Memphis

by Sara Orwig

  “Well, then you should be back in bed.” She crossed the room to him and moved to his side, sliding her arm around his waist, feeling his warm flesh beneath the sheet, images of moments before still swirling in her thoughts. He draped his arm across her shoulders.

  “I don’t think you should do this, Major O’Brien.”

  “You might be right,” he said in a tight voice. “Keep going. We’re almost there, and get Henry in here quickly. Thank God there’s another man on the place.”

  She clamped her lips together and glanced up at him. A muscle worked in his jaw and her anger and embarrassment fled. “You hurt don’t you?”

  “More than I would have known possible. If I faint, just cover me. You can’t lift me back into bed and Henry can’t either if he’s been with your family since your father was a boy.”

  Henry entered the room. “Miss Sophia, I can help him.”

  She relinquished her task with relief. “Call me, Henry, if you need me.”

  She left the room, remembering in vivid detail walking in on Major O’Brien. She moved to the back parlor and sat down to wait, hearing the major’s deep voice and Henry’s raspy one as they talked. Finally it became quiet and she moved to the doorway to see Henry approach.

  “How is he?”

  “He’s asleep. Major’s a tough man. Doc Perkins said he’s mule tough and he is. He’s going to make it now. Mule tough.”

  “Thank you, Henry.”

  “Yes’m. You want me to stay with him tonight?”

  “No, you don’t need to stay,” she said, knowing how frail Henry was. “Thank you for your help.”

  “Yes’m.” He left and closed the door quietly. She moved back to the major’s room. One small lamp still burned, and she crossed the room to stand beside the bed and look at him. His color was normal and his breathing was regular. She checked his bandages and saw no signs of bleeding. Mule tough was right. And bold. Too bold. And handsome. She smoothed his curls back from his forehead. Was he married? she wondered.

  She started to leave the room to go to her room, but she glanced back at the bed and could see him half in moonlight, half in shadows. He hadn’t abandoned Will, and she shouldn’t abandon him.

  With a sigh she turned back. As long as he was unconscious or asleep, it was easier to have kind feelings toward him. She sat down in the rocker, pushing gently with her toes, rocking herself to sleep.

  She stirred and moved, stretching cramped muscles, warmed by sunshine spilling through the window. She looked into green eyes. Major O’Brien was propped up in bed, gazing at her with a steady look.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, sitting up and feeling foolish, wondering how long he had been watching her.

  “Have you slept there every night?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she answered, closing her wrapper and retying the belt. “You’re hurt the worst of any of my patients. Doctor Perkins wasn’t sure at first that you would make it.”

  “Do you have family?”

  “My brothers are all fighting in the war. My parents are deceased.”

  “You have help besides Henry?”

  “Mazie cooks for us.”

  “You don’t have any family here?”

  “No, not with my brothers gone. But they’ll be back.”

  “How old are you?” he asked, studying her.

  She studied him in return and wondered if he knew her age if she would get ordered around even more by him. She sat up straighter. “How old are you, sir?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “Well, I’m twenty-two, too.” He was five years older—the same age as her oldest brother John. Major O’Brien looked a man, not a boy.

  “You were spying for the Confederacy?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “I keep my father’s newspaper going. My brothers will come home and run it, but I’ll keep The River Weekly in circulation until they do. I knew there were Federals camped near Pittsburg Landing on the Tennessee River. I wanted to see what their camp life is like, what news I could gather for my paper.”

  “You picked a hell of a time to visit an army camp.”

  “The Union army has been there since the eleventh of March. I’d been to their camp once before and rode back home with news and the trip was uneventful. They didn’t expect the attack, so I had no way of knowing about it. I heard a soldier say General Grant wired President Lincoln there would be no attack by the Confederates.”

  “No one noticed you were a woman?” he asked in a skeptical voice.

  “Not the first time,” she said, blushing and feeling his disapproval in his question. “A soldier noticed this time and I was running from him when the fighting started. When I met you, I was trying to find my way out of the area to go home.”

  He leaned his head against the headboard. “You shouldn’t go to an army camp. You don’t belong on a battlefield and if your father or mother were alive, they wouldn’t want you to take terrible risks. You could have been shot,” he admonished.

  “My mother’s been gone since I was small, and I think my father would be pleased. He always said the most important thing was to do one’s duty. He said we were put on earth to work.”

  “Doesn’t sound as if he had much fun,” he said.

  “I’m sure Papa’s ideas of fun and yours, Major, were vastly different,” she said, annoyed with him, thinking how much more pleasant it was when he was asleep. “It won’t be long until the Yankees are whipped and life returns to normal.”

  Major O’Brien gazed at her. “If the Yankees fight like they did at Shiloh, it’ll be a hell of a long time before they’re whipped.”

  “Everyone says we’ll outfight them,” she said, thinking about reports she had heard of the thousands of injuries in the battle.

  “Everyone? Men from battle?”

  “Townsfolk think it’ll be over soon, but Lieutenant Landerson said the same thing you did.”

  “Landerson?”

  “One of the wounded who stayed here. He’s gone home now.”

  “Have you heard reports of the number killed?”

  “I thought they were exaggerated. They say we have over ten thousand killed, wounded, or missing. I’ve heard Federal losses are worse. They’re saying almost twenty-four thousand men between the two armies.”

  “Lord. I believe the numbers.”

  “If that’s true …” Her voice trailed away as she thought about her brothers.

  “It’s going to be a hell of a war.”

  “All those missing—they don’t know the names of so many of the dead.” She walked toward the door. “I’ll get you some broth. You’ve barely eaten for days.”

  He shook his head and leaned back, closing his eyes. “I’m not hungry.”

  “You have to eat something.” She hurried from the room and dressed in a brown muslin with short puff sleeves. Pausing in front of the mirror as she wound her braid of hair around her head, she studied herself. Papa told her it was vain to think about dresses and how she looked and next to Hannah Lou, she felt like a plain brown sparrow beside a beautiful red cardinal. Don’t start worrying about appearance because of the major, she said to herself. With a shrug she went downstairs.

  Later, she carried a tray with a bowl of broth and a glass of water to her patient’s room. Propping up Major O’Brien, she held the bowl as he took the spoon from her.

  He tried to spoon the broth with his left hand, spilling most of the liquid. Standing next to the bed, she took the spoon from his hand. “Let me do that, Major.”

  He nodded and she dipped the spoon into the hot yellow chicken broth and reached out to feed it to him. He patted the bed. “It’ll be easier if you sit here. I know you have before.”

  Disconcerted, she climbed up and sat beside him to feed him. “Who is Amity?” she asked casually.

  His gaze shifted to her. “Have I talked about Amity?”

  “Yes, you have,” she said, embarrassed by his close scrutiny.

  “She’s a friend. She’s my si
ster-in-law’s younger sister. Amity Therrie from New Orleans.”

  Sophia nodded. It was ridiculous to feel relieved that he didn’t answer, “My wife.”

  “Who’s Desirée?” Again she affected a casual tone.

  He slanted her a look. “She’s a friend in New Orleans. Why?”

  “You’ve mentioned them. I didn’t know if one was a wife—”

  “No wife, Miss Merrick,” he said, sounding amused. She felt flustered, wishing now she hadn’t asked. “I’m not a marrying man. You said you don’t have a husband. Do you have a beau in the Confederacy?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Major O’Brien leaned back against the pillows and watched as she set the bowl on a table. She turned back and paused. Dr. Perkins had taught her how to change the dressings on the major’s wounds, and she did so every morning and then Henry bathed him. This was the first morning the major had been conscious and alert and she dreaded working on him. She shifted the empty bowl on the tray and then picked up the tray.

  “I’ll be back,” she called over her shoulder. She hurried down the hall, postponing the task a few more minutes.

  “How’s Major O’Brien?” Mazie asked when Sophia entered the high-ceilinged kitchen with its new iron stove Papa had bought before he became ill. Smells of chicken soup and hot bread filled the warm air.

  “He’s better. He ate most of the broth.” If only Mazie could change the dressings, but that was out of the question. Henry was shaky and would have to be taught how and by that time, she might as well do it herself.

  “That Sergeant Mulligan came down here to eat breakfast. He said he didn’t want to leave my cooking. He asked me if you’re promised to anyone, Miss Sophia.” Mazie grinned, placing her hands on her bony hips, her dark eyes sparkling. “I think you could have a beau if you wanted, long as I feed the man.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Mazie. He’s just trying to compliment you on your cooking.”

  “He’s in no hurry to leave here. He gets around as good as I do. You need a beau, Miss Sophia.”

  “You know I don’t need one in wartime, and Papa would never approve.”

  “Course Mister Merrick would approve. He married your mama and he’d expect you to marry.”

  What kind of man would have won Papa’s approval? she wondered. And Papa never talked as if he expected her to wed. “Sergeant Mulligan’s wound is in his shoulder, so that shouldn’t keep him from getting around. And your cooking is the best in the South.”

  “Thank you, Miss Sophia, but you don’t know anyone else’s,” Mazie said, turning to the stove. Sophia noticed the strands of gray in Mazie’s hair were more numerous now. Both servants were getting older, and they were as much a part of her life as her family.

  Sophia left the room, her thoughts on Major O’Brien. She stared at his open door and squared her shoulders. If only he would fall soundly asleep. She tiptoed to the door and peered inside. He lay sprawled on the bed, one leg half out from beneath the covers, an arm flung across the pillows, his eyes closed.

  He had been sleeping through everything, but his moments of wakefulness and his alertness were increasing rapidly. She placed clean bandages on the bed and glanced at him. His chest rose and fell evenly. She moved the sheet gingerly, pushing it up to cover his body and leave his thigh bare. She remembered with total clarity his naked body, the bulge of muscles, the trimness of his waist and hips, the dark line of hair across his flat belly to his manhood. He shifted and moved his head, his eyes opening.

  “I need to dress your wound. I do this every morning,” she said in what she hoped was a brisk tone. Her face was on fire, and she didn’t glance at him as she moved the sheet. He reached down to take the sheet from her and finish the job, bunching it over his groin.

  “I’m sorry if I hurt you,” she said and glanced up at him. She was doing all right until she met his gaze. He looked amused, curious, far too alert.

  She bent over her task, aware of his thigh, his bare hip that showed because the sheet was pulled high. She peeled away the old bandage, her fingers brushing his thigh, touches that she was too aware of, touches that disconcerted her, stirring a peculiar warmth in her.

  “You’re twenty-two and unmarried and don’t have a beau. I find that difficult to believe, Miss Merrick.”

  His observation wasn’t helping. “I haven’t had time for society. I’ve always helped Papa and my brothers with the paper.”

  “Night and day?” he asked, shocked.

  She gazed at the wound that was still draining, but it was clean and didn’t have a foul odor. It looked offensive in flesh that was so fit and healthy. Dr. Perkins said she would know if the wound started to putrefy. She had to clean around the wound and heard Major O’Brien’s sharp intake of breath.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. He nodded, propping his arm beneath his head to watch her.

  “I’m busier than ever now. The River Weekly was eight pages when Papa and my brothers were home. Now it’s down to four pages.”

  “Have you heard any war news?”

  “Yes. Nathan Forrest was wounded at Shiloh, but he’ll survive. Island Number Ten fell to the Union eight days ago.”

  “The Yankees want the Mississippi River. They’re moving down from Cairo and up from the south. It’s only a matter of time until they attack Fort St. Phillip and Fort Jackson below New Orleans.”

  “There’s talk Memphis will be attacked. Some people are leaving town. The state capital and Governor Isham Harris moved here after the fall of Nashville in February. They stayed until late March and then went to Mississippi,” she said.

  “What about you, Miss Merrick?”

  “I’ll never leave. This is home and our paper is here.” Finished, she reached for the sheet, pulling it down over his legs. “Now if you’ll sit up, I can get to your shoulder.” She grasped him, helping him to lean forward and then sit up straight. His face only inches from her, she worked in silence, feeling as if his eyes were penetrating her the whole time.

  “In March there were threats that people would burn Memphis rather than let it fall into Union hands, so General Bragg suspended municipal government. We have martial law.”

  “Do you ever have fun?”

  “Of course, I do.”

  “Do you like to dance?” His voice was mellow and deep; they were inches apart, her hands moving over his shoulder and chest, and she felt prickles of awareness.

  “Papa always said dancing was frivolous and improper, so I don’t know how.” She glanced into green eyes that stared back with open curiosity. She peeled away the bandage on his shoulder and saw his flesh was beginning to heal. When she glanced at him, his mouth was clamped shut.

  “I’m sorry. I know this hurts.”

  “Don’t apologize. I thought Southern ladies learned to dance soon after they learned to walk. And learned to flirt by the time they were five years old.”

  “I don’t know much about either.” She felt uneasy and annoyed. She couldn’t be more aware of him if he were a ferocious tiger she had to tend. Only he was no furry animal. He was a man, becoming stronger and healthier by the day, too bold and brash and curious.

  While she sponged around the wound, she looked at him. He was only inches away, and his continual direct stare was like a touch on raw nerves.

  She should have admitted she was only seventeen, but she suspected it would be better if he thought she was his age or close to it. He had freckles across his broad shoulders and his arms bulged with hard muscles, a masculine body that lingered in her thoughts and disturbed her dreams.

  “Raise your arm and you can hold this bandage in place while I wrap it,” she instructed.

  “Where do I hold the bandage?”

  “Here,” she said, taking his left hand and placing it against the pad of bandages she put over the wound, noticing the warmth of his hand, the rough texture of his fingers. “You have scars.”

  “I grew up on a farm and I’ve been in fights. You don’t like me,
do you?” His eyes danced with mischief, and she blushed, feeling annoyed.

  “We didn’t meet under the best of circumstances.”

  He arched a brow. “You know what I think about a woman at an army camp.”

  “You wouldn’t be alive today otherwise,” she rejoined.

  He caught her chin with his fingers, and her heart thudded as she met a piercing gaze. “I make you blush,” he said softly. “I annoy you, but I don’t scare you, do I?”

  “Of course not!” she snapped, her heart thudding. He scared and embarrassed her and always—whatever the tug between them—there was an invisible, raw challenge that made her defy him. He pushed her over an edge of control no one else had ever done, and she couldn’t understand her reactions to him.

  “I find you too bold, too vulgar, and too arrogant!” she said with conviction.

  He chuckled and leaned back. Provoked, she slapped the bandage on his shoulder.

  “Ow! Dammit.”

  She tried to slide off the bed quickly, but he caught her, his fingers wrapping around her upper arm. They glared at each other, both breathing hard. His gaze slid to her mouth and she felt as if she couldn’t get her breath. Time stopped, and she was immobile, waiting. His gaze flicked up to meet hers again, and she felt his anger. She shouldn’t have hurt him like that, but she wasn’t going to apologize. She jerked away, aware she couldn’t have if he hadn’t wanted to release her.

  “Why did you take me in?”

  “Mrs. Stanton made me,” she said bluntly. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have.”

  “So why have you spent your nights in here?” he persisted. “Mrs. Stanton didn’t make you do that?”

  “I’m doing it because you saved Will. His sister is my closest friend.”

  “Are you and Will in love?”

  “Heavens, no!”

  He smiled faintly. “Why is that such a shocking question? Haven’t you ever been in love, Miss Merrick?”

  “Sir, you are forward and brash—”

  “Don’t forget arrogant,” he said, settling back in bed and leaning against the pillows while she gathered up the discarded bandages.