A Heartbeat Away: Quilts of Love Series

by S. Dionne Moore

  She broke her gaze and glanced out the window. He was only a man whom Jim revered because of his compassion toward the blacks whose lives he had saved. It wouldn’t have bothered her one way or the other if he had traipsed along after the retreating Rebs. But even as the words rolled through her mind she knew they weren’t true. Joe was more than a Rebel. He’d been a refuge to her during the height of the battle. He had shared in the worry and fear and he had been there in the darkest of night.

  “You must feel better.”

  “I do.” His drawl seemed more pronounced, less hateful than those first days when his few words were weighted with the reminder that she was working over the enemy. She withdrew her hand as the blush crept into her cheeks.

  She reached to spread the quilt blocks and wondered if she would ever find the heart to finish the quilt. Those five blocks, bound together in the darkest of days, encapsulated the roll of every emotion and feeling she’d experienced in the last week. They were her symbol of victory.

  “I’ll have to go back, Beth. They need all the help they can get.”

  If she dreaded anything, it was this moment. On one hand, she understood. He was a soldier and the South was in retreat. His life in the North would be no life at all. A prisoner. And the likelihood of him dying in those prisons was high.

  When she met his steady gaze, there was no remorse, just the thrust of determination in his jaw. All that she had felt for him, the closeness, swirled away in that moment. Her anger elbowed aside reason.

  “And there’s Meredith. She must miss you terribly.”

  Joe’s brows lowered. “Meredith?” His lips compressed as his gaze shifted to a point over her shoulder. “She won’t want me either.”

  She absorbed his words. Either. Anger turned to something else entirely. “You’re a man anyone would love. You’re getting stronger.”

  Something flickered in his expression before she dropped her gaze to her lap.

  “It won’t matter to her. She wants a whole man.”

  She raised her face, a new awareness pulsing through her . . . “She doesn’t love you?”

  “I thought she did. I wanted her to love me.” He went silent for a stretch and Beth let him gather his thoughts.

  Those very words were on the tip of her tongue. I love you, Joe, was backed up by the pounding of her heart. She half hoped it did not reflect in her eyes. Not yet. Just because he didn’t think Meredith loved him didn’t mean he didn’t felt anything for her.

  “Will you read to me, Beth?”

  In the bright light of day, he could read to himself, but having him near was comforting and she wanted to keep an eye on him. To make sure he ate and worked his weak hand as Jim had told her he had encouraged Joe to do.

  She lifted her face to the warmth of the sun spilling through the glass, unmarred by the battle. She pressed her hand to the wavy crystal surface and felt the heat on her palm. “If not for Meredith, then why do you need to go back?”

  “I have to find out what happened to Ben.”

  “They won’t—” She bit her tongue on what she’d been about to say.

  “I’ll get discharged. It’ll free me to find out what happened to my brother.”

  Her heart seemed to wilt in her chest. “You’re so sure you’ll be able to do that?”

  “I don’t know but I have to try. His death doesn’t make sense and . . .”

  “Ben would want you to move on.”

  She turned from the sunshine and he was watching her. He stretched his hand out to her. She hesitated before pressing her palm against his. “I want to move on but I need to know what happened. It was so strange. He was there and then he wasn’t . . .” Squeezing his fingers brought his attention back to her. “I’ll come back to you, Beth.”

  Her breath caught. She saw him swallow.

  “Do you want that too?”

  Whatever lay between them, she knew she wanted to give it a chance, and the only way to do that was for her to say yes. Did he realize she wasn’t whole? It was the secret she had managed to avoid revealing—because he was also at a disadvantage, unable to see her awkwardness from the perspective of a man on his feet.

  “I’m not . . .”

  “Bethie?”

  “My limp. I’m not what you think, Joe.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “My limp. It’s permanent.”

  He was so quiet and she feared staring into his eyes now. Rejection. He would recoil from the idea of courting a cripple as Riley had.

  “It’s not just . . . I always limp. My ankle was damaged when I tried to rescue Leo.”

  “Look at me, Beth.”

  She didn’t want to. Tears balanced on her lashes. He tugged on her hand and she finally relented. His expression was not one of horror or disgust, and he didn’t withdraw his hand but tightened his grip on hers.

  “You said you didn’t reach him in time . . .”

  “It was more than that. I was on my way out and . . .” She could smell the smoke again. The horror of the flames and the burn of her lungs from heat and smoke all came back to her. Drawing deep breaths, she tried to force back the panic. The fear. The sound of Leo’s cries reverberated in her head all over again. She knew the moment she wouldn’t be able to reach Leo. His cries became whimpers. She couldn’t see anything, eyes streaming from the burn of the thick, acrid smoke. She’d felt the rush of cool air on her face. Flames roared higher behind her and the ominous creak over her head. Pushing forward, she had touched heat and then the crack and twist of what she now knew had been the beam over her head collapsing. Pinning her.

  Joe released her hand and she felt again the cold chill of knowing she would die, pinned beneath the massive weight. Joe pulled her close and she relaxed into the warmth of his embrace. His whispers against her hair, near her ear, reassuring her that she would be fine.

  “It’s all done, Bethie. It’s all over.”

  Pillowing her head against his shoulder, she let his words eat away the terror. “I wanted so much to get to him.”

  “You were brave to try.”

  “It wasn’t enough.”

  He pulled back and touched the wetness on her cheeks. “Leo wouldn’t come back if he could. He’s enjoying heaven too much.” He touched her chin and tilted her face to meet his eyes. “Seems we both have to work on moving on.”

  But he hadn’t seen how badly she limped every day, hard work or no. Or how easy it was for her to fall. What man wanted a wife who was twisted and ungraceful?

  “My mother used to say God brings people to us to show us new ways of old thinking.”

  Is that what this was? Joe was showing her new ways of old thinking? He was challenging her not with his words, but by stirring emotions she thought herself incapable of feeling and, really, worked hard not to feel at all.

  “I’m so sorry about your grandmother.”

  She flinched at the mention of Gerta. The quagmire of loss sucked at her anew. But Gerta had died doing what she felt was important and that made all the difference. Still, the knowledge didn’t dull the ache of loss for any of them. “I can’t believe she’s gone.”

  “We’ll go back when things have settled and give her a proper burial.”

  She wiped at her eyes and nestled her hand into his as his statement settled into her mind, and the easy way he used the word “we.”

  23

  Determination had oozed from Ben in the weeks following Sue’s wake. He had been a different man and a much more intense brother. Consumed with a need for revenge against the collective forces stirring the country to war that resulted in Sue’s death. At the time, Joe had watched his brother’s fervor, not quite understanding the basis for it, but he’d followed along thinking it best they stick together. In battle at Malvern Hill, they had received word of their mother’s death but were denied a pass to return home.

  Every battle seemed to further goad Ben. He grew restless, often wandering in the night when they bivouacked. Soldiers of
rank appeared to Ben in the darkness. Ben never introduced them but always wandered off to speak to his visitor in low tones. Joe had thought nothing of it at the time. Now, a chilling accusation simmered. Had his brother become a spy for the Union?

  Joe’s throat thickened. He’d dreamed of Ben and that final night when the shot rang out and took his brother’s life. Dying on the battlefield was an easy explanation, but to be shot by a man who might or might not have been the enemy, while the shooter left him to live . . .

  He made a fist with his left hand and held it up. Tendons and veins lined the back of his hand. His arm thinner than usual. Anger at his injuries, at the senseless death of his brother and sister and mother. But as quick as the emotion flared hot, it cooled. There was no one to blame. Everyone suffered. The only option was to look forward to a time when the war would end and things would return to what would have to be a new pattern of life.

  He would be alone as he had never been before.

  Stroking his bristled jaw, he contemplated the hollowness of his existence. Beth hadn’t committed to him. She thought her limp must make a difference somehow, but it didn’t. Knowing her had helped him realize how weak of character Meredith was. The two women were like summer and winter.

  He wanted to stay here. To be with Beth and pursue wherever their relationship would lead, but it was unconscionable for him to stay in the North when he would be hated and shunned. He could not assume that her parents would approve any relationship and even if they did there would be no rest for him until he could grasp the reason Ben was shot.

  If he could find out nothing, and indeed, he might not be able to, then he would have to satisfy himself that he had tried; but not trying at all wasn’t an option.

  Would Beth wait for him? Would he return to the North to endure being the hated enemy, shunned because of the allegiance he had for his home. Or would she agree to follow him to the South?

  He didn’t know. There were no answers and he had to trust. No greater one to trust than God. He only wished he had his mother’s Bible, which Beth would return to read to him from later. A smile curved his lips and he shut his eyes. When all else failed, he could pray.

  Her father spread his arms wide upon catching sight of her. She needed no greeting beyond that and went to him, overjoyed at the feeling of security his presence offered. “Grandmama . . .” Her voice muffled into his shoulder. He stroked her hair once, then held her at arm’s length.

  “Jim told me all about it.” His eyes misted. “She always was the stubborn one.”

  It was the harshest thing she’d ever heard her father say against his mother.

  “But she was a hard worker and would walk a mile to help someone in need.”

  She pressed her fingers to her lips to hold back the grip of a sob.

  “Come, daughter, there is much that needs to be done, and Gerta would want us to offer what help we can give.”

  “I was there, father. I saw it all.”

  His face gentled. “Yes, Jim said as much. He told me how brave you were.” He started toward the house motioning her to follow. “And you’ve brought a soldier home.”

  Words stuck in her throat. “A Confederate soldier.”

  Nicklaus Bumgartner sent her a sideways glance. “Who risked his life to save slaves. Sounds like a man with morals, Southern or not.”

  Tension ebbed from her shoulders and neck.

  “Do you still want to pursue nursing?”

  Strange that he would ask. Surely he must know how desperately she was needed now on the battlefields. Everyone was needed. But deep down inside, she was exhausted. The tension leading up to the battle outside their town had drained her in a way she’d never expected and only now, removed from the fray, could she see what a toll it had taken. And then Gerta’s unexpected death . . .

  “I think not, but what is there for me to do?”

  “You could teach.”

  “You’ve given this some thought,” she rubbed at her leg, sending him a small smile.

  Nicklaus stopped and so did Beth. “We are preparing to go out and offer our help to those who need it. You have endured enough and your mother will need your help here with chores. And there’s your leg to consider.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “No,” he reached to squeeze her shoulder. “You’re not. Your limp is worse and there is an exhaustion in your eyes that does much to tell me what you’ve endured.”

  “God has helped me.”

  She didn’t miss the relief that eased the lines bracketing his eyes. Moisture collected in the corners of his eyes.

  “We had hoped you would finally come to see the distance you had put between yourself and God.”

  “Mother sent the blocks . . .”

  “We both saw the change in you, in your spirit. She had worked over them in hopes you would understand.” Nicklaus let his hand fall away. “Perhaps the Lord is leading you in a different way now, daughter. Something he has yet to reveal.” He stared off into the distance, at the clouds scudding across the sky, then back to her. “There is affection between you and this soldier.”

  A protest rose to her lips but she could not speak it. “I—”

  Nicklaus chuckled. “Jim is discreet but he is observant as well. It is a quality I admire in him.”

  She stared at the tips of her shoes. “He’s a Rebel,” she whispered.

  “He is flesh and blood, heart and soul.”

  When she found the courage to meet her father’s steady gray gaze, she knew he spoke from the heart and would welcome Joe into their family. A hot blush crept up her neck at the thought. For despite everything, Joe was not hers to claim. And once he saw how ungraceful she truly was, his mind would turn his heart against her.

  24

  Her mother’s cheeks were reddened from the heat of the oven in the summer kitchen. A slender black woman came in on Anya’s heels, her face creasing into a shy, fleeting smile. The door that had just slapped closed behind the black woman, yawned open again and a black man, arms full of garden produce, entered. The woman began taking things from the man’s arms. Sweet potatoes, onions. It was a replay of Gerta’s return from the garden that morning less than a week ago. Fleeting memories that would be cherished in the wake of her sudden death.

  Her mother nodded to the pair. “Pearl and Roy. They’re the ones who helped bring you all home.” She addressed Pearl. “Did you get your father settled?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  There was a lilt to Pearl’s voice that identified her as Southern. She recalled that voice now. The same accent she heard from Joe. A deeper connection was made. “You’re the ones who brought Joe to us.”

  Pearl glanced at Roy. The man nodded. “Jim told us to come here.”

  Roy’s accent was the same as Joe’s, soft, Southern. “You risked your lives for us last night.”

  Pearl and Roy shared a look, the woman continuing to help relieve the man of the produce. Anya stepped closer, a joyous smile lit her features. “They wanted to help. We were worried when the battle was raging so close.” Her smile wilted into sadness. “Gerta has not been well for many years. Her heart.”

  “You should have seen her, Mama.”

  “I have seen her at work. She loves—loved—what she did.” Anya turned and plucked down an apron for Beth. “We will work as we talk. We have much to do before the wagons arrive.”

  All along, during the long days and nights, her mother and father had been helping the very slaves who had brought Joe to Gerta. “I worked on the quilt blocks.”

  Anya raised a long knife and sliced a sweet potato in half, then quarters, as if she hadn’t heard. Beth took the pieces and cut them even smaller as Pearl kneaded a trough of dough, sprinkling flour as she worked.

  “You put several together,” Anya wiped at a strand of hair with the back of her hand, moving back in time for Roy to place more washed sweet potatoes in front of her.

  Despite being in the comfort of her childhood home, close t
o her mother and father and out of the way of danger, Beth could still taste the terror. “It was a welcome respite from . . .” She wondered if she would ever be able to shake the horror.

  Her mother laid her knife aside, put her hand beneath Beth’s arm, and directed them outside into the warm air. Her mother let go and pushed Beth gently onto a chair, then sat beside her.

  “You have experienced much more than most.”

  She lifted her face to the beams of light. “You didn’t want me to be a nurse.”

  “No,” Anya’s voice was firm. “No, Bethie, it wasn’t that at all.”

  For the first time, she thought she understood. “It was spiritual.”

  Relief smoothed the wrinkles of her mother’s expression. “Now you see.”

  “I knew the quilt was your way of showing me something.”

  “I had hoped you would seek comfort in it. I chose the colors to show you that your limp and Leo’s death did not have to be a darkness that forever shaped your soul.”

  Beth sank to her knees and laid her head in her mother’s lap. “It was what I saw when I looked at it. Joe, too. The colors, the message . . .”

  “It is an old pattern. Goose Chase. It reminded me of you. Your father and I saw the darkness that was trying to consume you.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut as Anya’s fingers smoothed the hair above Beth’s ear. “It brought me home again.” She wondered if her mother would understand what she meant. Not the physical home, but the spiritual. When she lifted her head, Anya’s eyes were full. She leaned into her mother’s arms.

  “I am so happy.”

  “Thank you, Mama.”

  They worked elbow-to-elbow shaping bread, making pies, packing jars of pickled pig’s feet, preserves, boiled eggs, and potatoes already baked and left to cool. Women from around town gathered at the church down the road to rip linens into bandages and donate blankets, clothes, shoes, whatever could be spared. Hogs were slaughtered and sausage making begun in earnest, not for their private stores, but to help support the thousands of wounded flooding Sharpsburg, Boonsboro, Reisterstown, and others overwhelmed with the sick and dying.