby lost six men. Six.
Still, the information had been valuable enough to attract the attention of General Grant, who had given a commendation to Ethan through Law.
Men like you will win us this war.
Ethan only hoped it was soon. Each day brought more wounded, each night more dead. Ethan listened, looked, lurked, and discovered several more bits of information for Mik
ey. The last time they’d met, his brother related Law’s newest plot to end the war.
“Losin’ their leaders can make men retreat before they even start,” Mikey said. “If we know where the battle’s gonna be, me and the sniper will get there first. He’ll eliminate the officers.”
Ethan winced as if he’d heard the shots, but he couldn’t argue with Law’s logic. The removal of a few top men might, in the end, save the lives of many.
The sole bright spot in each day was Annabeth Phelan, and considering that Ethan saw her only across the bloody, broken bodies of young men, he shouldn’t be so happy about it. However, his work was much easier now that she was part of it. She was intelligent, skilled, and devoted. He felt less alone every minute she was near.
He’d taken to thinking of her as Beth in his mind, though he hadn’t yet had the courage to call her so aloud. Would she think he was forward and crass? Or would she like it?
Ethan stepped from the surgery, then stood blinking at the sky. While buried in blood, he forgot how bright the stars were, how green the grass, how exquisite the flowers. As he lowered his gaze, he saw Miss Phelan—Beth, his mind whispered—speaking to a man he didn’t recognize. Not that such was unusual. There were so many people at Chimborazo—personnel, patients, soldiers—in truth, he hardly knew any.
But there was something about this one that made Ethan uneasy. He kept his cap drawn low and his face tilted so shadows obscured his features. His clothes were baggy, dirty, and nondescript. Of course, at this point in the war, whose weren’t? Everyone made do with what they had, found, or stole. Still, Ethan had learned enough since becoming a spy to suspect that anyone trying that hard to appear like everyone else wasn’t.
He took a step in that direction, and the man murmured to Annabeth, ducked his head, and strode away. Ethan might have followed, perhaps called out, but she turned, and the moon cast a bluish hue across her open, honest, innocent face. She wasn’t beautiful, perhaps not even pretty, but when she smiled at him, all Ethan saw was her.
“Was there something you needed, Doctor?”
You, his mind whispered.
“Not at the moment,” he said, lifting his gaze to seek out the fellow she’d spoken with and determine where he’d gone.
Except he was gone. Considering all that lay before them was a long, flat expanse that led nowhere, Ethan’s neck prickled. “Who was that ye were talkin’ to?”
“A friend from childhood.”
An unreasoning jealousy overcame him. She, no doubt, had friends all over this camp, all over this state. He wanted to be her friend.
Liar. He wanted to be so much more.
“You shouldn’t be out here alone.”
“I’m not alone.” Her lips curved. “I have you.”
He wanted her to have him, while he had her. His attraction for Annabeth Phelan was all consuming. He dreamed of her throughout the endless nights.
“Not all men are like me.”
“None of them are.”
She didn’t know how right she was, and she never could.
“I’ll walk ye to yer quarters.”
She nodded and led him back the way he had come, past the surgery, in the opposite direction. He forgot about her friend—where he’d gone, who he was, and why, if he was a friend, he’d disappeared instead of shaking hands and introducing himself. It was only later Ethan thought of such things.
They didn’t speak; they didn’t touch, and that was all right. Whenever Ethan was with her, pretty much everything was.
“Here we are,” she murmured.
Ethan had no excuse for what he did next. She wasn’t his; she couldn’t be. Yet when she lifted her face, he kissed her. Nothing was ever the same again.
She did not gasp; she did not cry out or push him away. She did not even stiffen; though he did. Down low, where such things occurred, he came immediately to rigid, relentless, and ready life.
He’d said she shouldn’t be out alone because not all men were like him. But the way he felt now, he was very like the men he’d warned her about. He wanted to shove her against the wall right here, or perhaps drag her between the buildings over there. Haul up her skirts, skim a finger over the soft skin where thigh became buttock, fill his palms with that flesh as she gasped into his mouth, as she whispered his name.
“Ethan.”
As she whispered it now, against his lips, their breath mingling. They stood so close, she would have felt the brush of his erection if not for the barrier of her skirts and crinoline. Then she would have been screaming, pushing, pointing. Telling him and everyone who would listen what he had done, how he had dared. He would find himself married to her by tomorrow, and that would be—
Her tongue touched his. How could she help it? His had somehow made its way into her mouth, and she tasted of dawn. Of new days and hope. Of sunshine pushing through darkness. Of life. And Ethan thought . . .
If he found himself married to her tomorrow, perhaps that wouldn’t be so bad.
In the distance, cannons sounded, reminding him who he was, why he was here. He couldn’t marry her while living a lie. He shouldn’t kiss her while living one either.
Ethan stepped back. Her mouth glistened in the moonlight. Her tongue peeked out, as if she wanted to taste him again. He certainly wanted to taste her.
“Beth, I . . .” he began, uncertain what he meant to say, to do.
“Don’t you dare say you’re sorry!”
He snapped his mouth shut as she spun and went into the building. The slam of the door echoed almost as loudly as the artillery.
Had he meant to say that? Probably. It was what men like him did with women like her in situations like—
He glanced around. This situation was not one for which any etiquette existed. He was a physician with the blood of men—no, the blood of boys—beneath his fingernails. She was a nurse who no doubt had the same blood in the same place. They were not in a drawing room preparing to dance. The only music was that distant rumble of guns.
Yes, kissing her had been inappropriate. But here . . .
What wasn’t?
• • •
Annabeth’s lips still tingled; she could taste Ethan on her tongue. Closing her eyes, she pressed her fingers to her mouth.
He’d called her Beth. No one else ever had, and the way he’d said her name in an accent that brought to mind emerald hills she hadn’t seen yet somehow knew made her shiver despite the never-ending heat.
Were all kisses the same? Consuming. Inflaming. A promise to a world unexplored.
She had been kissed only once before, and at the first touch of the boy’s lips, she’d hauled back and broken his nose.
“You took long enough to get here.”
Annabeth’s lips tightened beneath her fingertips. She dropped her hand. “Speak of the devil”—Annabeth opened her eyes as Moses Farquhar stepped out of the gloom—“and he appears.”
With golden hair and a gaze the shade of spring grass, Moze would have been too pretty if it weren’t for the permanent crick she’d put in his slightly large nose when he was fourteen. Why he’d thought he could kiss her back then, she’d never quite figured out. At the time, she’d wanted to pound him into the dirt the way she had when she was eight. On the Phelan farm, Moze had just seemed like one more brother among many.
When Mrs. Farquhar died after scraping herself with a pitchfork used to shovel manure—her arm had first swelled, then oozed, then turned black—her husband was unable to care for three-year-old Moze and still manage the farm. Annabeth’s mother, who already had six children underfoot, had shrugged and welcomed another.
As Moze and Luke were a few months apart in age, they’d been inseparable from the first. Even after his father remarried and Moze returned home, the two boys had spent all of their time together, doing their chores side by side, first at one farm, then at the other. For fun, they would harass Annabeth until she wanted nothing more than to smother them both.
“You’re the
one who ran off as if he had something to hide,” Annabeth said.
“I do.”
“Moze, what are you—?”
“I’m a spy, Annie Beth Lou.” He called her by the name both he and Luke had used for her when they were children. She hadn’t liked it much then either.
Silence reigned, broken only by the distant guns; then Annabeth laughed. “Sure you are.”
“Did you ever wonder how I could stop in and check on you both at the farm and here? If I were attached to a regiment, I wouldn’t be free to travel about.”
He had a point. But his behavior tonight had her asking: “Who are you spying on?”
“Whom do you think?”
“The way you slipped off at the first sight of Dr. Walsh, I wonder.”
He made a disgusted sound. “Only Yankees shorten names, Beth.” The nickname, when spoken with a sarcastic Southern twist, no longer sounded like an endearment. “Haven’t you ever noticed that?”
“As I don’t know any Yankees, I haven’t.”
“You’ll have to take my word on it.”
“What are you trying to say?”
He sighed and reached into his pocket, withdrawing a paper and holding it out.
Annabeth put her hands behind her back; an unreasonable belief took hold of her. If she didn’t look at that paper, whatever was written on it would not be true.
Moze tightened his lips at the same time he tightened his fingers, crumpling the sheet and dropping it to the floor. “Luke is missing.”
“Missing?” she repeated. “What does that mean?”
“Captured. Wounded. Gone.”
She didn’t like any of those words, but at least they meant—
“Alive.”
His gaze flicked to hers, then away. “Not always. Missing can mean dead but never found. Lying in a Yankee hospital. Unnamed in one of ours.”
“Where did this happen?”
“Mount Zion Church.”
