Hearts Under Fire

by Kathryn Kelly

  Our guest. So that’s how Grandpa had begun to think of Jeffrey. The Yankee soldier who’d broken into their home, and gotten himself shot for intruding. Now he was their guest.

  She couldn’t blame him, of course. She, too, found herself thinking of Jeffrey as more than just an intruder, more than just a Yankee soldier… and more than just a guest.

  “The best ones are from Cuba.”

  “Absolutely. But, we haven’t gotten any since the war.”

  “You can still get them, you know.”

  “Well sure, you can, but they cost a pretty penny.”

  “I can help you out with that. I know a guy…” Jeffrey stopped talking when he glanced up and saw Claire standing in the doorway.

  “I would give anything for just one good cigar.” Grandpa closed his eyes, looking toward the ceiling, as though remembering the taste of a good Cuban cigar. He was stretched out in the chair next to what used to be his bed.

  Jeffrey cleared his throat and Grandpa turned to look sheepishly at his granddaughter. Jeffrey lowered his gaze and concentrated on the soup Grandpa had brought him.

  “I was just keeping Jeffrey company while he ate his dinner.”

  “I see,” Claire said. She wasn’t sure how she felt about her grandfather making friends with Jeffrey, much less conspiring to obtain expensive cigars. As far as she knew, Grandpa didn’t even smoke.

  “I’ll be outside on the porch if you need me,” Claire said, and turned on her heel. She didn’t dare stay for fear that she would say something she would regret.

  Grabbing her basket of knitting, she went outside and settled into the wooden rocker Grandpa had made before she was born.

  She allowed her mind to drift back. Had Grandpa smoked cigars when she was younger? She remembered her father doing so. Perhaps Grandpa had sat on this very porch himself and smoked fine cigars.

  She couldn’t blame him for wanting to indulge. Perhaps he could take some of that Confederate money he was so determined that she take and spend it on some good cigars. Maybe she would just make the offer to Jeffrey herself.

  That thought gave her pause. Her hands idle, she looked toward the horizon. And found herself listening for sounds of the war. Instead, birds and crickets chirped and a dog barked in the distance. All these were normal sounds of the evening, nothing to suggest that a war raged around them.

  Of course there was the question of trusting Jeffrey to get them for him. If they gave him money, would they ever see it again? He was, after all, a Yankee.

  A Yankee receiving aid and succor in their home. Would they be seen as traitors? A surge of protectiveness shot through her toward Jeffrey. Unexpectedly. She was still angry with him. Or was she? Perhaps she wasn’t. The anger seemed to have dissipated. That didn’t seem so unusual. She wasn’t one to hold a grudge. When she did get angry, it was fast and strong, then over with.

  What did surprise her was the fierce sense of protectiveness toward their Yankee guest. If someone came looking for him, perhaps she would deny that he was here. Or at least, deny that he was a Yankee soldier. She would take him some of Grandpa’s clothing.

  Having made a decision, and being unwilling to explore these unexpected emotions further, she concentrated on her knitting and pushed aside thoughts of their guest.

  “I’d rather wear my uniform,” Jeffrey said, watching Claire closely. He found it interesting that she’d been angry with him for most of the afternoon, even through supper, now here she was, standing there holding a pair of pants and a shirt, both in neutral shades of brown. And quite worn, by the looks of the threadbare cuffs.

  “You should wear these,” she said.

  “My uniform is perfectly sufficient.”

  “I’m sure it is, but I think you’d be better off if you’d wear these.”

  There was a color to her cheeks again. One that he was quickly growing fond of. He wasn’t sure what elicited it, but he could think of other things that he’d like to try to put it there.

  She shook her head. “I’m only trying to help you.”

  “Indeed,” he said, forcing his thoughts to focus on what she was saying, instead of what he’d like to do to her. “Tell me, how is it helpful for me to wear something other than my uniform?”

  She sighed, but kept her gaze on his, raising her chin a notch. “Very well,” she said, with resignation. “When they come and take you away, don’t complain to me.” Turning, she took a step toward the door, paused, and, turning back, dropped the pants and shirt on the foot of his bed. With a glare, she turned again and left him.

  He watched her leave, then smiled.

  He had been right. She had come back. He still wasn’t sure, first of all, why she had felt compelled to bring him clothes, and second, why she had bothered to bring them when she was obviously still upset with him.

  Was she worried that someone would come and take him away? Perhaps she was worried that the Yankee soldiers would come for him.

  Shifting beneath the blankets, he pondered that notion further. Perhaps she was afraid that the Rebels would come and take him prisoner. He was, after all, wearing a Yankee uniform.

  Suddenly fighting for the Yankees didn’t seem quite as compelling. It occurred to him then that he may be putting Claire and Gramps in danger by being here as a Yankee soldier. They were, after all, offering him succor.

  Reaching toward the end of the bed, he dragged the clothes Claire had left and, without getting out of bed, changed into them. He refused to run the risk of endangering his new friend and the woman he was going to marry.

  Stuffing his uniform beneath the mattress, he contemplated this line of reasoning for the hundredth time.

  Was that really what Claire was? He had already admitted to himself that she was what he had been looking for. Did he dare to take her home?

  Would she go?

  Probably not without a fight.

  Claire was a true southern lady and he was a Yankee soldier.

  Claire went outside to the water well and dropped the bucket into the water until she heard the splash, then began to crank it back up.

  What was it about Jeffrey that could send her blood into a boil?

  There was something about him that set her nerves on edge. He was a handsome man, with clean features, almost boyish sometimes, and other times incredibly sexy.

  She was intrigued by him. He haunted her thoughts. He was a Yankee soldier, but he seemed to be a gentleman, well-educated.

  Taking the bucket of water, she went back into the house and started heating some water on the stove to wash her face. It was colder tonight.

  She paced the living room, peeking out behind the white lacy curtains between her rounds. Finally, as the water began to heat, she went back to sit on a chair next to the stove. Putting her hands over her face, she wondered what she should do.

  She had given him clothes to put on, but he had refused. She wasn’t sure how she could protect him now. Him and her grandfather. She wasn’t so worried about herself. Being a woman, she could get away with more. But the men needed more protection—more plausibility for their actions.

  The water heated, she poured some into a basin and ran a warm wash cloth over her face, holding it there, allowing the heat to seep into her skin.

  She relished the warmth so much, she decided to share the warm water with her grandfather, but when she went to his door, he was gently snoring and she didn’t dare wake him.

  Hearing her name softly called from the neighboring bedroom caught her attention. With a sigh, she knocked on the door and pushed it open as Jeffrey bid her to come inside.

  He sat there under the blanket, just as she had left him. The first thing she noticed was that the clothes she had left were no longer there. What did he do with them?

  Not sure why he had summoned her, she quickly assessed things—he had water on the nightstand, so that wasn’t what he wanted. Perhaps he was hungry.

  “I’m not hungry,” he said, causing her to lift her brows.
r />   Perhaps he was a mind-reader now. “What do you want?”

  “I was wondering if you’d heard anything about the status of the war.”

  “The war?”

  “Yes, you know, the war between the states. The fighting outside your doorstep and so on,” he said, with a twinkle in his eyes.

  “First of all, there has been no fighting on my doorstep, and second, I’m quite aware of the war. It’s all anyone has talked about for three years. I merely expected that you needed something other than information about your war.”

  “It’s anything but my war,” he said, his face growing serious.

  “Tell me what happened,” she said, sitting on the edge of the chair next to his bed.

  His eyes met hers, his expression doubtful.

  “I’d like to know,” she said.

  He scooted up, shifting the pillows behind him. She jumped up and helped him adjust the pillows. Her arms behind him on either side, her face was only inches from his. She blinked with the realization and slowly lifted her eyes to his.

  An unexpected jolt shot through her. She’d noticed his eyes before, but at this close proximity, the blueness reminded her of a clear, cloudless summer sky.

  She moved her hands from behind his head. He took her hands in his. She jumped at the touch. He gripped her hands tightly, as though he would never let go.

  She found herself gripping his hands back as their eyes remained locked on each other. Her heart picked up a quick tempo and her breath came quickly.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “For what?” she whispered.

  “For saving my life.”

  She didn’t answer him. She was too lost in his eyes. In the feel of his hands on hers.

  The blanket had dropped away from his shoulders, but otherwise, he hadn’t moved.

  He smiled and she returned the smile.

  Then he released her hands and she sat back, her heart hammering in her chest.

  “I’ll get you some coffee,” she said, at a loss for what to do.

  “All right,” he said, “Then I’ll tell you what happened.”

  “What happened,” she echoed.

  “What happened to me in the war,” he said, with a smile.

  “Oh, of course,” she said, rushing from the room. She had to get away from him.

  She put water on to heat for coffee and felt the heat in her face. The heat wasn’t, however, from the stove. It was from the contact with Jeffrey. She wanted to hurry and get back to him. Yet she needed time to compose herself.

  Her heart was still beating rapidly when Grandpa came into the room.

  “You’re up again,” she said.

  “You’re smiling,” he answered.

  Her face flushed. Was it so obvious that Jeffrey had such an effect on her? The idea caused her face to flush even more. She turned away and focused on pouring water into the mug.

  After stirring the coffee, she turned back to Grandpa. “Are you feeling all right?” she asked. He looked stronger than he had for some time and had a half smile on his face.

  “I feel better than I have in weeks.”

  “Truly?” What had brought this on?

  “Yes,” he said, staring into space now, his brow furrowed in puzzlement.

  “What do you think caused this?” she asked.

  He shifted his gaze back to her. “Perhaps it’s the weather,” he said, then shook his head. “Maybe it’s because I got kicked out of my bed.”

  After a moment, a bubble of laughter burst from her throat. “Perhaps that’s all it took.”

  “Could be.” He joined in her laughter. “Is that coffee for you?” he asked, nodding toward the mug she held, untouched.

  “No,” she glanced down, feeling the flush return to her face. “It’s for Jeffrey.”

  “Well, take it to him,” he said. “I’ll make some for myself.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He waved her away as he moved toward the stove. “I’m not an invalid, you know.”

  As she left, she pondered his statement. Only until a day or so ago, he had, indeed, been an invalid.

  Until the Yankee soldier appeared in his bedroom.

  She stopped in her tracks, there in the hallway, halfway between the kitchen and the bedroom.

  Jeffrey was wearing the clothes she had left with him.

  Chapter Five

  Jeffrey was ready to get out of bed. Already, he could feel his muscles needing to stretch. Perhaps in the morning, he would get up and take a look around.

  In the meantime, he pondered what he would tell Claire. She wanted to know what happened to him.

  For the first time in a year, he regretted his decision to fight for the Yankees.

  It was fate, he thought.

  It was fate that he ended up here in the northern part of his own state and in the home of a very southern girl who sent his blood stirring.

  Fate, yes, and irony.

  Ironic that she would most likely want nothing to do with him now, or once she learned the truth.

  A southern lady would have nothing to do with a Yankee. And a southern lady would have nothing to do with a man who chose to fight against his own country.

  He could see no way to redeem himself.

  Claire came back into the room and handed him a steaming cup of coffee. It tasted a little like chicory. Reminded him of home.

  “How long have you been in the army?” she asked.

  “Three years. Since the war began.”

  “The war is interminable.”

  “It is. Do you have family members fighting?”

  She slid into the chair next to the bed. Shook her head. “I don’t have any siblings and my father was killed in the Mexican-American war when I was a child. My grandfather is too old.”

  “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I was raised by my grandfather also. My parents and grandmother died during… my childhood.” He had almost told her that they had died during the yellow fever outbreak, but she would have doubtless wondered how they could have been affected so far north.

  “We’ve both had our share of tragedy,” she said. “Tell me how you ended up here.”

  “We were fighting in the fog,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “We couldn’t see two feet in front of us.

  “We got the order to charge, but the… um… enemy was waiting for us.”

  “So, you had to retreat.”

  “Yeah,” he said. How could he talk about the Rebels being the enemy when she was one of them?

  Even more, he had been one of them for two years. Before he decided to fight for an idealistic cause instead of protecting his own country.

  There was a war outside Claire’s doorstep and two days ago, he’d avoided thinking about his duty to protect his fellow southerners.

  Now, just like that, he was caught between two worlds.

  He pressed his fingers between his eyes. Scrunched up his face.

  “Are you alright?” Claire asked, alarm in her voice.

  Jeffrey took a deep breath. Smiled at Claire. She returned his smile.

  And some of the weight fell from his shoulders.

  Right now he had to focus on just two things. Healing and making sure Claire was safe.

  “Your grandfather is a good man,” he said. “Has he been ill?”

  She nodded, her brows furrowed. “He’s been bed-ridden much of the last year. Doc Pritchard said it was old age. He didn’t know what was wrong with him.”

  “He seems ok now.”

  “He does seem more like his old self.”

  “It’s curious indeed. What about your mother and your grandmother?”

  Her face was enveloped in sadness at the question. “My mother died in childbirth shortly after my birth so I never knew her. My grandmother died three years ago.”

  “Ah, chère,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Perhaps your grandfather was grieving?”

  “Perh
aps. I hadn’t really considered that possibility.”

  Jeffrey reached out, lifted a lock of her hair off her shoulder. Marveled at its softness. Her eyes widened, and she appeared to hold her breath.

  “Love does strange things to a man.”

  “So they say,” she murmured.

  It occurred to Jeffrey that Claire may be spoken for. One of the soldiers he had been fighting against could hold her heart.

  He had to know.

  He must know.

  “You?” he asked.

  She looked at him questioningly.

  He shook his head. Started again. “Are you spoken for?”

  “You mean, am I betrothed?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “No,” she answered quickly. “There’s no one.”

  He gazed into her green eyes, wondering how a man of his troubles, could even begin to court a girl such as Claire.

  “And you?” she asked. “Does someone wait for you at home?”

  “Only my sister and grandfather. But truth be told, they likely believe me dead.”

  “Oh. My. That’s terrible. Why would they think that?”

  “It’s kind of a long story. Best left for another day.”

  “Oh course,” she said, standing up. “You must be tired and you need your sleep. I’ll leave you for the night.”

  He didn’t want her to go. He could talk to her all night. Wanted to talk to her forever. To know everything. All her thoughts.

  But before he could protest, she had slipped from the room, taking the candle with her.

  Jeffrey lay in darkness. With nothing to do but contemplate his plight.

  Perhaps he was tired. His thoughts twisted and tangled until he could no longer make sense of them.

  He fell into a fitful slumber.

  Only to wake to the sound of someone pounding on the front door.

  He must have slept longer than he thought. The room was bathed in the pale glow of dawn.

  Other than the knocking, the house was quiet. Claire and her grandfather were still asleep.

  When the pounding came a second time, Jeffrey went on full alert. It was a soldier’s knock. Though whether it was Northern or Southern, he couldn’t tell.