A Heartbeat Away: Quilts of Love Series (3 page)

“Having him in here will work so much better. If we can just keep him still. Jim, if you’ll bring in the cot, I’d rather have him higher. It’ll make it easier to care for his needs and be much easier on Beth’s leg.”

She frowned at her grandmother, but Gerta didn’t notice as she shifted the man’s haversack against the wall and straightened up, hand to her back.

“It’ll be easier on you as well,” Beth felt compelled to remind her grandmother.

Gerta gave an absent nod and flapped a hand at Jim to send him on his way. He returned in minutes with the framework of
the cot beneath his arm. At Gerta’s direction he placed it against the wall, retrieved the bedding, then lifted the soldier onto it. Gerta crossed her arms and nodded in obvious satisfaction.

“That will do quite nicely. Thank you, Jim.” When the black man had left, Gerta did a quick examination of the wound and the bandage, pressed her hand against the man’s face, and nodded in silent approval. “Time will tell.”

“Go to bed, Grandmama. I’ll stay with him awhile.”

Gerta’s bright eyes swept over her from tip to toe. “You should rest as well. Elevate your leg and put some honey on your hand.”

She’d forgotten the burn, but Gerta’s sharp mind never forgot anything. Beth rose to fetch the honey, but her grandmother motioned her to stay put. Gerta fussed over the new scratches that covered the burn, insisting Beth sit in the rocker as she coated the area with honey. “Now,” Gerta straightened, “the pain should ease somewhat.”

“Rest, Grandmama,” she said, trying to put a note of authority in her voice.

Gerta tilted her head as if considering. “Yes. I think you’re right. There won’t be much opportunity for rest if the war is to have its way.”

Without her grandmother’s spritely presence, darkness stretched its arm closer to Beth. She let her eyes roam over the placid form of the sleeping Rebel, no longer seeming so menacing without the uniform as a reminder. It seemed strange to have him so close. From where she sat in the rocker, Beth could see the side of his face and trace the shadows along his eyes and jaw. Hollows she had no doubt her grandmother would dearly love the chance to fill out with plenty of hot food once the danger of death had passed.

She leaned forward in the rocker, drawn to him. His stillness worried her. She’d been here before, watching someone on the
edge of death. Her heart squeezed with dread. She didn’t want the man to die. Confederate or not. Losing him to death would be like losing Leo all over again. If it was within her power to make this man well, she would do that, just as Gerta had vowed to help others all those years ago. Beth stared at her clasped hands, fighting the burn of tears. But the great drops of saltwater came anyway and splashed onto the stiff brown paper of the package in Beth’s lap. Great dots of wetness that soaked into and swelled against the wrapping.

Beth started the rocker with a push of her foot. The brown packaging crinkled in the unnatural silence, foreboding when compared to the cacophony of shelling and gunfire that had bombarded them throughout the day, leaving the stench of gunpowder swirling in the air. She could feel the troops’ nearness like the fetid breath of a stranger down her neck. She closed her eyes. Jedidiah might be among the Union men. Seeing him again would be worth the Confederates’ raid into the North. But the next moment she changed her mind. Juxtaposed against the reports she’d heard from Frederick, seeing her brother would not be worth the pain and suffering the men were made to endure. Indeed, if Jed returned, he would return to her mama and papa, not here, to his grandmother’s. Disappointment drew an agonized sigh from her lips. Yet things were as she had wanted them to be after the accident. She had wanted to be alone and away from the watchful eyes of her parents. She felt their concern, but didn’t understand it. She was fine, she would not let her bad foot hinder her, and she just wanted to help others by pursuing nursing.

She stared at Joe’s profile, grateful he slept soundly. Her time to pursue nursing would come. The war would move on to another location, and she’d be free to start her training.

Having the battle close would at least give her experience.

The brown package felt curiously light in her lap, a fact she’d mentally noted on many occasions when the tug of longing for home tried to take hold. She enjoyed the guessing game as to what the package held. Her mother had assured her nothing perishable had been packaged. Then what?

Stretching out to the table at her side, she slid the lantern closer. It was time to see what her mother had sent with her. The tiny knot securing the paper would need to be cut. She examined her nails and considered savoring the package a bit more by forcing herself to work the knot loose, but her fingernails were broken from the constant stream of work. Not that she minded. Not many women she knew had the leisure to grow long fingernails.

She pinched the knot between the index finger and thumb of both hands and did her best to work it loose. She squinted and turned the knot to pluck at the most prominent strand, finally able to loosen it a bit. Ripping the paper off would be so much fun, like returning to her schoolgirl days, when every rare gift was received with the knowledge that she had little time to spare for play with the contents before chores would be required of her. She’d rip the paper open and have the gift to savor as Jed worked his knot with patient solemnity. Even knowing they had probably received the same gift never dissuaded her brother from his solemn task.

Now she understood that need to savor the gift more than the need to play. There were a lot of things she understood so much better now than she did then.

Excitement battled against the spring of unexpected tears as she peeled back the brown paper, smoothed it, and only then allowed herself to peek at what lay inside.

The slaves? Those ebony faces, fear visible in the glint of their dark eyes. Joe remembered the woman’s frantic words as the group had shrunk against the back wall of the cellar. The big man holding the old, frail one, the one whose delusional shout had revealed their hiding place
.

Ben’s frown
.

And then there was a forest, the blacks sliding away into darkness. Ben’s frown again
.

The glint of a rifle. The bark and then strike of the charge into his flesh. Joe had grabbed at his shoulder. Ben’s face, his expression twisted into horror, staring at him, then his scream and a stream of words Joe did not hear. He was falling. Ben left. He was alone. His fingers slick with warmth. He held his hand up and saw the darkness spread on his palm. His fingers white against the night sky, except for the blood
.

Ben?

Joe woke with a start and pain greeted him. He arched his back against its clutch and felt a soothing warm hand on his brow, then coldness. He withdrew, not understanding what it meant. Not caring. But the dream pulled at him. Gnawing like the rats that had plagued their campsites, drawn by the slops. The hand. His brother . . . ?

“Ben?”

Silence greeted the question. He forced his eyes open. Darkness surrounded him. He didn’t want to be alone.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew there should be others with him. Where were they? Was he dead?

A shuffle and a rustle yanked his attention. He stiffened, winced, and tried to see. When a light flared, a woman’s face hovered in the circle of the bright glow for a few seconds before the wick was raised and the chimney lowered. Light spilled over him, over her, and he saw the smooth line of her jaw, the hazel eyes, more green than brown. Beautiful eyes and dark hair that caught the light and reflected the length of the glossy strands.

She smiled and he felt warm inside. The tension building in his mind eased.

“How do you feel?”

“Sore.” It wasn’t the word he’d been thinking, but it was the word that came out. He tried to order his thoughts, but his focus turned to the feel of her warm fingers against his forehead, then his cheek. He wanted to tell her not to quit. To touch him. It was reassurance that he was not dead. Pain pulsed in a biting wave, and he gasped and bit down against the fire that ate at his right side. He turned his head away. Maybe he was dying.

“My grandmother worked on your wound. She’s good with herbs and knows lots about them. She’ll be here as soon as she wakes.”

He lifted his left hand, intending to clasp hers, but it felt swollen and heavy and would not obey his mind’s request. He licked his lips, rough with dryness, winced when he felt a sharp stab and tasted blood. “It’s me.” He blew out a sigh, cross with his inability to speak what he was thinking. Why wouldn’t the words in his head come out of his mouth?

“Let me get balm. You need to drink something. Can you?”

He wanted to sit up, to hold her hand and hear her voice. To be normal again. Back home with his brother and father,
a humble man if not a rich one, enjoying life as he had until the war started and Sue was killed. He nodded at the woman’s request even though he wanted nothing. It pleased her, for it coaxed a smile that was both soft and sweet.

“I’ll be back.”

She stepped into the shadows beyond the circle of light and was lost to him. Someone else was lost to him. The idea twisted and turned in his mind, but he couldn’t make sense of the who or when, or even the where. He touched his leg with his left hand and felt the rough wool of trousers. He was dressed and lying down. His shoulder fanned an angry burn and he couldn’t make his left hand rise to massage the pain away. Throat raw with his helplessness, he waited for the woman to return.

When he opened his eyes next, she was there, lifting his head and holding a tin cup to his lips. The liquid was cold, bitter. It hurt his throat when he swallowed and blazed a chill down to his stomach. He took another gulp, then another. Weak. “Wrong. It’s me.”

The woman tilted her head, her lips curved in bemusement, and Joe felt the first niggle of self-awareness. What was wrong with him that he couldn’t speak right?

“Are you hungry?”

He shook his head and tried to get his heavy tongue to form what it was he wanted to say. “No dark.”

She blinked, the long lashes making shadows on her cheeks. Those shadows, the lashes, reminded him of someone else, but he was too tired to bring the thought into focus.

“It is nighttime, about one in the morning.”

Joe straightened his right leg, where a cramp had begun to grip the muscle. A groan escaped from his lips.

The woman leaned over his legs. “Which one?”

He grimaced and shook his head. She stepped back like a child corrected. He tried to sit up so he could work the knot out, but he could only moan his agony. When the muscle finally loosened, he gulped air. She hadn’t left but stood by him, eyes full of concern. He drank in her presence and longed to be able to verbalize what he was thinking without everything coming out garbled and backward. He needed more sleep, for his head to clear, but closing his eyes meant she would leave and he didn’t want that either. “Stay.”

“Rest. Your body needs to heal.” Her lips parted as if she had more to say, but she reached to lift the chimney. “I’ll send Grandmother to you soon.”

With one breath, she blew out the light and folded him into darkness again.

September 15, 1862

Beth could tell the night’s weather by the inch-high ring of wetness around the hem of her grandmother’s skirt as she came into the kitchen, arms full of produce. Onions, sweet potatoes, green tomatoes, too-young green peppers, squash that had yet to mature. She moved to relieve Gerta of her burden, her unspoken question answered by the shadow in her grandmother’s expression.

“It’s bad?”

“Jim stopped in on his way back from town. They are in Sharpsburg. Families are moving north, west, and east to escape what is to come.”

“You think they will attack?”

“The Rebs have dug in deep, with a line of artillery along the east end of town. Lee has set up headquarters already. There is a rumor that they’ve captured Harper’s Ferry.”

They were here. In Sharpsburg. The enemy surrounded them. Familiar tendrils of fear coiled around her throat, threatening to cut off her air. “We should go, Grandmother. We can fill the wagon with—”

Gerta’s frown sucked the words from her mouth. “You wanted to be a nurse. Do you think it is healthy people who
seek a doctor? There will be much work to do. Many soldiers who will need you and me. We will stay.”

She wanted to protest, stunned by the astuteness of her grandmother’s observation. In her mind, nursing meant delivering babies or placing bandages on scraped knees. Why had she never considered worse? She, who knew what happened when poor care or no care was administered. There would be more wounds like the one Joe had, and probably worse. She closed her eyes, trying to imagine and prepare herself. The worst injury she’d ever seen was her lacerated, crushed foot, or the child who had poked himself with a pitchfork, gouging out his eye and driving a tine into his brain. He’d never been quite right as a result of the injury. And Leo’s injury had been beyond any of that, just as he had been beyond hope of life long before she had tried to rescue him.