After a quick glance around the still battlefield, Ashlinn knelt beside the man. She undid the rain-slick buttons of his uniform, exposing his undershirt. Grabbing the collar of the threadbare beige garment, she tore it open easily.
“Sorry, soldier. I know you probably brought that from home,” she murmured as she pushed it open wider.
Blood still oozed from a horrible gash in the man’s left side about four inches wide and deep enough that Ashlinn could see muscle. A bayonet wound, which likely meant it was even deeper than it appeared. From the placement, the chances that the weapon had missed anything vital were good. Another glance at the lengthening shadows of twilight stealing over the land and she knew she wouldn’t be moving him far. Her gaze methodically checked the landscape, looking for anywhere she could hide him away from prying eyes and the weather.
Most of the trees had been chopped down for one army or another’s use, leaving nothing but open fields and brush along the river. A few abandoned cannons and broken-down wagons lay a good distance away back up on the hillside, but they weren’t exactly a good option. Too obvious. A soft woof drew her attention back to Cliste, who stood wagging her tail so hard her entire rear end swayed. The moment Ashlinn looked at her the hound dashed off into the underbrush and disappeared. Another woof sounded, this one echoing.
Trusting her furred companion, Ashlinn grabbed hold of the soldier’s collar with both hands and slowly began to drag him back the way Cliste had brought him. The tall bushes allowed her to duck beneath them, and the mud helped her pull the man along despite the fact that he probably weighed almost double what she did. Once she had him beneath the cover of the bushes, Ashlinn turned around to see where Cliste had disappeared to.
Between the leaves and the shadows of the rapidly approaching night, it took a moment for her eyes to adjust and realize what they beheld. Around the edge of this bush and down along the river a little was a dark spot on the bank that resembled a cave mouth. Like a gray ghost, Cliste bounded from the yawning darkness and reached Ashlinn’s side in less than four steps. While Ashlinn stood catching her breath with her hands on her hips, Cliste took the soldier’s collar in her teeth again and began to drag him toward the cave mouth. Shaking her head, Ashlinn crouched low to avoid the snarling branches and lifted the soldier’s wounded arm out of the mud.
More than once the riverbank sucked at her calf-high boots, nearly making her slip. Only a few feet of rain-slickened plant life lay between her and the muddy waters of the James River. Warm though the evening was, this man had lost so much blood he was bound to get cold, and his battle to survive the night would be hard enough as it was without a plunge into the water. She had to be careful. The closer they got to the cave opening, the less it looked like a cave. It was more like a shelf of ground hollowed out by the river when it had been swollen with winter water. Regardless, it would have to do.
Finally, with Cliste’s help, she was able to pull the soldier inside the makeshift cave. She suffered a few scratches shoving aside leafy branches of the bushes that were trying to overgrow the opening, but they made it inside. The earthen roof was almost high enough that she could stand up and wide enough for the three of them with room to spare. Sitting slightly above the water level, the alcove would keep them warm and dry, which was all she could have hoped for.
Outside, rain began to fall in great sheets, obscuring what little view of the river she had from between the leaves. A sigh of relief slid from her. She’d be able to start a fire without having to worry about the smoke being seen. She had to boil water and cleanse the dead doctor’s medical instruments and stitching material. God knows he certainly hadn’t done it. More than once she had tried to convince the doctors of the Union army that such precautions were necessary, but they always dismissed her ideas as the ramblings of an uneducated woman. All despite the fact that the hacks knew her father had been a forward-thinking doctor and her mother a midwife who fancied herself a scientist. In fact, she had often thought her lineage was part of why they seemed to despise her so. Softly chastising herself, she shook her head. To think ill of the dead invited nothing but trouble.
Like a massive sentinel, Cliste lay down close to the soldier’s head. Again, Ashlinn puzzled over what could possibly make the hound so protective of a complete stranger.
She began to collect the few bits of driftwood that she could find in the dark alcove. She would need more, a lot more, but this would do for now. Several of the branches were dry enough that she was able to strip the bark from them with ease. She piled the strips beneath the wood. From within her frock coat she pulled a small box of lucifers, struck one, and touched the resulting flame to the pile of dry bark. In a few moments the tinder caught. When the tiny flame started to devour the driest bits of bark, she placed a few of the smaller branches over the orange flames. With a bit of coaxing a steady fire soon burned.
Removing her frock coat, she laid it aside, then removed the small satchel she kept hidden beneath it. She dug out a small pan from within the satchel and filled it with water from her canteen. Using a few rocks and larger branches she found near the entrance of the alcove, she made a place for the pan to sit over the fire. Upon her coat she laid out the contents of her satchel: clean linens for bandages, vials of morphine, a bottle of iodine, suture needles, and suture thread that had been boiled and stored carefully within a wax-sealed envelope.
Such items weren’t customary and often got her laughed at by the other nurses and the few doctors who had ever seen them. But they were items vital to a patient’s survival, according to her father. And considering the survival rate of his patients versus any other doctor she had ever known, she put her trust in his teachings. Morphine was the one thing that the hack doctors of this war used, but they did so sparingly and often only on officers. It was hard to come by, which was part of why she kept it hidden inside her coat with her other precious items.
Feeling as prepared as she was going to get, she set to the task of removing the soldier’s coat and undershirt. Unable to move him much due to the wound in his side, she had to settle for removing his wounded arm from his coat and pushing his clothing away from his side wound as much as possible. Not an ounce of fat seemed to cling anywhere to his muscled frame. Though the sight of his mostly naked chest stirred her, it also saddened her. Lack of good food kept the poor man teetering on the edge of skinny, like so many of the soldiers in this war. That thought led down a slippery path of concern, hope, and despair, haunted by the ghostly images of her brothers.
More water from her canteen cleaned the blood away and revealed the wounds. Much like the wound in his side, the one on his arm was so deep that she could see the gleam of muscle. His arm was starting to swell, which would make it more difficult to sew the wound closed if she didn’t hurry. Thankfully, the bayonet hadn’t gone through the man’s arm and didn’t appear to have hit bone. Regardless, the three-inch or so wide laceration was nasty looking.
Brown eyes wide and trusting, Cliste watched every move she made. Ashlinn shook her head at her companion.
“Don’t know what draws you to this one so much, but I’m curious to find out,” she murmured.
Standing, she held a finger out to the hound. “No lickin’,” she commanded in a soft whisper.
Eyes dropping in disappointment, Cliste lowered her head onto her huge, crossed front paws.
Though the water in the pan hadn’t started to boil yet, she dropped the suturing needles and the end of the tongs in it as she moved to leave the alcove. Rain fell from the sky as if it wept over the atrocities of the day, turning the world into a dreary gray haze that was impossible to see through. Nevertheless, she scanned the area, listening hard as she did so. All she could hear was the splatter of thousands upon thousands of fat drops of rain. With the ghosts of her past waiting to haunt her, she didn’t want to go out there, but she had to. The urge to return to the battlefield and continue searching pulled at her the moment her eyes drifted that dire
ction. She fought it with every ounce of strength she had. This man needed her help. Returning to a fruitless search wasn’t an option.
Careful of the slippery slope, she climbed down the last few feet to the mud-colored water and plunged her hands in. With a bit of soap she kept tucked into her pocket, she washed as thoroughly as she could with such water, scrubbing until even her nails shone clean. If only the “good doctor” of the regiment could see her now, he’d surely be cursing and shaking his head at her supposed foolishness. Washing one’s hands was a waste of precious time he had always told her. Well, she would waste time so that this soldier didn’t join the bastard in the afterlife.
Lips curving up into a smile, she glanced skyward.
By no small miracle, she made it back to the alcove with her hands held up and out before her without touching anything. The soldier’s breathing had become slightly labored, his chest rising and falling too rapidly. She knelt beside him.
“Sir, can you hear me?”
His eyes fluttered beneath his lids. Cliste’s tail thumped in the dirt.
“If you can hear me, sir, this is going to hurt.”
Careful so as not to overuse the precious mixture, she poured the iodine tincture directly into the open wound on the soldier’s arm. A colorful curse flew from his lips as his eyes shot open and he tried to sit up, getting only a few inches off the ground before collapsing back. Surprisingly, he did not scream as most soldiers did when exposed to the tincture. Those eyes she had wondered about were copper with sunbursts of darker brown coming out from the pupil. They fixed upon her, their pain and beauty ensnaring her so that she couldn’t move, let alone look away.
Beside them, Cliste whined. The soldier’s gaze shifted and the trap released, allowing Ashlinn to breathe again.
“Is the dog all right?” he asked.
The heavy Irish brogue coloring his voice sent a thrill into her that darted straight for her abdomen. She possessed a similar accent, but not nearly as strong since her family had been in America for two generations and had worked hard to get it out of her voice. It made her wonder if he were a new immigrant. When his words sank in, she smiled.
“Of course, she is just worried about you.”
Hair so dark brown it was nearly black fell across those alluring eyes as his head turned to look at the hound. “The Reb didn’t hurt her, did he? I tried to stop him, but when he wounded me, she ran after him.”
Ashlinn sat up straighter, having to fight the impulse to cover her gaping mouth with her clean hand. “You saved my hound?”
A smile turned the man’s rugged face handsome. “Aye. But she saved me as well.”
Were he not bleeding and nearly mortally wounded, she would have hugged him, societal rules be dammed. “Thank you. She is all I have left,” she whispered.
The man’s gaze shifted back to her and it was as though the sun itself shone upon her again. “You are an angel hidin’ in men’s clothin’, but an angel nonetheless for it.” His voice began to drift, trailing with each word.
Smile turning crooked, she cocked her head. “You won’t be thinking that for long. I’ve got to clean the wound in your side and it’s going to hurt like hell. But I need you to hold as still as you can, understand?”
He turned his gaze to the roof of their little alcove and nodded. “Aye.”
“Would you like some laudanum or morphine first?”
Closing his eyes, he shook his head. “No. That stuff’s wicked addictive.”
“All right then. Here we go.”
She poured the tincture into the wound on his side. Lips closing tight over a groan, his back bowed. Using the clean cotton rags she had brought with her, she cleaned the area around the wounds after flushing them both with the iodine tincture.
“Bloody hell, ’tis not water you’re cleanin’ me wounds with, is it?” he asked when she retreated to get the needles and thread.
“No. It is an iodine tincture.”
His labored breathes tugged at her heart. “Why?”
She looked deep into his pain-filled eyes. “Because it will save your arm and your life. You do want me to save your arm, do you not?”
“Aye. My soul would die if I could not hold me fiddle.”
Shock raised her eyebrows. Few men she had used such methods on had ever acquiesced so easily. Most wanted the false comfort of their regiment doctor’s usual practices, even if that was sawing off their limbs. She wasn’t about to tell him that her methods included two sets of sutures, one inside the wound, and one outside. Some things were just best left unsaid.
While he wasn’t looking, she dipped the little finger of her left hand in laudanum. Holding it up to his lips, she gave him her best casual smile.
“Here, suck on this.”
His eyes widened and he grinned. “I would deny you nothin’ me angel,” he murmured.
“Delirium already, not a good sign,” she said through a smile.
The tightness around his eyes and lips betrayed his pain despite his playful expression. Obedient as his word, he opened his mouth and closed his lips around her little finger. The warm wetness of his mouth made her skin tingle. The smooth, bumpy texture of his tongue running along her finger caused her to shiver in the most wonderful way. His brow furrowed deeper as she withdrew her finger, tongue darting out to touch his lips.
“You tricked me,” he said.
“I am sorry, truly. But no worries, it was not enough to make your body want more. Just enough to take the edge off.”
His head turned away from her. “Hope you’re right, I’d rather be dead than addicted.”
Respect for the man swelled within her. Not many would refuse laudanum or morphine, even knowing what it could do to them. All too often their fear and pain got the better of them until many begged for it.
“You are very brave, soldier. And smart,” she said as she picked up the suture thread and the first needle she would use.
He opened his mouth but only a moan came out. Already the drug was taking effect. It took several tries before he could produce words. “Sean. My name…is Sean.”
“’Tis a fine name. Now you just relax while I sew you up.”
Eyes falling closed of their own accord, Sean’s mouth worked wordlessly. She watched him for a few moments. The long lashes touching his cheekbones fluttered like moths against a flame as his eyes moved beneath his lids. When his breathing deepened and he went still, she set needle to flesh and began to mend his body.
Chapter 3
Pain lanced through his left side as he tried to roll over, pitching Sean from the arms of sleep. The muscles in his side and abdomen tightened until they were rock hard, catapulting the sensation from pain to agony. A groan worked its way up his throat but he closed his lips tight against it, not daring to make a sound.
Where was he? He remembered the fight with the Reb, getting stabbed twice, saving the dog—he hoped—then an angel. Surely he couldn’t be dead, though. Death wouldn’t hurt this much, would it? Perhaps. After all he had done in this war there was a strong chance he was not bound for anywhere good in the afterlife.
“Lie still, or else you are liable to tear your stitches,” came a feminine voice with just a hint of an Irish accent to it. It certainly sounded heavenly.
The word stitches brought back the memory of a lovely woman dressed in men’s clothing pouring something horrible onto his wounds. Not dead after all then. Slowly, he forced his sleep-gummed eyes open. The instant they set upon the beauty hovering over him, his pain faded into the background. Sunlight filtered through long golden tresses that framed a face with high cheekbones and stunning blue eyes filled with concern. A loose, button-up blue uniform shirt hid much of the outline of her upper body and breeches clung to legs that folded beneath her.
“An angel in wolf’s clothing,” he murmured.
Casting her gaze to the earthen roof above them, she shook her head. Not so much as a dab of rouge entered h
er cheeks at the comment. He would have to try harder.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
He recalled her having more of an Irish accent. But then, she had an air of propriety to her now that she hadn’t possessed when he’d been bleeding out. Like many of his kind, she likely hid her accent as best she could when in the company of others. It was what they were taught, after all. But it was one of the expected things of society that he had never likened to. The fact that she worked hard at it meant she was likely of at least the middle class and he would need to be on his best behavior.
“Like someone shoved a red-hot poker into my side and arm.”
The fight replayed in his memory. His eyes shot to his arm. A long breath eased from him when he saw it was whole—swollen, but whole. Just to be sure, he flexed the fingers of his left hand. The movement hurt all the way up to the wound near his bicep, but each finger moved at his command. Again he sighed. The skin gleamed. It was so clean, a line of neat stitches cutting a red and black swath through it.
“Keep that up and you will pass out,” the woman said.
“’Tis just…I cannot believe you saved it. The doctors would have cut it off.”
An old anger that likely had nothing to do with his wounds filled her eyes. She shook her head. “’Tis because they are idiots. There was no need to take the arm. It will heal.”
There was that lovely accent.
His head tilted and his brows rose. “But the risk of infection…”
She fussed with the dressing that covered the wound on his side as if she didn’t want to meet his eyes. “Is far less because of the precautions I took.” Her voice was guarded, defensive.
With his good hand, he reached over and touched her arm, drawing her gaze to him. Such a touch was completely inappropriate, he knew, but their situation was hardly normal. The heat in her crystal-blue eyes warmed him from the middle outward. “I did not mean to offend you. I’m grateful for what you did for me,” he said.
Honor Before Heart Page 2
